My Photography

A man sits alone in a closed doorway

Poema por Olga Danielan -Las burbujas de jabón.

Es inútil 
todo que yo haga.
Sin salida
del labirinto.
Castillo de Kafka.
Y las esperanzas
son burbujas de jabón.
Bonitas,
de colores.
Momentáneas.
Desaparecen
sin dejar huellas
y espuma
en el espacio

It was a gesture

which appeared as a mudra,

much as the rain appeared only cold and wet:

There was a positioning of hands,

“I cannot twist my hand more than this”

he said as a matter of fact,

and with two hands,

held in front of himself,

showing great difference

of the two,

showing great restriction

of the one,

showing normal movement

of the other:

we gawked in disbelief.

“We take it for granted,” I said

“We do, we do!” said the rest

This movement … so common,

That we can do and he can not do.

He appeared to us out of the rain

like a statue conveying wisdom.

Then, there was a play of hands.

Some twisting more,

Some twisting less

All twisting, Over and above,

All as one unified event.

Warm, dry hands, not of stone,

all brought together.

The cold wet rain brought us here

Our movement…corralled and coerced and so

A reason was brought together

To show us this show

Of a mudra of play and wonderment

that was neither.

I love the expressions of the girls in this photo which contrasts so dramatically with the hard expression of the mother. This photo provokes me to think a lot about her life.

Tu risa

de Pablo Neruda

Quítame el pan, si quieres,
quítame el aire, pero
no me quites tu risa.
No me quites la rosa,
la lanza que desgranas,
el agua que de pronto
estalla en tu alegría,
la repentina ola
de plata que te nace.
Mi lucha es dura y vuelvo
con los ojos cansados
a veces de haber visto
la tierra que no cambia,
pero al entrar tu risa
sube al cielo buscándome
y abre para mi todas
las puertas de la vida.
Amor mío, en la hora
más oscura desgrana
tu risa, y si de pronto
ves que mi sangre mancha
las piedras de la calle,
ríe, porque tu risa
será para mis manos
como una espada fresca.
Junto al mar en otoño,
tu risa debe alzar
su cascada de espuma,
y en primavera, amor,
quiero tu risa como
la flor que yo esperaba,
la flor azul, la rosa
de mi patria sonora.
Ríete de la noche,
del día, de la luna,
ríete de las calles
torcidas de la isla,
ríete de este torpe
muchacho que te quiere,
pero cuando yo abro
los ojos y los cierro,
cuando mis pasos van,
cuando vuelven mis pasos,
niégame el pan, el aire,
la luz, la primavera,
pero tu risa nunca
porque me moriría.

Rise And Fall

A poem by Lynn White

We buried the monster with a stake through it’s heart

hoping that would kill it dead,

hoping it could never rise again.

Sometimes we almost believed it

but only sometimes

mostly

we weren’t optimistic but we tried.

What else could we do?

And we created something better

with our blood and sweat and tears.

We saw the rain wash away all the traces.

We saw the sun come out.

We saw the colours of laughter in the streets.

We hoped it would stay there for ever.

We doubted it, but what else could we do?

We feared the monster would not die.

And we were right

the monster was not dead

just lying dormant

it’s heart still throbbing

pulsing

thrusting

out the rotten stake.

And now there’s no laughter in streets

full of grey people

carrying grey umbrellas

knowing that it’s raining again

washing away the sunshine this time,

waiting for the blood to flow.

And here am I

re-reading the old words

re-living the old times

re-viewing the album

of old photographs

of people locked in their past

forced to live there again

history gone in a flash

then

now

renewed

placing us on a treadmill

taking us back

to the beginning

to start over

as the clouds gather

and the rain starts to fall.

A young street dancer on the Séptima, Bogotá