International Festival of Poetry of Granada

"The sun had broken through the opaque veil of clouds and bathed a bend in the path with a pearled golden light... "-- Ruben Darío (Azul, 1888)

This last february I went to Nicaragua for the first time to attend at the V International Festival of Poetry that takes place in Granada Nicaragua, a colonial city with its full compliment of enchanting arquitecture and colors (see the doorways below). Even before setting out on the trip, the enchantment of Granada was already working inside me-- as it turns out since colonial times it has been linked with another Central American city close to my heart, Antigua, Guatemala, where I once had a very special extended visit, apart from the fact that it also forms part of my childhood memories. Arriving in Nicaragua, is already in and of itself, impressive from from the air, from the little window of the plane you can appreciate countless lakes and volcanoes which make up the most notable elements of its topography. Every volcano is crowned with a mysterious veil of clouds.

And when you talk about spending a week among poets from the four corners of the earth, drinking from the same poetic chalice, this implies nothing less than magic and enchantment, above all if it is in a country with the great cultural and poetic tradition that Nicaragua has. I had the enormous pleasure of meeting poets who I have always admired like Yvegeny Yevtushenko, Gioconda Belli, Anne Waldman, Ernesto Carednal and of meeting many others. Since the time of Ruben Darío (1867-1916), father of Latin American Moderism, this country has been recognized worldwide for its poetic soul. And it is true, I lived it, I felt it, and experienced it in the people, at every turn, obviously in the poets, but perhaps what impressed me even more were the children that from a very young age carry poetry in their veins, they want to be poets, they recited poetry, theirs and that of the great writers of their country, with tenderness, making their own. The children and the youth of Nicaragua have no equal in the world in their love of the word and its emotive and poetic expression.

In many respects, Nicaragua reminded me of the Mexico of my childhood, a country that gave me so much love. And by what I can see, Nicaragua has the force of character and pride to preserve it this way always, resisting certain discouraging pressures of modern times.




Participating in the V International Festival of Poetry in Granada was an unforgettable experience. You enter into a kind of collective ritual trance during this festival or more accurately this rite of poetry, one of the highlights of which was the great parade for Carnaval replete with dancers dressed as demons, folk dancing groups, musicians of all sorts and, of course, poets from all over the world! Walking throught the cobbled streets we all shouted with great emotion "Long live poetry!", "Long live Nicaragua!", "Poetry is the conscience of the Earth!" Here poets have a place of honor, and all of them, one by one, climb to the heights of the festive float and recite their poetry before the gathered crowd and this is repeated at every street corner until they reach the sea, well it is as if it were the sea, as it is an enormous lake, the Cocibolca, where the only fresh water sharks in the world are found. There, every year, at during the time of Carnaval, you will find them, the poets of the world bathed in a golden pearly light...

My mother's eyes... / Los ojos de mi madre...

My mother's eyes seeing
through the eyes of the moon,
her hair, fine tendrils of light.





***


Los ojos de mi madre ven
por los ojos de la luna
su cabello, hebras finas de luz.



copyright © 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

Festival Internacional de Poesía de Granada, Nicaragua (Febrero 2009)

"El sol había roto el velo opaco de las nubes y bañaba de claridad áurea y perlada un recodo del camino..."-- Ruben Darío (Azul, 1888)


Este pasado febrero fui a Nicaragua por primera vez para asistir al V Festival Internacional de Poesía que tiene lugar en Granada una ciudad colonial con su arquitectura y colores encantadores (vean los portales más abajo). Desde antes de emprender el viaje el encanto de Granada ya trabajaba en mi-- pues resulta que tiene vínculos desde tiempos coloniales con otra ciudad centroamericana muy cerca de mi corazón Antigua, Guatemala donde en un tiempo pasé una temporada muy especial, además de ser esta una ciudad que forma parte de mis recuerdos infantiles. Llegar a Nicaragua, ya es impresionante desde el aire, pues desde la ventanilla del avión se aprecian un sinfín de enormes lagos y volcanes que forman los elementos más sobresalientes de su topografía. Y Cada volcán está coronado de un velo misterioso de neblina.

