Dream

Dream. Exam questions: 1. What is the purpose of the trees in the park? 2. Can you ignite the stone from within?

The sweet scent of ringing chimes

All day 

             the wind

All night 

             the wind

The rush

             swirling through the tree branches

The sweet scent

             of ringing chimes

Open window

               pulse of cool gusts

The full moon 

             shining down

A lazy star in the east

              announcing the dawn

The stone 

             ignited from within

--Lorena 

breathing in breathing out

huuuuuhhh aaaah

breathing out

breathing in

electrical scar tissue

finer than papyrus fibers

breathing in space

breathing out the memory of a poem

agua     water inside water

huuuuuhhh aaaah

turquoise patina

dakini making love 

with the guru of blue blue water water

feathers tucked behind her wing bone

for a long time now

patinaed dust falling from their barbs

huuuuuhhh aaaah

under the vaulted arches of the lungs' cathedral

a secret mass is being held

as red blood cells flow upward

heart cupped in silent prayer

protected

huuuuuhhh aaaah

air flows 

through the chambers of the concha

spiraling inward

to the filigreed chambers of the bone marrow

aaaah

space spiraling inward

huuuuuh

a gentle flowering exhale

electrically etched like veins of frost

strong scar fibers holding steady

lining the inner sanctums cúpula 

holding steady steady

ever so slightly touched now

by the rumbling below

aaaaah     huuuuuh

light shining from above

through the esophageal skylight...

—Lorena Wolfman

Cuaderno #5 2020

 

Agua

fluidez    pulsación

espacio eterno de aguas 

dentro de otras aguas

hebras sinuosas entretejidas 

sus finos filamentos

confundiéndose con el gel o sol del citoplasma

espirales emitidos como vocablos de los ríos del tiempo atemporal

aguas entibiecidas por rayos solares 

filtrados entre la música silenciosa que acaricia los núcleos

de cada célula de mi cuerpo

suspendidas todas en las corrientes del mar eterno

flotando entre la tierra y el cielo

agua que se encuentra con agua

agua que se cambia de piel

con la lluvia que inunda las calles

con las lágrimas de los huérfanos 

con la saliva que se requiere para pronunciar tu nombre

agua que se cambia de piel

agua sin dueño

ni fronteras capaces de detenerla

agua que siempre sueña

—Lorena Wolfman

Silent River

this silent river

of the unspoken

flows past our skin

flows between us

invisible too

we hadn't even seen it

till now

how many generations

have silenced their tears?

held their fury in their throats?

forgotten the touch of tenderness?

muted their voices?

I hear this silent river

full refulgent brimming over

with untold stories

with unspoken histories

with unsung sorrows

and unarticulated joy

with unremembered truth

a gleaming gold fish 

darts through the water ahead

make no mistake 

it is too much for any one of us

it belongs to us

this is our collective remembering

thawing

melting out of our mouths

warmed by the heat 

of saliva

of tears

of blood

of mucus

of breath

aaaah aaaah

AAAAH

somewhere the rain

pulses towards the earth 

time 

—eons epochs centuries decades this very moment—

has acted on the banks of this river

in ways we don't even imagine

there can be no hurry

only melting

ooooooh

and the river winding

flowing

current upon current

embraced by more currents

as the currents gain force

—Lorena Wolfman

 

