Somanona

for Francesca

the click click of your wedge heeled boots

percuss the concrete in a rhythm he can’t

bop his head to. your high bun perches where

his too short arms cannot reach. he hangs

from the silver ring in your flared wide open

nostril swaying in the gentle exhales above

your frosted bumptious lips. to kiss those bumptious

lips again he would call like he promised, dedicate

a remix to you. call it ms. brown skin, my chestnut

queen on patchouli street. sample a south African

drum beat and hope it makes you think of Lagos

long enough to need to be held, cuddled, comforted

but not long enough to put you on a flight back

home. the elongation of your vowels stroke his earlobes,

sends a shiver up to his elbow, a twitch in his flour dusted

trousers. he thinks his goods would be better with a sweetener extracted

from your voice. if only he could tap into you. 

New Year's Eve

Face to window

back to the darkened room

he holds a cigarette between 

two fingers

sits a stemless wine glass on the sill.

He inhales nicotine

exhales the taste of me in a sour cloud 

of smoke.

Beside his foot, moonlight nudges 

the sequins on my dress and I can see 

his face, his mouth in a half smile.

From beneath the sheets

I watch his shoulders sway 

in the shadows

I bite my bottom lip to fight residual 

tremors.

I inhale his scent from the chilled

 pillowcase and hold my breath, 

keeping him inside. 

Fruit

You placed a penny in my palm

I tried to plant it in my chest

The fruit it bore

was sickly sweet

with thorns the size of cupids’ arrows

When I brought you

a basket full,

with my bloody finger tips,

nonsense words began

to fall from your lips.

My name came out in stutters

amidst some jokes about a green thumb,

a misplaced apology,

a smile reminiscent of the ones

you used to give me

(I picked that up and put it in my pocket),

an offering of flour

so I could bake a pie,

a cough,

a glance over my shoulder

a glance at your wrist where you’ve never worn a watch,

a less familiar smile I’ve only seen you give to strangers,

an unsolicited laugh,

some excuse about a work meeting,

a hug with too much space inside, a see-ya-soon you didn’t mean, a soon that never came, a soon that never came, a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never came a soon that never
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Playing with Giants

In his giant fingers, she was like a child playing helicopter. Between his pointer and thumb he spun her, a wilting magnolia flower plucked from its tree. Her petals reached out sideways grasping for something to grip onto - another body to help her balance, anything to keep her from being propelled into the air without destination for this giant was unpredictable. He would either crush her between his calloused finger pads or let her fall to the ground. 

Some Final Words on Sweden.

Sweden really does morning buns well. Adam is sleeping in, getting his beauty rest, and I’ve gone out on my own for the second morning in a row. I’ve stopped at Wayne’s Coffee – a coffee shop franchise with a setup, frequency and brand font strangely similar to Starbucks – to pick up a chilled Chai and a vanilla bun topped with sliced almonds. They’re so incredibly satisfying – better than a muffin; bready and moist. It’s as if they’ve taken a dinner roll and baked it in a muffin tin with some buttery spread inside of the doughy folds. I could eat them everyday and intend to do so until I leave Stockholm on Tuesday.

It’s nice to travel this way – not as a tourist, but as if I’m just sort of hanging out in a nearby town. Adam’s brother was kind enough to let me stay at his apartment just outside of the center of the city and Adam and I have been spending a lot of time with friends. So I’ve bypassed most of the touristy stuff and we just sort of “chill” (Adam’s favorite word). It feels like taking a weekend in Buffalo or spending the day in Suffolk Country. Despite the language difference (which is barely noticeable since almost everyone speaks English) I’m comfortable here in Stockholm. The signs and menus are all in Swedish though and Adam often leaves me at counters alone to fend for myself. I’ve gotten used to ordering what sounds the most familiar to avoid any of the few things I’m allergic to or just don’t really like. I spent enough time in Spain trying to hide mussels and tomatoes under napkins. Here, I want to be relaxed while I eat so it’s been a lot of Greek food and tons of kebabs.

No one seems to know what the traditional Swedish foods are, anyway. Adam cooked pyttipanna my first night here but he apparently botched it so I have no idea what it’s actually supposed to taste like. I’m easy, though, when it comes to food because the less I eat, the less I poop and that’s ideal because my bowl fright has gotten pretty sever this past month. I cannot for the life of my get used to the European septic system. Spain’s flushing power is un-functionally weak. I will spare you details but let’s just say that things do not go down the same there as they do at home. Sweden seems to have things a little more under control but I’ve been scared so much by Raquel’s inferior toilet that I’m afraid to take any risks.

