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The Four Faced Wind

Poetry by Valeria Castellanos

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Solstice

Wayeb Days

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Wayeb Days
It is already Spring again.
Time to start over.
Time to look at myself,
With a really critical eye.

Time to ask,
Where am I going, this time?
And, how far have I already come?
What am I trying to do, this time?
Why am I trying to do it?

The high stepping Centaur has drawn his bow.
He wants to know,
And, both of the heads of Janus are asking.
The fishes,
The one going the right way,
And, the one going the other,
Have their questions, too.

Some of them are asking when.
Some are asking where.
One is even asking,
Do you really care?
There is tension in the air.

I am considering what the Winter said.
The equinox is still ahead.
I am considering the cold, cruel reality of payback,
Of karma attack.
The solstice-spin, flip-over, make over,
Dance in the clover,
The upright-seeking,
Gyroscopic, point-of-return,
Or, no-return,
Rounding out the corners.

These are my personal Wayeb Days,
Not the forced fun,
Saturnalia Days of puff and fluff,
And, Happy Holiday Wishes to you.
These are days ruled by the unfamiliar gods,
Thirteen times further away,
Than anybody else.
These are the days that don’t fit in.
The nameless days, fallen in between the cracks of time,
When the sun and the moon are reconciling and reconsidering,
When there is nothing to do,
But hold your breath.
The days in the down and under.
The days on the wrong side of the night,
The wrong side of the earth,
The wrong side of the wobble of the universe.
The look back, swallow-me-up, black-hole days.

But, don’t stay here.
This won’t last forever.
What does it matter,
What I think of myself?
Who can prevent themselves,
From unfolding into who they are?
No such thing as free will.

Disregarding rejections,
Changing my selections,
Erasing my imperfections,
Besides being impossible,
Would probably be inhuman.

After a while Spring will really heat up,
And, clowns will be dancing in the streets.
Back in the days when we danced,
Around May poles,
And, burnt Zozobra in the Square,
Carnival was a serious thing.
Everyone was required,
To write poetry about themselves,
And, satire came of age.

Today nobody knows himself,
Because we don’t have to.
So, why should I care?
Why should I go through this?
What does it matter?
We’ve got ourselves a new calender now.
Gregorian, artificial, more or less accurate,
Tied to the mind more than the heavens,
So, just throw away those old Wayeb Days.
No one is really interested,
And, it will all be the same in a hundred years.

Suddenly, I am concerned about you.
Where have you gone to in all of this darkness?

It is midnight and I want to give you a kiss.
V. Castellanos – 2015

Winter Solstice

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“Winter Solstice” digital art by V. Castellanos

I am filled with light and sparks.
My skin is shrivelling, growing withered.
My face is growing old, and wrinkled, cold.

The day has been shrinking,
Tired,
Giving up to the night.
Shrivelling, growing withered,
Growing old, wrinkled and cold,
Without putting up a fight,
But, tonight is the Winter Solstice.

The day has begun to yearn.
The tide begins to turn.

The day makes an effort to change the spin,
To turn around, begin again.
The day stops growing wrinkled and old.
Stops, cold,
In its tracks.

I would make the effort,
I would fight the night,
I yearn but I do not believe I can turn.
I must ride my own tide,
And, I am more indolent than the earth,
More lethargic than the day,
Less powerful than the winter or the night I have to fight.
The best I can do is stand my ground.
I do not believe I can overcome irreversible time.

And so, my hair keeps growing whiter and whiter,
But, each of my white hairs is a day I spent in sunshine,
Or, a night I slept in stardust dreams,
And, I still believe the best is always yet to come.

Some day I will be older than everyone else.
Then what I have to say will matter.

V. Castellanos

Winter Solstice

IMG_20151120_145631ca-picsay
“Winter Solstice” digital art by V. Castellanos

I am filled with light and sparks.
My skin is shrivelling, growing withered.
My face is growing old, and wrinkled, cold.

The day has been shrinking,
Tired,
Giving up to the night.
Shrivelling, growing withered,
Growing old, wrinkled and cold,
Without putting up a fight,
But, tonight is the Winter Solstice.

The day has begun to yearn.
The tide begins to turn.

The day makes an effort to change the spin,
To turn around, begin again.
The day stops growing wrinkled and old.
Stops, cold,
In its tracks.

I would make the effort,
I would fight the night,
I yearn but I do not believe I can turn.
I must ride my own tide,
And, I am more indolent than the earth,
More lethargic than the day,
Less powerful than the winter or the night I have to fight.
The best I can do is stand my ground.
I do not believe I can overcome irreversible time.

And so, my hair keeps growing whiter and whiter,
But, each of my white hairs is a day I spent in sunshine,
Or, a night I slept in stardust dreams,
And, I still believe the best is always yet to come.

Some day I will be older than everyone else.
Then what I have to say will matter.

V. Castellanos

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