Y cuando se habla de pasar una semana entre poetas de los cuatro puntos del mundo bebiendo del cáliz poético esto implica nada menos que la magia y el embrujo, sobre todo cuando es en un país con la gran tradición cultural y poética como Nicaragua. Tuve el enorme gusto de conocer poetas que siempre he admirado como Yevgeny Yevtushenko, Gioconda Belli, Anne Waldman, Ernesto Cardenal y de conocer a tantos otros. Desde tiempos de Ruben Darío (1867-1916), padre del Modernismo latinoamericano, este país ha sido reconocido mundialmente por su alma poética. Y es cierto lo viví, lo sentí, lo experimenté en la gente, en todos los recodos del camino, obviamente en los poetas, pero quizá lo que me impactó aún más eran los niños que desde edad temprana llevan la poesía en las venas, quieren ser poetas y declaman la poesía, tanto la suya como de los grandes escritores de su patria, con ternura haciéndola propria. Los niños y la juventud nicaragüense no tienen igual en el mundo por su amor a la palabra y su expresión emotiva y poética.

En muchos aspectos Nicaragua me recordó al México de mi niñez, país que tanto amor me dio. Por lo que veo, Nicaragua tiene mucha fuerza de caracter y mucho orgullo propio para así conservar su encanto siempre, resistiendo ciertas presiones anonadinas de los tiempos modernos.



Participar en el V Festival Internacional de Poesía de Granada fue una experiencia inolvidable. Se entra en una especie de trance ritual común en lo que es el festival o más bien este rito de la poesía, una de las cúspides de las cuales fue el gran desfile de Carnaval con bailarines disfrazados de diablos, grupos de baile folclórico, músicos de todo índole y, claro, de ¡poetas de todo el mundo! Caminando por las calles empedradas todos gritabamos con gran emoción ¡Que viva la poesía! ¡Que viva Nicaragua! ¡La poesía es la consciencia de la tierra! Aquí los poetas llevan un lugar de honor, todos, uno por uno suben a las alturas de una carroza festiva y declaman su poesía ante la multitud y esto en cada esquina hasta llegar al mar, bueno como si fuera el mar, ya que es un lago inmenso, el Cocibolca, que alberga los únicos tiburones de agua dulce en el mundo. Allí, todos los años, en tiempos de carnaval, los encontrarás a los poetas del mundo bañados de una claridad aúrea y perlada...

Reviewing Old Journal Drawings 1982-86

Naked truths

 
we the naked truths we
tell with our faces
women past forty
beauty borne bare
to the fine bones
lines softened angles
skin worn under the scarlet orange
of many suns risen and set
bone filigree of many
moons waxed and waned many moons
we become transparent under
the square cubic pressure of life
we denizens of the deeps
we sisters of Kali Kali we
tell stories of blood heart marrow and dust
we have collected phalanges phalanges
on the necklace of those who have vanished
into the invisible river of beings now everywhere
this air we breathe
we have been kissed by their waters
lying on sun soaked rocks brief briefly
we gaze upon the inmeasurable density
of blooming quince in springtime
we listen to mockingbird song song song
the knowledge implicit dense overwelming
this understanding that breaks
breaks through our pores
10,000 moist newborn butterflies of light
poised to take to the air
a precious spectre of mortal reality dawning
many cannot bear to look
upon the terrible tender beauty
look upon the truth of it all
we women past forty
beauty borne bare
to the fine bones bones fine bones
 
by Lorena Lobita Wolfman © May 2009

Os invito a bailar

os invito a bailar
esta noche de alas ágiles
bailar memorias perdidas en los árboles
bailar visiones llevadas por los vientos turquesas
empapadas de deseo salino de mar y lágrimas
y la transparencia celeste del espíritu
bailar los sueños que envuelven el alma
bailar los remordimientos que se deslizan
por la garganta y por entre los dientes bailar
palabras os invito a unirse conmigo en conjurar
al pasado a lo posible al futuro
nutridos por lo que fue y lo que no fue
palabras os invito a acompañarme
a cuidadosamente desenvolver la tierna sílfide
de la aceptación de como nos hemos fallado
el ardiente deseo de habernos encontrado más plenamente
y ahora de abrazarlo todo
desde un punto más profundo
es con palabras que pido perdón
y con las cuales perdono
con palabras y el corazón humilde
las manos abiertas palomas blancas batiendo
elevándose a los aires este momento fugaz se ha desvanecido
os invito a bailar