Rain in the marrow

there is a rain falling somewhere

raindrops falling from heaven

there is a rain in the marrow

between each breath

from before my bones spiraled into existence

from before my eyes reflected back the milky way

from before my mother lived in her mother’s ocean

there is an ancient downpour

from before my grandmother

held her first breath

there is a rain falling

larger than the sky of one life

and yet the birds fly into the wind

guided by the wisdom under their wings

they swoop joyfully across air currents

so much greater than themselves

painting new oceans

the birthing of new lands

murmuring across time

becoming and dissolving

becoming again and again and again

there is an ancient rain

so much greater than the dew drops

on the agaves at dawn

yet each drop spreads the scent of jasmin

across the moist earth

—Lorena Wolfman

la vida recorre todo

la vida recorre todo lo que soy

desde lo diminuto

de la incógnita célula 

que respira en el fondo de mi pelvis

hasta la estrella invisible desde la tierra 

cuya luz que me alberga

cuyos rayos llegan

tan ciertos como el resplandor del sol 

que llega trémulo

alzado y cayéndose

entre las corrientes del viento

en la danza de las sombras 

bajo el árbol en el centro de mi jardín

aquí y allá 

diminutos mares pulsando

uno nace dentro de otro

impulsado siempre por la marea cósmica

que nace nuevamente

en el cuarzo de mis huesos

girando girando

siempre bañada en agua 

que se encuentra con agua

que es siempre agua viva

—Lorena Wolfman 

volando

                          —a Mirta

Apenas una bisagra

que se abre y se cierra

y se vuelve a abrir

una bisagra que dibuja la curva de su rodilla

sus ojos penetrando la penumbra 

en la puerta de la oficina central

pero lo que es más importante

es la vuelta que pinta su pierna

desde la cadera 

mientras balancea su peso 

volando sobre un solo pie.

—Lorena Wolfman

Llevada

Llevada por la danza de las piernas

dibujando espirales en el tiempo de los astros

en la respiración de la médula

que fluye eléctrica por la columna 

soy una sinfonía íntima de hueso en cascada

sostenida por las olas del chelo y el piano

soy el dibujo de la música desde adentro

derritiendo formas fijas 

los músculos transformados en algas

que siguen la corrientes del espiral del femur 

de la tibia

del maléolo

y del astrágalo

siguiendo el arco de la vía láctea.

—Lorena Wolfman

Walking and swooping and pausing

walking and swooping and pausing

turning inward I find myself

in the tendrils in the the flowing bloom

of the latice work of nerves 

rising like some aquatic weed

flowing and swooping and pausing

my mouth shapes soundless meaning carried on the breath

where inwards and outwards are no longer separate but one direction

Flowering and swooping and pausing

turning inwards I find myself

my fingers my palms open 

blooming like sea anemonies

slowly taking on the minute arcs

of the ocean currents 

that are not lost to the inmensity

floating and swooping and pausing

—Lorena Wolfman

rainfall and thunder

The tears flow

the waters wash

memories

stories

pain

what was never said

dear grandmother

with this visit

I feel the constriction 

in the throat

you were beautiful

you ran

and climbed trees 

like I did

you fed my mother's dance

making angels in the snow

beating your wings

in the cold and ice

beat beat beat

like the heart beat of life

in the ice

frozen words 

perhaps never spoken

for you too were a girl

and we all know

the risks that come with that

alone alone alone

you made it

you became a nurse

your ghosts haunted you

and silenced you

in your nightmares

but you made the best

shu-fly pie

the best

pumpkin bread

in minniapolis you insisted I drink milk

I hated milk

my mother lived her life

in search of the stories

that were silenced in your throat

she found goddesses who 

could take wrath 

kali innana 

she tried to run from your silence

to a distant coast

she marched for women's equal rights

yes the right to speak to voice to call out STOP

as these tears wash wash wash

down my cheeks

I hope they sooth your throat

your body

your soul

grandfather's voice was low and strong and soothing

it promised so much

such a seductive radio voice

and yet he was cruel (and brilliant)

in his own ways

the happiest days were when he was away 

and you played with your two daughters throwing snowballs

I hope you climb to the very tops of the trees in the sky

I hope you will make snow angels

in the clouds 

and when it is time to rain

I hope your rains will fall fall fall

replenishing the earth

with the music of rainfall and thunder

                    —Lorena Wolfman

 

Pelvis

            —a Argelia

Pelvis

mi cueva secreta

a oscuras

donde renazco

recordando quien soy

                —Lorena Wolfman

Agua

 

                        —a Ivana

Agua que se desliza

por la garganta de la noche

desciende a mi corazón

y canta el abecedario

de los huesos en flor.

                —Lorena Wolfman

Dibujo

                        —a Mirta

 

Dos manos que dibujan 

el aroma del amanecer

y la puesta de la luna 

trémula tras el pirúl.

