SAMANTHA REYNOLDS [18.987]

Samantha Reynolds 

(Vancouver, Canadá). Poeta. Presidente y fundadora de ECHOSTORIES

NO SOY VIEJA

Yo no soy vieja, me dijo.

Yo soy rara

yo soy la gran ovación

al final de la obra.

Soy la retrospectiva

de mi vida,

como arte.

Soy las horas

conectándose como puntos

en el sentido correcto.

Yo soy la plenitud

de existir.

Tú crees que estoy esperando a la muerte:

pero yo estoy esperando a ser encontrada.

Yo soy un tesoro.

Un mapa.

Estas arrugas son huellas

de mi viaje.

Pregúntame

cualquier cosa.

Traducción al castellano de Carmen Callejo

I AM NOT OLD

I am not old, she said

I am rare

I am the standing ovation

at the end of the play

I am the retrospective

of my life

as art

I am the hours

connected like dots

into good sense

I am the fullness

of existing

you think I am waiting to die

but I am waiting to be found

I am a treasure

I am a map

these wrinkles are imprints

of my journey

ask me

anything.

My why muscle

I remember parents saying

all the whys

will drive you mad

but it’s not the frequency

of the demand

or the upturned pitch

it’s the humility

of how rarely

I have the answer

and the absence

of my wonder at all

like today

when you asked me

why you can’t smile

in a passport photo

I was struck by the fatigue

of my own obedience

my why muscle all dusty and limp

so while we waited for your turn

to have your passport photo taken

and I looked over to see you

grinning defiantly

not understanding

that you’re allowed to smile

in the camera store

just not when the photo is taken

I should have whispered

a reminder about the serious face

we had practiced in the car

but I didn’t say anything

out of a gust of respect

for the way you stood in line

a happy warrior

still full of spirit

for protest.

London Bridges

I am alone with my limbs

and my mind is my own

to leash to anything

like what kinds of rituals I want

and what kinds of shoes

and how to start that letter

I’ve wanted to write to her

for so long

but in this rare moment

of adult quiet

I sit in the café with nothing

but London Bridges Falling Down

playing in my head

like a lunatic

there are more verses

than I ever knew

which my son sings in his sleep

he is that obsessed

making versions of the bridge all day

out of books and forks and post-it notes

and here I am

infected with the melody

unable to take advantage

of this loop of time

to plunge into the crispness of thought

so I sit staring

at the bridge across the water

cars strung up high as birds

and if you think about it

it’s really quite a feat

which suddenly makes me shiver

like my son does

whenever we cross one

as he asks

like he always does

if this will be the time

it falls down.

Maybe it’s not presence but absence 

that we need

  

Traffic was light

and I arrive at the yoga studio

earlier than expected

the island of time

lands on my chest

like a child that wants to play

insistent

joyful

making it hard

for me to breathe

it exists

and erodes

simultaneously

my mind twitches

with the urgency to relax

and savour this rare wedge

of unmarked day

I am aware of the irony

but my synapses continue

to clamor over each other

vying for the right answer

should I daydream

or meditate

write lists

or a letter

to my unborn child

I look up at the clock and slump with the understanding

that I have lost this moment

to the tornado of indecision

that motherhood has made me

a maven of crisis

but my gift for opportunity

has gone flaccid

I file into the yoga class

I am hollow

of anything but breath

waxy cheerless breath

which I climb inside

vacantly

only later realizing

how sweet it was to unmoor from myself for an hour

not with presence

but with abandon

to some absent foggy place.

Sirens

I have forgotten what it feels like

to be so sure

like how you tell me

that zebras like figs

but only for breakfast

and how you will be

one of these zebras

when you grow up

or how one stick can be your granny

but when I pick another stick

and suggest it could be your aunt

you look at me

with pity

these days I am always

asking you questions

just to watch your face

as you sort the possibilities

and announce the winner

but when the ambulance drove past us

and I did my quick ritual

that I always do

to ward off grief

you dropped a rare question

into the air

mama, why do the sirens

take them away

and I thought later how easy

it should have been to answer

if not for my shadow of fear.

A conversation with my housecoat

One day I should take you to work

you have no idea

that I have high heels

and employees

you see me only in the morning

and as I write my poem

before bed

and those first few weeks after I gave birth

after the midwife parted your old pink fleece and said to me

you can push now

do you remember

his little body

you stretched around us both

I never told you this

I bought a new one

planned to get rid of you

it’s been over ten years

and you’re pilly

and so

pink

the truth is

the new one was sexier

but not as warm

and I missed the way I played

with your floppy collar

as I read

and ate my cereal

all of it

nothing much

and at the same time

such a rare

perfect thing.

Charles Dickens would have been 

a smashing blogger

I’m with Henry James

who called Charles Dickens

sentimental

although it’s worth noting

that Henry

never married.

As for Dickens

it’s his productivity

I admire.

Not inclined to revise

he pushed his pen fast

and released the need

to be perfect.

He loved his audience

more than his ideas

he was all in favour

of quantity.

My son sits next to me on the stairs

and we share a few dried plums

his hand is warm

on my leg.

The stillness is so rare

with a toddler

I ache for the tenderness to last

but it is me who disrupts it

without even moving

an irrepressible urge

to go back upstairs

call someone

write something

conquer the world.

I want to know

were you kind to your ten children

Mr. Dickens

or did you give it all

to us.

You fall asleep beside me

You fall asleep beside me

that trick you do

the book stays open

your elbow holding your body up

who knows how long you’ve been away

I only notice because it’s been ages

since you turned the page

but now’s my chance

I love these moments

so rare

when I get to look at you this way

slowly

quietly

not to examine you

just to settle into the recognition

of my remarkable good luck.

It makes the scars go away

When I was eight

my neighbour

wore ponchos and drank

loose leaf tea.

She had long grey hair and bunions

and a Croatian name

that I couldn’t pronounce.

One afternoon

a crank call

a pervert

breathing ugly things

into our ears.

My friend and I tossed the phone

back and forth

giggling how gross

but my stomach was thick

with fear.

Afterwards, we asked if we could jump

on my neighbour’s little trampoline

that she said was good

for her lymphs.

I assumed her lymphs

were her pets

but I was secretly scared

of what kind of animal

she would keep

so I never asked to see them.

She must have sensed something

because she lay us down

cracked the leg

of one of her octopus plants

rubbed it on our temples.

Aloe

she said

it makes the scars

go away.

When I was in university

I heard she’d left a note:

cancer.

A list of rare herbs

a hike deep into the local mountains

a final sleep

please don’t come looking

you’ll never find me

smile for me

I am already

gone.

I did try

but a part of me wished

someone had been there

for her

to rub her temples

as she left.

.