Moving on to a less intimate matter, though - Adam really surrounds himself with good people. I got to meet a ton of his friends and some of his family. And I finally got to see both Alex and Per again – his two childhood friends who came to Thanksgiving dinner at my house a few years ago. I had forgotten how much I liked them both. Like a lot. In that way of mine where I feel like I’m not cool enough to converse so I spend most of the time creepily smiling into their faces and feeling like a small child.

Everyone here talks about how cold Swedish people are but I haven’t experienced that in the least. Everyone has been so friendly and welcoming. – from Alex’s family to Per’s bandmates to some strangers that I met at a party in the woods.

All in all Stockholm gets only praise from me and I’m quite sad to say good-bye. But alas, I have a home of my own and it awaits me less than patiently.

So “hej då”, Sweden and adios Europa. Until we meet again, you have all of my longing and most of my heart. Thanks for everything, you’ve been a real pal.

Xxxxxo,

 Amanda.

Reunion en Estocolmo

I’m all packed, and as compact as I ever have been because of RyanAir’s specific restrictions - one bag to check and one carry-on. No purse, no satchel. This time tomorrow I’ll be on my way to Sweden to visit Adam. We’ve talked about it in the past, when we were both still at Albany and I was questioning my masochistic manner of always befriending the international students.

 “I’ll come visit you one day in Stockholm!” It wasn’t a lie, I just didn’t think I would actually ever make it there.

But now here goes! Another stamp in the passport, another European airline experience. Another overnight stay in a dark Heathrow terminal. My dad calls me a dirty backpacker but I prefer dusty duffler. Or musty equipajedora. It’s funny how one day I was completely content sprawled out on my bedroom floor reading books, writing poems with no desire to go anywhere and now I can’t go even a few months without packing a bag and hitting the road. Water, food, and travel. That’s all I need.

And maybe some strange and colorful fashions. A wise [wo]man once told me: “You can buy happiness. In Spain, at Desigual. I’ve said good-bye to some of my more subtle attire to make room for the goodies I splurged on at my favorite store. The selection in the Massionave location in Alicante is impressive. It puts Herald Square’s Desigual to shame. In these threads I am bold, badass, bodacious and busty. You know, happy.

But really, I’m happy for so many reasons. This month has been pretty fantastic. Alicante is a ciudad like I’ve never seen. It is warm, and colorful. Charming and exciting. Antique and modern. It is all of the things that I loved about Salamanca but more. Who would’ve known - more than Salamanca!

It’s small enough to allow one to quickly become acquainted but large enough to stumble across something new everyday – an aquarium in the middle of a plaza, an adorable bakery with a Spanish Lee Pace as its Pie-Maker.

Alicante's party ethic puts this New Yorker / Albany-an to shame. Fireworks midday at a central tram station and then at midnight shot off of the Castillo; parades every day of the San Juan fiesta. Kegs and Eggs has got nothing on Hogueras. Giant statues are scattered around the city – some taller than the strange viny trees; all made of wood and Styrofoam. The details are impeccable; the colors are as vibrant as the people. One can immediately see the work that goes into the specifics - the long hours spent planning, sculpting and painting. Then it all burns to the ground.

Fireworks go off at each location and flames attack the sculptures. Bomberos stand by with their hoses. They spray the flames, they spray the people. The people scream! They curse the firemen. The fires heat the people’s faces and send them into a rage. “Hijo de puta! Hijo de puta!  AGUA AGUA AGUA!!!”

High-powered hoses directed at the masses has always left a certain anger in me. Tonight, though, America’s history is far from my mind and I shout with the Alicantinos to be sprayed down.

* * *

Here, I’ve had plenty of time to unwind and reset. I am well-rested and filled with stories and poems. I have material for years. I am so content. I’m equipped with what I need for part two of Amanda-tries-to-acquire-another-degree. I’ve gathered enough pleasant memories to fuel my year of thesis writing. But let’s not rush it. There’s a-whole-nother week before I have to leave Europa.

Xoxo

A. Emme

P.S.

There’s been an awful lot of photo bombing happening here in Alicante. In that same spirit, a compañera of mine blog-bombed my entry draft and I’d be a buzzkill not to post it:

Also… I am leaving this really awesome lady behind in Alicante because I am lame and am going to Sweden.  Ashley is pretty much the best human being I have ever met and I think I am going to move to Milwaukee to be near her forever.

Poetic Inspiration

Nadie me salvará de este naufragio

si no es tu amor, la tabla que procuro,

si no es tu voz, el norte que pretendo.

Eludiendo por eso el mal presagio

de que ni en ti siquiera habré seguro,

voy entre pena y pena sonriendo.

---------------

No-one can save me from this shipwreck,

only your love, the floating plank for which I search,

only your voice, the direction for which I strive.

To avoid, therefore, the evil portent

that not even in you will I find a safe haven,

I go from pain to pain, smiling.