—Lorena Wolfman

Entre dos

I

Entre los hemisferios un mar celeste

que ha bajado del cielo

en mi boca pétalos y espinas

entregadas a su conversación

entre mis pechos 

una música de tambores y violines

entre mis huesos en mi pelvis

un suave amanecer en las montañas

Música de lirios rebosante

llamando llamando llamando

en la puerta de la nueva mañana

II

La recién nacida mañana

busca en el mar y el cielo

su eco

encontrando su voz

en medio de sus cuerdas

—Lorena

Curvas

Me cautivan

¿o es que me crean? 

las curvas de un juego

que se reunen 

y se despiden

como si las despedidas 

entre curvas fueran posibles

juego de las curvas que se van 

y luego vienen y se saludan

del norte y del sur

del oriente y occidente

espejos complementos y contrastes

un juego de sombras

del divino marionetista invisible 

reflejado en las olas de la inmensidad

las arenas del Sáraha

artista invisible

que se hace visible en sus efectos

efímeros verbos cambiantes

como la piel inquieta del mar

la piel de la roca

la piel de la nata

toda piel viva sintiente que se mueve

disparado por los vientos del cosmos

juego del duo

juego de la pareja

de los opuestos

que nos regala este don de la danza

y la conversación

—Lorena

Descended from dragons

 

Cuenco

I 

Cuenco pleno cuenco vacío 

cuenco en círculo

cuenco circulando 

cuenco dando vueltas y rodando

cuencos redondos rodando

impulsados de la fuente misma

impulsados por las ondulaciones

del río de la vida que juega ondulando 

en hondas ululaciones silenciosas 

del mar profundo

visto desde la piel de la existencia

el mar visto desde los destellos 

que chispean 

en el velo de sus aguas ancestrales

el mar que nos da vida

el mar del gran útero 

matriz que da 

de generación en generación 

generosamente generativa 

generando nuevas danzas

que surgen desde el fondo

en una cascada eterna

que aparece y desaparece

como todas la formas 

las constelaciones de la materia—

roca mariposa árbol—

siempre cambiante




II

Siempre cambiante

en tiempos paralelos

las rocas las mariposas

las nubes los mares

vuelven a nacer

perdiéndose a quienes a eran.




                      —Lorena Wolfman

Descended from dragons

Bird in the window greeting me. Fluttering of wings again and again alighting on the blade of a yucca tree, fluttering close to the prism in the window.  The chillón, a small gorrión, or sparrow, comes into the field of the effect of my struggle to free my wings, newly hatched from the dragon's egg.  This amniotic, this liquid, so turgid, so sticky, so adherently strong, would keep my wings down, sealed to my body, my side, but instinctively I follow the pull through the pain and rigor to free my wings—I have come a long way already from crouching and cringing and turning away in deep contraction, not knowing who I was, only shame. I have turned away,  to allow the contraction, and the deep growl errupting from my throat, to growl, to growl, to growl allowed the first taste of exquisite delicate freedom to arise with the heat expanding through my chest, arms, into my hands... this chillón gorrión sparrow recognized my plight, she too is a descendent of dragons, and has come to show me the next step—flight, as she flits, flits, flits back and forth, lighter than air, at the window, coming up ot the glass,  again and again, as I begin to raise my wings, and discover my spine.

Bird in the window

Bird in the window greeting me. Fluttering of wings again and again alighting on the blade of a yucca tree, fluttering close to the prism in the window.  The chillón, a small gorrión, or sparrow, comes into the field of the effect of my struggle to free my wings, newly hatched from the dragon's egg.  This amniotic, this liquid, so turgid, so sticky, so adherently strong, would keep my wings down, sealed to my body, my side, but instinctively I follow the pull through the pain and rigor to free my wings—I have come a long way already from crouching and cringing and turning away in deep contraction, not knowing who I was, only shame. I have turned away,  to allow the contraction, and the deep growl errupting from my throat, to growl, to growl, to growl allowed the first taste of exquisite delicate freedom to arise with the heat expanding through my chest, arms, into my hands... this chillón gorrión sparrow recognized my plight, she too is a descendent of dragons, and has come to show me the next step—flight, as she flits, flits, flits back and forth, lighter than air, at the window, coming up ot the glass,  again and again, as I begin to raise my wings, and discover my spine.

