Humans in nature

Photograph by Pia Riverola

Why is our sense of beauty
So similar to that of bees
Naively absorbed into a deceiving triad
Of scent,
Sweetness
And symmetry.

Why do we call engineering
Inventing new ways
Of palliating desire.
Of heating fire,
Of melting water,
Calling wildness
A seasonal change in our garden.

We read history books
Of lush, primeval lands.
We watch from an opera box
The flow of streams
The rituals of birds
The intricate laws orienting ants.

We think of ourselves as passive observers,
And consider nature a stagnant pond
Whilst our boots sink deep into its muddy waters
Whilst our breath arises from its chancy storms.

Our change is not nature’s change
But within it
Our past is nature’s past.
One of an endless sequence of possibilities
That in the battle of life
Remained standing the last.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


An ode to Sundays?

Photograph by Stefan Lorant, 1937

On Sunday there is rain inside me.
Notes slide down the pentagram,
Nostalgia becomes contagious
Desire, languidly wears out.

On Sunday I can’t drift attention
From demons stealing my sleep.
Birds kill the long hours crying
Yearning for another dawn to begin.

On Sunday purpose is futile
Journeys stretch sideways
Aches colonise.
On Sunday reasons are lacking,
Words have no meaning
Life passes by.

I marvel at how our bodies
Keep track of the passing week.
Egyptians watched eight sunrises,
Ten twilights counted the Greeks.

Yet seven celestial tokens,
Danced in the night skies of Babylon
And cursed us not only with Sundays,
But indifference,
stillness
and remorse.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


No woman is that woman

Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise (1991)

I’m not that woman
Whose silence you praise
Behind the cover of your book.
Who will wait for you,
Late,
With a warm bed,
A static smile
And an amnesic morning.

I’m not that woman
Who forgives
Every slip of temper,
Who cradles
Every slap you blow
And restraints
her voracious thirst.

I’m not that woman
who you imagine
with your Friday buddies
with your porno movies
with your laundered sheets.

No woman can be a woman,
that simply does not exist.

I dedicate this to Philip Dick and to my present and future former partners.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


The flavour of existing

Photograph by Carrie Mae Weems, 1990

We stopped sharing dishes
and fishing from each other’s plate.
But is it just a matter of time until we stop sharing tables?

I encountered love around the dinner table.
I became human during moments that in this,
foreign tongue do not exist:
aperitivo, tapeo, sobremesa.

Letting my thoughts bake with the heating oven,
Mature my perspective with the ageing wine
Exchanging the salt,
The pepper,
The secret ingredient,
The buried confession.

Adjusting the dressing of my opinions,
Letting go of the last croquette,
Tasting the flavour of people laughing,
Toasting the years,
The lovers,
The goodbyes.

When we learnt to hunt
We learnt to share,
And when we learnt to cook
We learnt to wait.
Fuelling the fire
Crafting the tales.
Bridging the gaps,
Securing the ties.

The story of a meal is the history of our species.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


I feel monogamous in the morning

Image by Lara Lars @Laralars

Double beds,
pillow sets,
coffee pots.

I feel monogamous in the morning
stretching up into empty space.
Adding a page to my dream novella
Lacking a kiss on the forehead.

We equate monogamy with possession,
We pair involvement with ownership,
Confuse detachment with liberation,
Miss on the sequel to every exchange.

An accomplice in life’s adventures,
The simplicity of default.
The support from one pair of shoulders
The familiarity of his touch.

Of his shape
Of his fingers
Of his curls in the shower.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


(and don’t like saying goodbye)

Photograph by Harry Benson, 1996

The reason I like poetry is because through mere words,
The most mundane of currencies,
Gets us one step closer to fulfilling Nina’s wish
Of feeling what is like to be another.
Of feeling that another is as close as one is to themselves.

Sometimes, I love you in my language, in my ways.

Te quiero como a la última gota de agua caliente en la espalda
Justo antes de salir de la ducha. …


I dreamt last night that I was an actress

Image by Justin Natividad in Unsplash

I dreamt last night that I was an actress
And for the role of my life
I needed to have my teeth pulled out on stage.
Then, I no longer wanted to be an actress.

The wildest dream followed the wildest sunset.
You loved me, you left me.
You made me learn, you stepped aside.
We laughed, we played,
You fled, I cried.

I read Frida, and her “you deserve a love
That wants you disheveled”
But who doesn’t?
When did love start requiring pony tails?
Sleepless nights?
When did care start relying on merit? …


Being a woman in pandemic times

Image by Sara Andreasson

We are raised to listen
and shamed for being too loud.

We are raised to listen and not to process,
not to reflect
not to reply.

Show me a big smile and hold it.
Hold it there whilst I empty my miseries and pretend
you wouldn’t kill to be able to do the same.

But you can’t.
You can’t because you’re a woman.

We already know what you think,
what you want to say,
all that you don’t understand,
and the triviality of your problems.

“Let me speak to you as well with your syllables of silence” writes our literature…


Unsettlement

Photograph by Francesca Goodman

Interface,
interaction,
intersection.

Crossroads have become popular
Yet the essence gets lost in middle grounds.
In half heartedness
In attention deficit
In crossing calendars
In waiting.

I wish I could be ubiquitous
To not compromise
To not meet in the middle
But in your house and mine.

To not think of you
But be me and you
To be north and south
To empathise.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021


How a long-distance relationship became really distant

Photograph by Inez Derkx

When you’re far
Time caresses the distance
And love turns into blind faith.

Open the curtains one more time
Trying to observe presences
Not the absence.
Trying not to notice that one more morning
You’re not there.

Kick the impatience away
Push the regrets all aside
Wish for the vanity to remain
The grins of your face
The rolling of your rs.

The ghost of a touch,
Of a kiss, of an evening.
The last drop of a glass of wine.
Fading with his smell
And the memory of an afternoon that never comes.

I hate loving you because you monopolize my writing.

© Cecilia Padilla Iglesias, 2021

Cecilia Padilla

Amateur poetry juggler. Necesito dos idiomas para expresarme.

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