Ana M. Fores Tamayo
Las vías del tren
Palabras no significan nada
An interpretation, not a translation
Words mean nothing
All thoughts race through her head
An interpretation, not a translation
Todo pensamiento la arrastra sin cesar
Lost in the labyrinth
of a zoological doorway.
with the fervor of intimacy.
the turbid fumes of smoke
burning in her lungs.
Can she throw it all away?
The feline eyes yellowed
behind those shadows
penetrate her being,
burn a hole
in her lungs in her soul,
making the indentation
of her path
pronounced and pensive...
Like the cat
whose fiery hell lunges
at her dreams of passion
that fantasy of lucid love,
she becomes the grimalkin,
ready to strike,
yet always paralyzed.
Sadness sometimes saunters in
And leaves me ladled in mocking melancholy.
I thought as mother I had the perfect edge.
I thought I was experienced and ever-faultless:
little did I know.
But so it seems that introspect with what my thoughts are,
Imbued in silence, gold is never what it seems.
I watched you grow, nurtured you with kisses and books of
Little Women, delights of TV’d afternoons:
The Little Princess is a rainy day
exclusively proclaimed for you and me.
So you glimmer as my twinkling ballerina,
during those lazy, languid days,
precise in your pink and golden slippers—
chubby angel prancing pandemonium.
I remember yesterday and embrace reflection,
picture perfect in my wakefulness.
Today is every day and you are my chattering cherub,
Smiling kisses and graffiti murals of long-lost voyages in stormed-calmed seas.
But the chivalrous lady does complain her love is fleeting.
She must follow it and leave me; she must know her heart has come.
So I wave good-bye, sadness and excitement overwhelm me,
Tears— tenacious, tumbling, tentative, and vain.
You are leaving. Won’t you stay? You are gone now. You are here…
Your meticulous watercolor
does remind me that my muse, though traveling,
is everlasting here.
And through my dream,
yet in my wake …
You grasp my hands,
a vision reaching out to me.
The Flash of Time
With the flash of an eye
my time is gone,
dissolved into the ebb and flow
of ceaseless oceans.
With corrals and seashells,
with star-fished lilies
and twinkling unicorns,
with storm sea waves
of blackened jetsam,
my eyes entice the sounds of poesy.
The touches of endeavored antics
endear the muted walls of life,
yet the lightning does not strike
the tombstones broken in webbed denial;
the oceans do not swim in fishes
lost through the oblivion of treasured sand.
Forgotten, the words appear as ghosts,
spirits in a fanciful land of make-believe.
They spring, like life,
as birds do flower,
multi-fashioned colors of a rainbowed innocence,
purified in an instant of melodious eternity.
But then withdrawn,
those words enclose that flash of time
which then, dissolved,
ebb down the rivered waterfalls
of perishable yet endless time.
The full moon strikes.
exuberant, always changing,
an eclipsing, constant motion.
Continually in transit,
the moon metamorphoses:
mutations of me.
For a solitary moment
I am stilled.
I feel his lips on mine,
I want his mouth, his touch,
his body next to mine.
I want his being inside my own
like lunar ecstasy:
the moon in all its cycles.
I scream the
silence of that piercing cry
echoing in the night.
It quiets me, abducts me into an
until I am finally
freed of sin.
Enraptured in euphoria,
Still I will know that emptiness,
that frenzied solitude.
Because it is not he who must fulfill me.
Afraid of effervescence and
afraid of nullity.
Afraid of moons transcending and
wavering into night,
blinding my engulfing vision.
Afraid of cloistered raptures
silenced by the sun.
And so as time ticks onward,
the minutes scorn my face,
and I grow old in wanting.
Hence the moon descends
and hides illumination
while I turn my dark side,
like the moon.
In mundane action
days go by unnoticed,
the clock beats time
and birds fly southward bound.
Night falls red,
and bars fill up —
their neon lights are blinking,
strangers touch and lust in Scotch.
So red-eyed, the bartender pours another whiskey,
and customers make vapid music
while sipping silent shots.
She swings her leg seductively,
as she turns her bemused stare toward him.
Boring-eyed she laughs a sultry provocation,
her throaty voice far-reaching,
echoing in the sordid gloom
of barroom dust...
Sensuously she smooths
a copy of some novel,
while this feline goddess crooks her ear
to those murmurs that say nothing,
invitations to a darkness filled with sin.
So she twists her neck
that swan undaunted,
soothing his flattered ego,
though her eyes lead elsewhere
And as she fingers her possession,
lovingly caressing that worn-out fiction,
her novel tumbles mutely to the floor,
yet she smiles
the sadness of the red room luster,
the evening dawn of decadence and lust.
The gilded pages number words
that pronounce new music
uncovered by their silence,
and as he reads those phrases,
they birth an entity different from my own.
My fluted music belies
the magic of his love notes,
my own denial gathers stones
around his happiness
and covers his vague susceptibility
so that I do not embellish passion,
always denying poetic sensibility.
I will not see beyond the printed page,
beyond objective meanings,
beyond the knowledge that
I learn through books,
though he has tried to teach me
But I do not want to learn.
I deny his love.
and I go on,
existing in the parody
of an unknown darkness,
never to fulfill my longing
in the power of his soul.
Ana M. Fores Tamayo: "Being an academic not paid enough for my trouble, I wanted instead to do something that mattered: work with asylum seekers. I advocate for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America. Working with asylum seekers is heart wrenching, yet satisfying. It is also quite humbling.
“My labor has eased my own sense of displacement, being a child refugee, always trying to find home. In parallel, poetry is my escape: I have published in Indolent Books, The Raving Press, the Laurel Review, and many other anthologies and journals, both here and internationally, online and in-print. My poetry in translation with its accompanying photography has been exhibited in art fairs and galleries as well.”