Brocade

Photography by Armelle Touzeau


Broken brocade;

Where do I put this sequin when the sequence

Falls like notes from the cellar door?

On my knees searching on the dirty waxed floor

Hands graze gypsy mambo scuff-marks

And dirty martini olive-swords.

Candles glow in distant red bulbs,

My search waxes dim.

How does poetry save the world like God? Read More

The Village

Photography by Waseem Niaz

I walk a path, rainclouds retreat to the east. I come to a village tucked in a basin, earthen and stone dwellings line the path, but the sunlight illuminates people outside them, on their knees with hands cupped, raised up. Beggars, desiring nothing more than bread or coin? Read More

August Rainbows

Creede Rainbow

Photo by Amaya Engleking

Just out of the shower, baby in bed, husband putting toddler to sleep; I look down the hall to see the front room awash in that lemon-zest glow that is common of the dawn, but a prized gift for bedtime.  Still seeing a light rain to the west where the sun is ready to slip behind the mountains, without hesitating I grab the camera and bolt out the kitchen door, sure there will be a heaven-sent rainbow in this reminding light. Read More

Orogeny

joan-fontcuberta-orogenesis-derain-2004

Photo: Joan Fontcuberta

The mind fragile; he crosses an ocean and all disintegrates into order.

Into her arms he goes; rip, decision, spill. Freeing the border.

The old line awakens into dance, A New One! The rhythm spins.

The beat of every blue shade.  Simple: A new wor(l)d begins. Read More

Source/El Origen

Word to the people of the world
It’s in the water, as a loving Father
Or a bodhisattva comes to us
From the skies, formed of his designs,
By gravity of grace, here to remind
Unblind, and hydrate all that has dried
Into a reality we face:

That if I speak liberate,
I could find my fate, taken and raped,
Locked up in a pool of lead acetate.

To hell wit dat, I don’t drink polluted words
Or spit what I heard, nah, I drink from the earth
Man it’s about the Mani, not the money
The OM, not the O-M-G and see,
Not tryin to be funny but this water’s so free
And flowin that I’m down here knowin it’s been Daddy-O spinnin
This Manikhorlo from the beginning and—Er Ree EE-e—
Scratch that, Big D(J), this Whee-ee-eel has
None nor end but I’s just wond-er-in’ the nature of the
Period, cuz every song has one and
The peak of this mountain, is covered in truth,
That melts~

So I go along with him, to follow his rhythm
Of the air, of the prayer, of this wild hair,

Of this word.

©Amaya Engleking, 2011

 

La palabra para la gente del mundo

Está en el agua

Como amoroso Papa

O una bodhisattva

Viene a nosotros

Desde los cielos

Hecha de sus diseños

Con la gravedad de la gracia

Para recordar, develar, hidratar

Todo lo que se ha secado

Hasta ser la realidad que enfrentamos:

Si yo hablo de “liberar”

Podria encontrar mi vida

Robada, violada, y encerrada

Con las llaves ya en el fondo del abismo.

Al diablo con eso

Yo no tomo palabras polucionadas

Ni escupo lo que yo he oido

No, yo las tomo del manantial

Sabe a Dios, no a dineros

A “OM” no “O-M-G ¡que escalandosos!”

Y no estoy tratando jugar

Sino que el agua es libre y corriente

Y estoy en la tierra yendo humildemente

Porque Mi Viejo ha girado

Esta gran rueda rezada

La manikorla y la mandala

Desde la primera palabra

La rueda sin principio y sin fin

Pero todavía me maravillo

De la naturaleza del punto

Porque cada canto tiene solo uno

Y la punta cima de esta montaña

Está cubierta de la verdad

Que se derrite

Porque todos la tomemos

Asi que yo fluyo

Sigiendo su ritmo

Derramondo alabanzas, lágrimas

Y palabras

 

© 2012, Amaya Engleking