MARCH Dark Year of the Penguin

That day,

classes were much longer than ever,

teachers were much more unbearable,

the heat was much more tremendous,

then, you stood at the school door

and you waited; oh, how you waited!

But he did not come that day,

nor the following day,

and there you waited.

It’s been said you went to many places,

you returned home wanting to cry,

or perhaps crying,

It’s been said you grew up,

that you live in another country,

and even speak another language,

you traveled through Europe and South America,

your face began to appear in television,

you lived in Argentina,

Got bored of Spain,

you didn’t find Greece,

there was Venice, the Canals, etc…

but none of these really happened

because your only trip,

that one that should have taken you

so far away

as only you know how to arrive,

has not yet begun.

You never went to any place,

None of those airplanes brought you back,

your travel agencies

were mistaken all these years,

You remained waiting,

still, you are there,

in a country each time more distant,

standing at the school door

waiting for him,

thinking how painful it would be

if it all was a lie,

and for so long he has been looking for you

and each time

he gets closer to the place where you await,

you must understand

that for such a little penguin

things also can be difficult,

but he will come one day,

shaking his tuxedo

before the school door,

he will help you carry your books,

he will apologize

for making you wait so long,

he will take your hand

and he will take you back home

FEBRUARY

She picks up the phone

and the world goes around

voices dispersing between doubts and fears

voices that call her from a far

and the words are a fragile bridge of madness

towards flickering faces

of the nigth

Like the lights of a city not yet invented

whose streets she wonders by memory,

then the lights begin to dim

But the voices still exist in the darkness,

and the nigth is immense,

So immense, that now the voices

will speak from the stars

and the sound of their lights will be subtle

like the echo of an incomprehensible cry

calling, calling from a distance

until that time

the telephone ceases to scream like a cornered animal

It's useless to ask the operator

the number of the stars,

Because in her head the voice of the impossible will ring,

The song of an unexplainable bird,

and her conversation will fly

towards that anxious voice

that has always called her,

That encounter beyond fears and mirrors...

The operator will repeat

"long distance... long distance"

It will be the longest call of her life,

the only one she will never be able to pay

Jorge Luis Rodriguez

DARK YEAR OF THE PENGUIN

JANUARY

Letters arrive in the afternoon,

Letters from countrymen and family

Letters from far away friends

Always so distant,

A lover,

the telephone bills

inside white coffres

and for an instant the traverse of time is frozen,

never knowing what they may bring

An admirer begging for a picture,

old copies of a contract,

long awaited checks,

Promises, lies, realities, illutions,

Dreams,

But nobody sends you landscapes,

scent of red flowers or little tiny fish

Although sometimes, only sometimes,

Doves fly away from the opened envelopes,

and the room is filled with crystalline water

where small brilliant planets float

and wake desires

to put a stamp on your forehead

and thrust your heart into

the nearest mailbox

Jorge Luis Rodriguez |

9/11 Peace & Love