Exiles and migrations

                                  — For Barbara 

Exiles and migrations, 

among us all the cover story, 

what could not be said,

what was said instead, 

while what was true was sent to basement, 

we have been shamed for our origin 

as dragons, eagles, swans, 

oxen, wolves and horses, 

speaking in tongues of the heart... 

from the depths 

emerging from our thoats 

I hear a deep, deep growl, 

from where we do remember...

—Lorena

 

Voicing I

 

Butterfly out of the mists of time

Dividing once and again and again...

Two gametes in time 

and out of time

beyond the reach

of who we thought we were

Two gametes meeting

in a zygote playing 

here within us,

as us

having become one

only to divide again and again and again...

from beyond the mists of time

memory made flesh

inhabiting us

as the swing of our hips

the glint in our eyes

our own palette of love, laughter and tragedy colored

with a timeless symphony paint....

It's as though the dance

of life from womb to womb

keeps birthing out of itself

with barely a notion 

of home ownership...

"Mi casa es su casa... y la suya y la suya y la suya"

"My home is your home... and yours and yours and yours"

Just as your home is my home...

Como su casa es mi casa...

Y la brisa que se despega de mis brazos cuando bailo 

es al brisa de mil mariposas...

—Lorena Wolfman

Morning walk

I receive this blessing

softly before the sun rises

an orange yellow pink glow

on the eastern horizon

sillouetting a sacred mesa'd mountain

nested between jagged peaks

I receive this softening this opening 

this joy this blessing

as the earth begins 

its tilt towards the sun

this short november day like a jewel

as I walk backwards to face east

the earth tilting steadily towards day

drawn in its magnetic gyre to the light

I continue walking westward

the sun warming my back

my shadow cast on the earth

a darkened rocky limestone figure 

mirrors my every step

it is Inanna's shadow

she is walking with me

"I am walking on the earth again

I have returned"

she rejoices as two birds

side by side in unison

fly in across her shadow.

My hands rise of their own volition

drawn upward into the centrifugal vortex of early light

the fiery star ball 

fills the air with radiance

my upraised palms cupped to receive

the blessing of this day.




—Lorena 11/11/2020

Cuaderno 2020 #4

Winged Iguana

 

Blessing the spacious pregnant pause

Blessing the grief and the wet tears

that stream liquid rivers of returning

that stream liquid rivers of returning

Returning to the water’s edges

pressing my winged green iguana front limbs

deeply into the sand

wings spreading as my front legs press down into the earth

my form held safe in the contact

strong     firm     flesh

and raising my reptilian nostrils to the morning air

raising 

my reptilian

nostrils

to the morning air

My reptilian faceted skull moving 

a whole map of continents

a whole universe of faceted bone

Encountering

Encountering

each tectonic plate encountering the morning

continents brushing against other continents

submerged forms emerging

My skull illuminated by the sun

the crescent moon skull moon

illuminated on the right

and the the left hemisphere resting

silently in darkness

waiting

dreaming of a summer night

crickets humming

gently in unison

—Lorena Wolfman 8/11/2020

Hear the sound of creation

            —for grace

My right ear stumbles to hear,

to hear the world,

it hears another song,

of the sea foam

bursting

of crickets on a moonless night

of a lost signal on the dark ocean

of invisble errant light

of mystery in its own key

descending through my vocal chords

to nest in my heart

waiting for the morning star

to arise from the depths

of the sacrum

Hear the heart of creation!

