Daring One

As always with poems, some of the nuance of her writing is lost in translation. Nonetheless, I think the spirit comes through. One thing remains clear, for those of us who choose the red pill, here we are in good company.

The poem by Rosario Curiel is below:

Daring One

I dare to say that I like life
like I like that tear that runs down the cheek amid
days of fallen eyelashes.

I dare to say that I’m happy.

I don’t say it too much, lest the goblins of the catastrophic give chase and
tell me it’s my imagination
or collective hysteria of ideas in troupe. 

I train myself every day to see the sweet in the bitter

though sometimes it’s hard to sort out the openings from the waiting hours
the rocks from the especially designed moments
so that I stumble
and lament
and lick my wounds
that I’ve known for so long.

I’m a little bit slow

in this stuff of living,
but I’m happy to confirm
that this little crazy girl looking at me since I was three years old
or seven
and who believes that doves are vampires
or that she may pretend to fly
that same woman who collects wrinkles like they were
her treasure map,
who greets the close of each year content with the knowledge that,
if she didn’t
she’d be dead.

I dare to say this is what life is about: to continue alive.

More or less happy, more or less nervous with what we want to procure through the
cracks of time.
We knead through moments as if they were the daily bread:
it’s so simple knowing that history is about nothing more than explaining to oneself
that, when we come out of all the hells
of all the emotional labyrinths,
of all the places that tell us we exist and we defer visiting,
of all the labels we wear over time,
we know that any foolishness
is better than the silence that explodes between our fingers.

Sometimes you don’t speak fearing the monster of the unknown will devour you and turn you into
little beings that shuffle along dragging their feet,
bleeding until screaming,
hopeless.
I too bleed and scream.
Sometimes I scream so feebly that it seems I’m in silence,
but don’t be deceived:
at my feet are spread out flowers so sick to speak
that, every once in a while, I dare
to go out into the field of letters
and to write these verses.

Published by Rosario Curiel, Saturday, 9 February 2019
http://rosariocuriel.blogspot.com/