I invite you to dance

I invite you to dance
this nimblewinged night
dance memories lost in the trees
dance visions carried on turquoise winds
drenched with seasalt desire and tears
and azure transparency of mind
dance dreams that robe the soul
dance regrets that slip
from throat through teeth dance
words I invite you to join me in conjuring
the past the possible the future
nurtured by what was and what wasn't
words I invite you to accompany me
in carefully unwrapping the tender dew-blessed sylph
of acceptance for how we fail one another
the burning desire to have met more fully
and now to embrace everything
from a deeper place
it is with words I ask for forgiveness
and with which I forgive
with words and a humbled heart
open hands white doves' wings beating
airborne this fleeting moment is gone gone gone
I invite you to dance

copyright © 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

All I have left of you

my right hand
never reaches you
even in dreams
and with my sinestral hand
I never see you

the dark light
of this longing
doesn’t reveal geometry
only asymetric sensations
pronounced in Arabic
in Guaraní or in Euskera

your words
are the murmur of doves
indecipherable walls

I perceive the coolness
of your throat
your teeth sound
like tenuous waves
but who speaks now
is it the abbess
the queen or is it
the one who so many times
left me in the penumbra
without catching me
or even throwing me
a braided line
of vague promises

silence
and the tenuous murmur of doves
is all I have left
of you

Lo último que me queda de tí

mi mano derecha
no te alcanza
ni siquiera en sueños
y con la siniestra
nunca te veo

la luz oscura
de estas querencias
no revela geometrías
sino sensaciones asimétricas
pronunciadas en árabe
en guaraní o en euskera

tus palabras
son murmullos de palomas
murallas insondables

percibo la frialdad
de tu garganta
tus dientes suenan
como olas tenues
pero quien habla ahora
es la abadesa
o la reina o es
la que tantas veces
me dejó en la penumbra
sin pescarme
sin tirarme ni siquiera
una cuerda trenzada
de vagas promesas

silencio
y el murmullo tenue de palomas
es lo último que me queda
de tí

copyright © 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

Thunderstorm

Earth reveals
Her strumming tears,
Suspended misty maidens
Streaming past,
Stranded weeping
'midst the quarreling gods.


copyright © 1982 & 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

Crossing

Crossing the country
this planet fluid land
unfolding below
clouds roaming
over deserts over streets
over rivers rivers of water of air
restless land in motion
recorded in lines sediments textures
the millenial dance dance
the span of earth planets stars
not the span of your of my life line
the line we hold in our hands
and sometimes fleetingly hold for each other
while everywhere in crevaces
in mountains mesas and valleys
are the tectonic traces traces
of the unseen dimensions
into which we all pass
                        we all pass
                                        all pass
                                                   pass


copyright © 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

Grace of day

The landscape slumbers
lost in pale silken sheets,
I emerge from fog
past mist into blue sky
robes tumble away
revealing the nude grace of day.


copyright © 2004 & 2009 Lorena Wolfman

drink deep

we have forgotten
we are turquoise
wind spirits sweeping
across the land
rattling through trees
on our sojourn
blue-eyed wolves nostrils quivering
we stalk the source of lightening
this universe this midnight lapis
azure that defies all law
in remembering re-mem-ber-ing
after all the demons have spoken
we learn the abc's
become dancers
dancers making
our own steps
our own steps
                    steps
drinking deep
drink deep
we become transparent
we are transparent
bodies of light dancing
            light dancing
                        dancing
god's elixir
love
love
       dancing
                  love
        is
           all
               that
                     remains
                                love
                                    dance
                                            love

copyright © 2009 Lorena "Lobita" Wolfman

The First Day

Faint hint on the air
of fragrant jasmine
slides down my throat
like a precious tear
declaring how perfect
the taste of this offering is.

Like wind that shimmers
on the leaves of Spring,
a silver sigh flows
over the newly turned earth
smooth bones exposed
ring like marimbas
singing in the mountains.
Moist veil of dawn parts
to reveal the new found landscape.

May we receive this first day
of the rest of creation
in the spirit it is given,
fully open.

Walking

I walk forward
my cochineal face to the wind
with strength with courage

I move forward
my wet steps
erased from the sand
like the stories
I have been forced
to forget and I go on
with strength with courage

a hard North wind
pulls me backwards
to the inevitable precipice
edge of the abyss
where I can barely balance
but I hold on
with strength with courage

I teeter
in the disequilibrium
of amnesia of loss
of loss in the fire of
each moment to regain equilibrium
not succumb to the abyss
and I struggle
with strength with courage

I continue
pressing to make headway
only to be dragged backwards
by my heels
to the precipice,
to the edge
to the edge
to the edge of the abyss
here I keep a toe hold
my fingers turn white
I hold on
with strength with courage

in the fulcrum of grasping
gradually I discover
the present moment
of my struggle
the present moment
of my disequilibrium
and in the present moment
I discover the ample shelf at the edge
and what is required
in order not to fall down
in order not to drown
in order not to disappear
forever

I move forward
with many different steps
diagonal steps
short steps
long steps
fast steps
slow steps
steps in reverse
until I realize I can
walk forwards in reverse
facing my past
walk towards new horizons
my back at the bow
greeting the air
that comes from afar
while I embrace
the dance of the past
and with a flick
of my shoulder blades
I flirt with the future

Nada brilla como la luna...

