Category: Poetry

August 21 / Diary

I see a loose thread, and I take it. It’s my way to start weaving with words. So there is an opening. Did I tell you that sometimes I find myself suspended in an eternal continued moment? When rain drops fall on the roof and I must stay still, suspended, almost holding my breath while listening the knocking against the roof and watching the drops slowly wringing through the window. Yes, is in these small details where I live when a lot is the time in solitude and infinite the freedom.

Great mysteries have occupied my mind these days. I’ve tried to figure out where is the spot where the sun reaches the most to set my island, lie, read or work without moving as time elapses;  I’ve been listening quietly the noise of contraction and expansion of this wooden living house  in order to learn it language.  Unimportant things also happen here. Like forgetting in the morning who I am and by surprise discover in the mirror someone’s face.

Could it be that the word and the writing is a muscle that relaxes and contracts like this house? That one must exercise them? Or may simply be that creativity and ideas are flying around one…? I like to think that the great stories and the most vivid poems hover invisible in the world, waiting for a hand holding a pen in the air, cold fingers on the keyboard, a silent mind, and a heart on  palms, open or cracked, or broken if you want…

I always write about the same things, always ants moving from side to side, beads sliding through the window, how the sun rises and sets, the particular walking of this strange woman, or how people here smiles in a certain way. These things  always absorb my attention and I don’t know where is the space for the big happenings. I could say little about politics and I ignored almost all the news happening in the world. I don’t do it on purpose it’s just that the rain is still falling, then it has occupied a primary focus these days… then I do not know much about planes falling or wars exploding in the East. Therefore might I have to apologize for this, for not watching the news to find out exactly the number of deaths that occurred today. I realize all the rules I am breaking, but it’s just that the rain continues to announce its presence on the ceiling, the warmth of the blanket covering me, the smell of my shirt so mine, and this hand writing.

No that  I ignore the suffering of the world, or I deny it.  Not that I don’t realize it.  Sometimes I also want to cry, sometimes I feel so small,  sometimes I have toothache, and there are nights when I have nightmares about men entering through open wide doors and I have to go out, look up , find a bit of starry sky to know that I am awake, that the only certainty I have is this-moment, is this breath, this beat and I that have cold feet. I feel that everything is inside out, the world is inverted wanting to go outside in … filling things, filling with information, making things, eating things, changing things … It’s like I need to reverse everything, invert it completely. Like flip an orange from the inside out… and that everything internal it feels outside… and the external it feels  inside. “We want to fight darkness when all we need is light.

It’s all quiet here, it seems the only constant. Sometimes the wind moves branches and the sound of the evening cold contracting the wood jumps in the silence. The birds call each other ignoring my presence. If a storm comes from the north, then I let the water run through my face and hair. It’s warm.

June 14 / Creative Challange

{Day 7 of 30}

I write to W and suddenly my writing is in English in the first place (not Spanish) and as days written in bird´s sings cant be translated… This one will remind without translation.


The little boy, playing in bed / while his wounded mother cooks,
is throwing little words and circles / out of the window.

She smiles / (the whole world lights up)
he chatters excitedly – What can he see?

There’s a monkey at the window – behind the door!
But he is falling /into darkness.

Cutting pieces of wood… this was not so useful so I gave up and had a cold house for the night. What a surprise later when I found a box full of little pieces of wood, it was hidden somewhere between the wall and the old three, right in the shade… its funny the things we put attention on and the others that we just pass trough without notice. Like this story… I don’t know why I like it so much… then I think is always about poetry like today that I just felt like start learning Arabic… just because… or that I am suddenly in love of Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi just because… Africa – just because…


She never taught him how to cry only how to sing.
Happy in herself – just as she wished to be –
she taught him endless space and vastness
and she calls him: Open-hearted.

I tell W about the pointlessness of clocks in this house. Here the time doesn’t matter, but days are weighted by the light that comes in the morning trough my window… then the warmth that comes trough the window to the living room, the red reflection of the clouds that paints the window in a different color, or the absence of light that reminds me its winter so it’s time to get the fire going… and warm up the house of a stranger that is my house.


