When I grow up, I want to be a poem

Written, edited, and designed by Marianne Márquez

with graphic assistance from Charlsey Cartwright

Copyright © 2011 Marianne Márquez

All rights reserved.

For my mother and al l my beaut iful friends

There are no words that can hold al l the love I feel for you.

Every morning there are a few blessed seconds when his tory does not exis t, when yesterday is forgot ten and the real i ty of today has not yet set in.

Before the instant of our firs t breath,we are uninvented flesh,elus i ve atoms,mal leable cel ls,a gl immer at the edge of a dream.A flu id i ty of meaning,puls ing wavesThe promise of an orange or an oraclearises, then disso l ves.

Unti l , l i t t le by l i t t le,form is ascribedto indescr ibable grace.And the world sol id if iesin to customary formsand convent ional usages,an unyie ld ing, sol id l ife.What once gl immered,is reduced to the shadowson the wal ls of Plato ’s caveby our samsara bl indness.We are dreamt into the worldand then we dream the world .

If the single flap of a butterf ly ’s wing can give rise to a roaring hurr icane, th is blaze orange cloud could change the universe.

Red l ight stopAnd green l ight goLeave no room for blunders.But worlds col l ide and oft careenWhen l i v ing in the in between.

The day has not yet ful ly awakened here, which is unusual . Costa Rica is an early riser.

The sky is whi te against the trees. I’m l i v ing ins ide a cloud.

Jungle birdsongand the more dissonant musicof cars passing on the road below float on the air. A cat ’s whisker rainfal ls on a corrugated t in roof, on a corrugated, brown face. "Upe, buenas."”is the doorbel lthat announces a papaya vendor.Cumbia rhythms blare from the local record shopand shoulders shimmy. Car horns greet and rebuke.

The Sounds of Costa Rica

"Goooooooooooooooo l!"” The umpire elongates the word unt i l i t stretchesfrom the plaza deportes to the mi lp i tas and the green hi l l s . The church bel ls,once the muezzein cal l to prayer, are a hol low reminder of the hour. Lizards coo, hugging the wal l ,then disappear into the crumbl ing plaster to converse in tones we cannot hear. The wind surges in ocean waves,buffet ing the cabin wal ls . The night t ime chorus of crickets and tree frogsis punctuated by the crack of cohetes, the l i t t le rockets that mean joy, not warin Costa Rica.

The bird that l i ves high in a tree alongside the cabin ruff les its wings so loud ly that they sound l ike the crack of timber just before it fal ls .

I am dreaming that i t is Quetzalcoat l and that the cracking sound is the portal of t ime opening.

speaks of an impending monsoon.

A water droplet on a leaf

The morning l ight is usual ly vibrant here,but today the trees hold on to the night .

When I grow up, I want to be a poem.

Words are vehic les that can take us to someplace we know very wel l

or somewhere we have never been before.

Anyth ing can be a doorway.

Language is a prisonLanguage is a prison,ordered let ters that reveal noth ingbut compl ic i ty in the murderof the unwordable. Freighted with form ,narrowed with names,in our attempts to impose orderand coherenceon this ineffable world

While the world ’s word less discoursecont inues undimin ishedAn experience of real i tywi th soar and loft Hear them speak of lost friendswho await another voice,unrestrained express ionbeyond words. Perhaps a long si lencecould prevent th is death.

You are the impulsethat instructs my heart to speakin the language of roses,the throat ’s lost song.

The ebb and flow of your breath is a cathedral in your chest .

Choose your words careful ly .

Craft them into a lov ing embrace.

The spoken word can float away on incurious breath.Once etched in sturd ier stuff,the traces of its ragged, acid ic pathcannot be erased.

We hold each other’s fragi le hopes in our hands.

Let friendsh ip reign. . .and shine.

Love, land on my hand l ike a butterf ly. Just for a moment . I’ l l stay so st i l l .

Love is more than a feel ing. To cal l i t a feel ing is to dimin ish i t .

T e a r o u t t h i s h e a r tt h a t b r e a k sa n d b r e a k sa n d b r e a k s y e t a g a i ni n t o p i e c e s n e v e r i n d i v i s i b l e .

T h i s m o r e t h a n h u m a n f l e s hr e n t w i t h s n a r l i n g t e e t hT h e g a s h o f r e df r o m c o u r t s h i p t o a s s a s s i n a t i o na n d b a c k a g a i n

Once in a l ifet ime, if you’re very lucky, you meet someone who div ides it .

The time before and the time after.

I loved their traces, their leftover aspects,al l they had abandoned of themselves in their confused hurry to conform.

be preceded by enchantment?

Shouldn ’ t disenchantment, by its very defin i t ion,

Her eyes were the color of long-ago sorrows.

One day the journey cal led her by nameand someth ing st irred with in her heartthat had not moved for a thousand years.

AtlantisWho but a foolwould l inger by the shorel ine,gazing vacant ly across the wavesand not marvel ing at th ings as they are?

He waits for forces unknownto raise a lost cont inentwhich he cal ls home.

At lant is

So wil l I run,cal l ing out"Oh Atlant is . My love! My life! "as if airy utterancescould l if t the sunken stone.

Or wi l l I dive headlong into the waters,as if with one last breathI could regain that deep land.

No, I can but walk these burning sandsunt i l the tide,urged by a future moon,brings me to you.

I walk around in my immortal shoes,Never not ic ing the leather of the soles is wearing thinAnd the laces are fraying.