                  De “Tengo estos huesos hechos a las penas”

por Miguel Hernandez

I spent yesterday in Orihuela – the birthplace of Miguel Hernandez. He is the type of poet I love – awfully sad, reflective on his past, full of passions. Orihuela is a beautiful place. It reminded me of Cascais, Portugal in the way that it is the colorful and quiet home to a less-than-well-off population of people. The colors, though, for me anyway, mask the poverty in a way that highlights its rusticity. There was an apartment for a sale in a small orange building with a balcony and a small chair that seemed perfect for sitting and thinking.

Hernandez is infused in the city. He is in its soul. I sometimes feel like Albany lacks inspiration; that there is no “vibe” there. In Albany I can only write about silly boys and drinking too much but in Spain there is so much to see, so much to feel. Outside of the school where Hernandez spent two years of his childhood were enthusiastic boys with mischief in their eyes. Around the corner a street was blocked off by the policia while the townsfolk whispered and wondered what had happened. Inside of the cathedral was a serenity and a sense of reverence for God that guilted me into timidez and influenced a silent prayer.

Even now, as I write back in Alicante, I can hear Tomás singing. His voice flutters across the courtyard. It is honey, sweet and pure. Unrefined. I can’t make out all of the words but I can hear 'libertad', 'felicidad', 'Hermosa'. He tells me that he is a pacifist but that trouble always finds him. “I am just living”. 

This place is magical. Every day I have to remind myself that there is actually a reality waiting back for me across the Atlantic. That thought keeps me from floating too far off the ground. I'm thinking, though, that I should just let myself hover for a little bit. I'll be grounded soon enough. 

Ginebra y Tónica … giNEbra y tónica

I may have overdone it with the gin and tonics. On Saturday, a day trip to Valencia found me less than pleasant and a little screwy in my insides. Those who have traveled with me know my ways of “go-go-go!” I’m all adventures and field trips but I have to remember to remind myself that sleep and water are essential and alcohol replaces neither. But a good night’s rest has reset me and I am ready for week two of Alicante (Alacant if you’re nasty… or Valenciano).

The thing about Spain that I love the most is its awe. I mean, I cannot walk more than a few steps before I am stopped in my tracks by some marvel, be it man-made or natural. Yesterday I trekked out of the main city with a compañero to find a spot to swim. We were looking for a place that wasn’t too sandy and deep enough to have a decent swim. We got off the tram and walked down towards the water. We walked along the beach for a few and then come to a sort of mountainside. Out in the distance was the meandering coast and further inland, silhouettes of mountains beyond mountains.

Closer to the where I’m staying is El Castillo de Santa Barbara. From the top you can see the entire city. My favorite point of the view is where the coast grows a little widow’s peak of sand. Really, the Mediterranean coast is just an old sweaty man’s forehead. : )

I’ve also been meeting some pretty swell people. Today I was walking around the university seeking out a hoodie for my dad. It was hot as balls and when I got to the campus shopping center it was just a librería and a papelería. Another reason I obviously belong here: They have stores completely dedicated to writing utensils and such! But there were no hoodies.

So I was tired as hell from walking around the huge campus in the melting heat and decided to sit down with an horchata. I saw a lovely spot beside a handsome broken legg-ed man. Rust colored hair, green eyes, super-tanned and his itty bitty puppy, Kanka (the Turkish word for Homie!) His cast was decorated in all sorts of colors and designs, which obviously upped his charm factor way high. We got to talking and it turns out he’s a ballet dancer! Pobrecito – un bailador sin sus peirnas! He also is a congo instructor at a place near by and I was so graciously invited to attend – uh… Count me in, Thanks. ALSO he’s an aspiring songwriter who is teaching himself guitar. ::drooooool:: He wants to get together on the beach and have the “the writer” help him write a song. I’ve heard the music. It’s wonderful. If all else fails, seriously, I will have no qualms about being a traveling minstrel. 

Get Too Guapa and You'll Kill All the Boys in the Barrio

As I was getting dressed after dinner last night- a delightful Guiso made with fish, potatoes carrots and tomato sauce - my host mother, Raquel, passed by the bathroom, peeks in and says to me: "Don't get too pretty or you'll kill all the boys in el barrio".

"El barrio", as they call it here in beautiful Alicante, is the older part of the city - downtown, if you will. It's where the majority of the bars are located, where they will burn the very first sculpture during la festival de las fallas, where all the cool cats hang out... Naturally, I've spent a good about of time there and will continue to do so.

Spain, my friends, is good for me in so many ways. It allows me to practice my Spanish skills, submit myself to experiences within a new and exciting culture, and it is blowing up my ego like America just can't quite do. I step out in my shorts, con piernas sun-kissed and glistening and I am unstoppable. These light eyed caballeros have no idea the havoc I intend unleash. They don't call me peligrosa for nothing.

