Conjectures
The valve gets stuck.
The bad mood tears
sanity.
Hands wringing
trying to avoid the burst.
But the voltage increases,
makes the body tremble.
Crying, anxiety, sadness.
In the veil of ignorance,
the game of conjecture begins:
- It's a white powder thing!
- It's just a lack of skill.
The flip-flop is a good psychologist.
- Is it a lack of love?
or a closet conflict?
The mind is a labyrinth,
it is not a guessing game.
Change or extension
Woman, you are powerful.
Man, you cry too.
Society, double standards
Justice, you walk slowly.
Weeping, you are universal.
Silence, perfect accomplice.
Prejudice, insensitive arrow.
Son, protection.
Daughter, comfort.
Home, you must be sanctuary.
Violence, perfect circle.
Hate, amorphous mind.
Culture, sometimes you assault.
Tradition, you also hurt.
Blessing, a noble man.
Privilege, a free woman.
Luck, good friends.
Change, you are hope.
Masculism, the face of misfortune.
Feminism, you are no better,
Love is not blows.
Forgiveness, you are not return.
Democracy, you are weak.
Dictatorship, sick tree.
Education, will.
Criticism, you destroy.
What do you want to be?
Change or prolongation?
Silences that shout
Silence is healthy,
if you keep silent to avoid wars.
Silence is unhealthy
if you keep silent in the face of a brother's pain.
Silences are the voices
of intelligent and wise men.
Other times they are lovers
and accomplices of mistreatment.
Be silent if you must be silent.
Shout if you must shout.
Let your voice break the silence
of the unpunished darkness.
Silence never sleeps,
if it seeks freedom.
When silences scream,
a truth is revealed.
Life is a tango
I draw abstract bodies
giving feet to the sunset,
without haste and without fear.
Freehand I give shape
to unmoored nipples
that in a sweeping turn
are free to stand erect,
or to throw themselves into the void.
I portray the indecipherable,
like wisdom,
where pigeons nest,
waiting for advice.
I engrave grooves with my gouges,
on legendary trunks
and I try to trace the essence
of the most natural body.
I sketch movements,
and I discover the perfect,
in the imperfect beauty
of the great tango of life!
Male tears
They cut their tears,
next to the umbilical cord.
Men don't cry,
says weakness.
Since before they were born,
they drown their emotions,
in their mother's fountain
and learn to be very manly
But when the man cries,
he achieves his freedom.
There is no greater emotion
than in the cry of a male.
There is no woman who can resist
to the desire to kiss
and dry with her tenderness the tears
tears of that wetland.
What they call weakness
is only humanity.
Magic of Colors
It's raining stars,from the sky.
Little lights emerge,
from the waterfalls.
Of beautiful quinceañeras,
dressed the mountains.
The hands of four magicians
pollinate the encounter.
The magic of the living water
plays with the dresses.
Beautiful messengers
embrace peace.
Little umbrellas of colors
they take care of the hidden verse.
Little hats with wings
they make us travel with them.
The earth is dressed in green.
Red is the kiss in the soul.
Yellow is the hope.
Blue is the message.
Many beautiful women
were born of a heart.
The heart of a plant!
Baptized in a stone!
Grandmother draws dreams,
and a mother the universe.
The daughter is fresh paint,
the sister paints rainbows.
They are beautiful all of them.
They bring messages of peace!
Low Tide
In the sea of your retinas
my agitated calms were lost.
I was tossed by the bravura of your waves!
I felt your strength!
You lifted me up, to the highest of your crests,
to show me all your ocean.
I refreshed myself in your waters and became entangled,
in the mischievous foam of your whirlpools.
With brutal unconsciousness,
I tied my body with the threads of a bad water and...
I loved the transparency of its forms!
An unexpected current shook my desires,
and dragged me into the darkest abyss of your existence.
Waking up from the shipwreck,
I floated on the hips of the manta rays.
My skin, covered with a trammel,
showing all my imperfections.
Again, I felt your strength!
But this time, you closed the pupils of your soul,
I could no longer sail in your seas.
I wanted again to feel your foam,
to kiss your sweet salinity, to breathe on your corals.
But the wind blew me back to the shore.
And the low tide did not let me reach you!
In the wait, the sand burns my longing,
while the scent of salts,
still spices my thoughts.
Beggar anger
Sleeps within me,dwells in me like a beggar,
Hidden as sin,
forbidden because I fear it.
Sometimes it peeps out
when it seems inert.
It blows furiously at my feet,
beating even the luck.
It breaks the glass of the night,
scaring away the hungry wolf.
It destroys sacred rings
reserved for a few.
When injustice laughs,
my beggar appears.
He blows fire into my lungs
makes me human, gives me strength.
Not to beat the walls,
nor to shout with a voice of thunder.
He comes out to break silences
of my own indifference.
Fear of ego
I'm too afraid to publish verses
and think because of it
that I am already Neruda.
I am a little worried that because of my authorship,
I'll be so unveiled that I'll hide my rhymes.
I'm afraid that one day, because of the pleitesia,
I will become immune to the symphony.
I don't want a prize to make me pretend,
that only my verses cause you pleasure.
I am anguished by the idea of believing that I carry,
absolute truth, that no one refutes.
I am afraid of ego and “bombast”.
To give up the simple for strange lexicons.
But what I fear most is to lose the north,
of using poetry to denounce.
Whether I am good or bad, in what I write,
I want them to rescue only the message.
For in this journey we are messengers.
Esmeralda Méndez Gutiérrez
Lawyer and poet. From Costa Rica. She is a cultural manager and compiler of anthologies of cultural exchange between Indonesia and Costa Rica. Cultural promoter of the groups Chispazos Literarios, La Literatura nos acerca and Explosión de Letras, founded in Argentina. Member of the group Luz del Faro of Puntarenas, Costa Rica.
