Tag Archives: writer

Rarely Speak At All – Rumi

Whoever Brought Me Here, Will Have To Take Me Home All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
– Rumi

Holding On

Perhaps you are meant to hold on
until you can’t feel you fingers
until you cannot tell two sets of hands apart
Perhaps you are meant to say you care
in every way there is to say it without words
Until you bruise and lose your grip
Perhaps you are meant to keep
that bite with gritted teeth
Until it teaches you how to
absolutely yet graciously,
Let go

© elena andrean

The House On Mango Street

Do you sometimes wish you didn’t have to go home? Do you wish your feet would one day keep walking and take you far away from Mango Street, far away and maybe your feet would stop in front of a house, a nice one with flowers and big windows and steps for you to climb up two by two upstairs to where a room is waiting for you. And if you opened the little window latch and gave it a shove, the windows would swing open, all the sky would come in. There’d be no nosy neighbors watching, no motorcycles and cars, no sheets and towels and laundry. Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and who doesn’t like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn’t have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you’re strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.

XI. Fear

A feeling rose. Like a silent shudder, a wave of worry washed over her.
The same wave she would feel in a split second, when she lost sight of her younger siblings through the crowded market streets. Worry that sent a chill through her bones and left her body cold.

One evening, with light dissolving fast in the sky, two matónes (thugs) had caught Abia making her way home through purple corner, and dragged her into a side street, stealing the last of her dinero. For all it’s soul, Merolas thrived in crime. For all it’s heart, Merolas bruised its inhabitants with fear. Petty and otherwise. Tariq had warned her to go nowhere alone, but she was cut from stubborn cloth, and so learned the dangers of slums the hard way.
By the time she had scrambled home, a little lighter but without serious injury, the moon beamed bright. Her mother’s fear had bound her to the suns hours, so the same worry arose in her then, a little.

© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town