Its belly plays deep chords

deep chords deep chords…

in my own heart,

hearth of love

Hear. Hear. Hear the sound of creation!

ecoutez plus encore

et de nouveau

et de nouveau

la chanson du mystère

la chanson du mystère

                    —Lorena

At the water's edge

                 —for Stephanie & Grace and all sisters standing at the water's edge

A great body of water

touches

unites

the shores where we stand

here in the high desert

when I climb the highest peaks

I feel the ancestral ocean

I see great sea floor

on its slopes

scattered volcanic rocks

stone faces of long silent giants

the waters of the pacific

reach me here

I stand on this shore

feeling its other shores

where my sisters stand

gazing out on the open waters…

                                    —Lorena

Reborn

Risen from the depths of death

Risen from all the relations

Risen from the dark

Released by the water of being into herself

Become herself after all

the suffering and past now gone

Resonances of love endure

I see the black below

in which all things form

from rot and decay to become

hummus

for the new out of the mystery

And I see her

body make of love, desire

light of the earth

expanding

illumined

Three white radiant circles

in an alignment of knowing

The names of her people

written into the warp and weft

of the background

having woven the fabric

of how she came to be here

Reborn

            —Lorena Wolfman

Giving and receiving

I receive and I give—

breathing in and breathing out—

I give and I receive in being alive

in dying and being reborn.

It is a constant exchange

of air

of light with all creation...

I carry this circling orb of being,

once gifted to me

and that I continue to create as I dance...

even through the fear when I hold my breath

and then begin to breath again,

and hold my breath again,

and breath again—

a constant exchange,

the dance of the orb

giving and receiving,

receiving and given

my birthright and it belongs to LIFE,

daring, daring to embody it,

from my belly.

                        —Lorena

Water of life

 Water of life  

Brilliant light of desire 

Mother of tears

Mother of moisture

Mother of our lived rivers

Rocking on the ocean of the universe

Pulsing heart of sacred conception

Each moment

Savoring the taste of more

Being here

                                                                                —Lorena Wolfman

Making Space

red pomegranate

seeds boundaries

shapes movement

fleshing out

flushing out

Is it a sacriledge

to name what has to go!?

to make space in my belly

in my gut

taking back the depths

letting go

releasing

descending

down and out

opening inward

energy coalescence

red white

round

empty fullness

fully defined

boundless rest

expanding

            —Lorena

Cuaderno 2020 #3

 

Held in the dark

Held in the dark inside of unknowing

in the deepest caverns of the earth’s night

the earth’s belly,

rocking.

            —Lorena

Cuaderno #2 2020

 

Lost

Lost your compass

on the way home

forgot which way

led to the center. 

                —Lorena Wolfman

When the turning has begun

When the turning has begun

and it is no longer Spring 

When the glory of Summer has ended

and the earths gyre is felt,

when the air has cooled

where do we find sustenance?

When our bodies

are not sung by the birds 

who have moved

onward with the sun,

Who sings for us then?

The trees pause in their search

no longer pressing forth new leaves,

where does life take shelter?

                          —Lorena Wolfman

Cuando se ha iniciado el giro

y ya no es primavera

cuando la gloria del verano ha terminado

y la vuelta de la tierra se siente,

cuando el aire se ha enfriado

a dónde buscamos el sustento?

Cuando los pájaros

que se ido siguiendo el sol

ya no cantan nuestros cuerpos,

quién nos canta entonces?

Los árboles pausan su búsqueda

y ya no sacan nuevas hojas

a dónde se anida la vida?

                  —Lorena Wolfman

 

Abbey Road

Abbey Road by the Beatles was released on September 26, 1969. I remember it well! It had been a long summer in a rented house near Arroyo Seco on the rim road, outside of Taos, New Mexico... It was one of my mother's records that I listened to again and again along with Rubber Soul (1965) and Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967) and Yellow Submarine (1969), Alice's Restaurant (1969), Let it Bleed (1969), Calypso (1956)... I sang and danced in the long sloping golden light of the afternoon upstairs in a wooden house with large windows... This wasn't that long after we left Mexico, catapulted by events of the worldwide unrest of 1968. Mexico's version ending tragically in the massacre of Tlateloco. But by the age of 6 these moves and upheavals were normal fare, a backdrop to a childhood that was already marked by comings and goings between countries, regions, languages, civil rights protests, the death of a president, but much more importantly for me the death of a bird I that with the help of Martha, the maid, we had trapped, and the abandoment of my dog at the Mexico City Pound, those losses struck the bone.