Each heartlongs for its home.Both rooted in earth,yet ascending.Longingchanged its upward courseto a leafy embrace.Her heartkeeps her aloftin a l im inal space.Where they meet to complete the circ leof grace.Life digs deepinto the earth.It ’s fin ished artis returned.

SoftlyGent lyLike the fal l ing snowSoft lyGent lyI wi l l let you go

I wish I was a poem that lived in your breast pocket and you forgot about me until one day when your heart was broken, a tear slid down your cheek and when you reached into your pocket for a handkerchief, your hand found instead the well-worn creases of my pages and the words dried your tears and mended your heart and after that I no longer lived in your pocket. I lived in your heart.

I wish I was a poem

Memories are swept up from neglected cornersand carried to us on a gent led wind. They taste sal ty or bit teror sweeter than kisses.Blow me a kiss.

Some beauty comes only with age.Her face carved by ocean waves,breaking against the slope of the Himalayafor mi l l ions of years.When the oceans receded,her face appeared.Lined with laughter and hardshipand the inroads of Mongol emperors

Ghost DanceThe echoes of long ago dancesfo l low the upraised knee,the bi l lowing bison hides,in blurred movements,in smears of colorthat l inger in the air. The dancer’s presenceis somet imes so thinthat he becomes one with the air.A shimmering mirageA distant memory The memory of wide plains,a flat blue sky,the wind and the cloudsBut even feathers from eaglesdidn ’ t al low him to fly. The pat ina of ceremonyis al l that remainswhere none now l i vewho remember it .

Her grace was interrupted only by a bl ink.

Anyth ing can be a doorway.

New Year’s Eve Lunar Ecl ipseTonight, let wisdom ecl ipse what we think we are certain of.Ton ight, let that which is no longer needed sl ip awaywith the tired old year.Ton ight, let us emerge once more in innocence and wonderl ike the infant year.Ton ight, let i t begin again.

Woke up to a pale yel low moon, shin ingthrough my window l ike the sun.

Birds wrote yes in the sky.

Lying under a flowering magnol ia treeA canopy of lotus blossomsSet in a pond of a thousand gray ripplesThat is the sky.

As Above, So BelowShards of broken waterCracked mirror lakebathed in bri l l iant winter l ight,ref lects a mackerel sky.

Clouds float ing in wintry waterTrees rooted in skyEarth and sky meetUnknown to the rest of the galaxy.

If we are the only ones here, it ’s an awful waste of space and beauty.

The day is waking up slowly.Rubbing the sleep from its eyes, the sun pul led a blanket of mist back over its head.

The winter sols t ice is over. We await the return of the prodigal sun.

The eye of the day opened.Amber lashes against the sky

She awoke to find the grass was strewn with diamonds.

The forest murmurs soft ly today.A ris ing wind speaks with the tongues of leaves.

Noise is musicthat we have not yet decoded.

Anyth ing can be a doorway.

There are flashes of brightness l ike si l verf ishes dart ing in a stream of consciousness.

The ent ire sky glowed golden at sunset today.

As the golden sun sl ips into the water,the sea looks skywardto kiss i ts dry, parched faceand erupts in flames.The embers glow.

And when time itself has unwound, so shal l the dreams that brought us here,

th ink ing we were their passengers.

And now for something completely different...

The Song of Seven Seven celest ia l dragonsrode seven jade green waves,spewing si l ver sea spraywi th eyes gl in t ing grey. A sevenfo ld bless ingsent to the foundering landby myst ical whispers and the gesture of a sage’s hand.

They traversed the starry heavensto the roi l ing sea below,merging with the sal ty wavesfor they st i l l had far to go.

They spark led in the moon l ight,though i l lumed from with in .Their wings, skyscraping si l v ’ry sai ls,caught the wintry wind.

Each dragon carried in its crowna magical whi te stone,contain ing al l the wisdomthat man had never known.

Emerging from the sea foam,by wind and water loosed,the dragons rose togethermetal scales and si l ver tooth.

The dragons rose up in the skywi th booming roars l ike thunder.The people woke up quaking and then occurred a blunder.

The vi l lagers rubbed sleepy eyes as to erase the truth.Then with fixed stare they pondered the next th ing they should do. The townspeople al l wantedto make a pearl their own,for its magic was imparted from the dragon to the man. But as with many legends,i t was both myth and fact .There was indeed a dragon but scorching breath he lacked. The hero‘ quick unleashed his swordupon the wrongly adjudged foe. Before discernment could prevai l ,he slew a dragon with one blow.

But pearls could not be loosed by force.They must be freely given.Neither sword nor cunning,could pry them from the dragons. Though dragons accidental ly droppeda pearl or two somet imes,when soaring on unsteady wingsin to the heavenly cl imes. Too late, he real ized his errthere standing on the shore.And without a backward glance,the dragons sai led away once more. Taking with them wisdomthat man may never know,the message that the seven sages spoke in whispers long ago.

The dragons soared back to the stars,though their number was one less.And the six remain ing dragon heartswere heavy with unhappiness. For centur ies it has been to ld,that in l ight of moon,the sages from the bamboo grovemay send the dragons soon. To reveal a world of magicwe don’ t yet comprehend,to show us unto ld wonders,to be our dearest friends. Seven celest ia l dragonsrode seven jade green waves,spewing si l ver sea spraywi th eyes gl in t ing grey.

Depending upon where you end the story. . .

Al l th ings begin at the beginn ing

a n d e n d a t a b e g i n n i n g .