Nada brilla como la luna
timbrando entre las diez mil estrellas.
Esta noche contemplándole la cara,
sólo su canción me refleja
esta alegría estremecedora.
Todas las cosas se palidecen
ante su alma de nácar.
Y es que hay tantas cosas--
una verdadera cacofonía
de sonidos, colores y fragancia--
cada una en sí una pequeña maravilla
pero esta noche, ella, sólo ella,
conversa sin límites con mi corazón.

derechos reservados (c) 2009 Lorena Wolfman
traducido por Lorena Wolfman

Nothing shimmers like the moon...

Nothing shimmers like the moon
ringing amidst the ten thousand stars.
This evening as I look upon her face,
her song alone reflects back
this shivering joy.
All other things pale
before her pearlly soul.
And there are so many things--
a cacophony of sounds, color and fragrance--
each a small wonder
but she, she alone, this night
converses with my heart beyond measure.

copyright (c) 2004, 2009 Lorena Wolfman

Rakkasah West 2009

The Rakkasah Belly Dance Festival is reknown as the world's largest belly dance festival. This year it fell on the weekend of March 13-15. This was the 29th anniversary of this extravaganza of dancers, muscians, vendors and much much more. For years it has been held in Richmond, California at the downtown Civic Center, but while this is undergoing a some refurburbishing, for the last two years it has been held at the Solano County Fairground in Vallejo, California. While this is a little further afield for some of us, the Indian bazaar-meets-cabaret-meets-deep-tribal-roots-meets funk character of the event is more than worth the trip and even the sometimes bitter March winds that rip through this area!

Belly dance is an ancient dance form performed by and traditionally for women that celebrates the woman's body, her curves, important life events, her biological and spiritual rhythms; it is essentially a dance form born of the people. It was only in the 20th century that it became a dance form performed in clubs by women for men and often got associated with burlesque and therefore looked askance on in "proper" circles. While there are many more women dancers than men, men are making some remarkable contributions to the form. One of the things that distinguishes its character from say ballet or modern dance forms is the emotion conveyed and shared directly by the dancer in a dynamic relation with his or her audience. There are many sub-genres of the genre known as belly dance or Danse Oriental, these include folk, cabaret, tribal, gypsy, and then fusion of all sorts. There is always room for creativity and most of all joy!

I finally have video from my performance. This dance is entirely improvised. I give thanks to my improv teachers at Tamalpa Institute and beyond for sharing their love of improv and to my dance teachers in all genres and to the divine inspiration that animates our every breath!

Caminar

Camino hacia adelante
dando mi cara color carmín al futuro
con fuerza, con valentía
para ir hacía adelante.

Doy pasos
hacia adelante
pero son pasos forzados,
forzados a olvidar,
dejar el pasado atrás,
a olividar
las tierras transitadas
de donde he venido.

Me agarra un viento duro
me complica el camino
me lleva hacia atrás
al precipicio inevitable,
orilla del abismo,
donde apenas puedo
equilibrarme,
apenas puedo.

Me estoy cayendo
cayendo
cayendo:
el desequilibrio la lucha
la pugna la lucha
la pugna con cada instante
para ganar el equilibrio
encontrar la estabilidad
no caerme en el abismo
no perderme nuevamente.

Sigo, sigo, sigo
hacia adelante con fuerza
con valentía
luchando para ganar terreno
pero una y otra vez
soy arrastrada hacia atrás
al precipicio
a la orilla
del abismo.

Poco a poco descubro
el momento preciso
de la lucha
el momento preciso
del desequilibrio,
descubro el pretil de la orilla
y lo que se requiere
para no caerse
para no hundirse
para no desaparecerse
para siempre.

Hacia adelante avanzo
con tantos pasos distintos
pasos transversales
pasos cortos
pasos largos
pasos súbitos
pasos lentos
pasos al revés
hasta darme cuenta que puedo
caminar hacia adelante al revés
dándole frente al pasado
caminar hacia nuevos horizontes
la espalda en proa
saludándole al aire
que viene de lejos
mientras abrazo
el baile del pasado
y con capirotazos
de mis hombros
doy una espalda
coqueta al futuro.