Behind him a mountain of metaphors
in front a river a mouthful of night
and a train of caravans calling him away.

He wets himself / with laughter
running through Eternity – through this alleyway
this pack of dogs / the conspiracies of fate!

Today I go outside, I go for a bike ride around the neighborhood of mountains following the path, I play, I take some photos… I feel I got lost in some fairy tale – the nature is amazing here. Then in my way back I stop in Ron’s house to have a tea and we go shopping -the little happiness of fresh milk and cashews-. I think while looking the squared glasses and shiny eyes of this 80 years old man: There is a fine line that is crossed when the traveler in bike taking pictures steps in Ron’s house to drink tea in the yellow-round-shape- cup that his grandson gave to him. A fine line that covers a whole other world.


The solid front door remembers the hand that made it –
You are the key – and the creak of the universe — it’s your sole secret
(Long is the absence of light / that paints things awake –
Long is the presence of paint!)

You come home exhausted — from wherever you’ve been
the wind at your side — just as you wished
toyed with by traumas.

Came back home and now I have something in the oven. I found rhubarb in the garden, Fruit? Vegetable? Plant? or Flower? all at one? I make a sweet with it and I am sure I will eat the hole thing for dinner. I check my window: its around after-sunset… and just another day and maybe because Taumarunui is a foggy  town or maybe because my perceptions have changed through the window but it feels the line between days have vanished making a continuous of moments. Like the stream of the river in my backyard.


In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices
beckoned by the eyes of loved ones
their songs are luring her / with their tender fingers
and her own translucent solitude.
She sits in silence /close to every thing
brewing tea / stirring the porridge.

In the garden / of a strange home her home
she welcomes the pots and pans
to the sounds of morning.
Scrubbing everything in its proper place
one eye on the radio
that calls her to those distant sands
the desert.
But her colour flow like a river
so she can sing….

*Fragments of the beuuuutiful poem “A monkey at the window” by Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi (love love love).

What Desafío Creativo is?

Is a Dynamic  that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to do some creative work for 30 consecutive days, can be posts, poems, pictures, etc. Do you want to participate?

HERE: This is a creative writing experiment where I’m mixing my dairies. Sometimes I write from the present or sometimes I just post my old dairy that I wrote when I live aboard a sailboat for one year.

May 26 / Poetry

May I be forgiven in Mexico for not knowing about the Internet censorship, or worse… for not knowing the precise number of goals in this World Cup.

May I be forgiven by the UN for not read the last statistic about malaria, since I chose study the exact correlation between tenderness and passion on a field research.

May I be forgiven for the pending books to read, the authors I never remember, and the poems that I destroy trying to translate. 

May I be forgiven by Anatomy and Physiology since I just understand about those body parts that I have tasted. 

May I be forgiven by Summer, because I’ve chosen Winter.

May I be forgiven by Geography for invent my own maps and ignore all the  sea, land or… corporal boundaries.

May I be forgiven by migration (or may they send me back).

May I be forgiven for not come to my cousin’s wedding, my nephwe’s birthday, the first communion, the baptism, the day of the mother, Christmas …

May I be forgiven by my grandfather because when he died I was celebrating life  in the other side of the world.

May I be forgiven for the lovers since I cannot remember the corners of their bodies and the smells were forgotten in the fire.

May I be forgiven by whom yesterday I called  “my love”  with a name… since Life doesn’t need to call “my love” to itself.

May I be forgiven by my dead ones who I don’t pray to…

… and by the church for seeing my own God…

 and for all the toughs that I’ve changed for heartbeats.

May I be forgiven by all because I don’t need forgiveness.  I’ve pardoned myself …
and without any penalty. 

What Desafío Sweet is?

Is a Creativity Dynamic that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to write one Blog post for 16 continuous days with an objective beyond the literature itself.


16 Posts/ personal essays for… just for do it.
16 Actions to promote or kick-start a project of research consulting.
2 Languages
One “let’s see what happen”