With this uncovered sense of awesomeness that had been dormant since my days in Salamanca, I woke up this morning and walked with Juan - another student staying in Raquel's apartment - to his colegio as a way to sort of get myself acquainted with the city. I've located a Desigual (OBVIOUSLY!), a Corté Ingles (A Spanish type of Macy's), tons of pharmacies and, to my delight, a firehouse. Why, you ask, is it so delightful for one to come across a regular ol' firehouse? Well, mis amigos, it's because early in the mornings the bomberos go out running - many bare-chested, all in lovely thigh-bearing short shorts.

Silly is the girl who sleeps in for she misses the running of the bomberos. Forget Pamplona and the running of the Bulls, I'll get my kicks in Alicante.


os mando un besito y sueños dulces de bomberos españoles.
(sending you a big ol juicy kiss and sweet dreams of spanish bomberos)
  Amanda.

Excuse me while I admire your snake skin belt.

There's a man sitting across the café in a snake skinned belt and white Keds. Where am I? He is casual and stylish. Sophisticated and bad ass beyond words. I love Spain.

Here, the parties don't end until 6am so the sleepy visitors who fail to bring earplugs don't get to sleep. That being said, I'm dead dog tired - running on pure excitement and the delicious vitamins from my fresh squeezed Valencia orange juice. I wish you could see the giant juicers they have here. You throw in 20 oranges and let the machine do its job. Pure juicy goodness complete with pulp and bits of chewy rind. I am all about it.

There's an apartment for sale across the road above the Gran Via Centro de something or other. Looks like my kind of place. I'll be looking into fellowships for the next few months. I'd very much like a funded extended stay in the city of my dreams. I'll step onto the balcony at dawn wrapped in a silk robe, a tiny steaming cup of tea in my hand. I'll look down onto the street - the parked vespas, the metro station, the stumbling drunks just finishing their fiestas. A writer's paradise. This writer, anyway. I've already got tons of story ideas. The most prominent involving a small girl I met yesterday. Adorable and blonde, she tip-toed into my room  with her hands behind her back and a sneaky little smile on her face. "Hola. Eso es tu habitacion? Tienes hijos? Como te llamas?" Then her father called for her and she ran out pretending to not have been pestering the guests as I'm sure he's warned her about countless times.

Off I go.
     Ready for adventures.
                 Amanda.

¡Estoy Aquí!

Estoy en Madrid, salva y sana. En un café, bebiendo un smoothie.

I feel like I've come back home. Last time around I only spent a few days here in Madrid, but getting around is a breeze and I don't feel like a tourist at all. It's like a day in Manhattan, except no one speaks English and, apparently, I don't speak much Spanish anymore. But I'm determined to get my skills back up. I haven't spoken a word of English since I boarded the plane and I'm going to try to keep that up as long as the circumstances allow me.

There's a viejo loco standing at the café counter directly in front of me. He's sipping wine (alone at 2:00pm) and mumbling (what I can only imagine are) obscenities. So far I've managed to decipher "puerco" and "joder". He's glaring at me and he's scary as hell, but I'm holding my ground. I'm a resident of Spain for the next 4 weeks.

He's switched his attention to the camarero now. "Por Díos," he says. He's refusing to pay €2.90  for his wine. He drops a coin (and then an f bomb), he drops another coin (and then an insult to the handsome waiter). Slowly, my Spanish is returning to me - if only the curses, I'm grateful for it. On the way to my hostel (which is a 4th floor walk up), I passed by at least 2 prostitutes so I'm prepared to get curt if I have to, once the sun sets.

I've finished my smoothie and learned all I could have from my amigo viejo so I'm off to site-see and take care of some last minute business.

Until next time.
un besito de Gran Via.
        Amanda.

Nikky Finney - 2011 National Book Award Winner

Co-Operation

... while reading Fenton Johnson

Co-operation

I had taken a lover for his morals and his strong family values

Apparently, he just wanted to dip into some danger.

He was one of those curious boys with a taste for The Other

and thought I could be his Saartjie Baartman or his Josephine Baker or some 80s-baby edition of his great grandpappy’s wet nurse.

He said to me one day that my cousin DayVauhn had taken his brother’s job.

I stared back at him blankly and asked him who had told his brother that blue eyes were worth more than a Master’s degree.

There was no calling of names

No dropping of N bombs

But the exchange was less than pleasant

so I had to introduce him to Cleopatra Jones or whatever bad ass Black bitch he thought he was getting some softer version of.

And that was the end of that.

A.Emme 2012

ink and mischief

removed.

"ink and mischief" has been published in the December 2012 issue of Yellow Bird Magazine

The Boy and the Artist

A short story. Written while listening to Iron & Wine

Like any artist without an art form, she became dangerous – Sula by Toni Morrison

Like any artist with no art form, she had become dangerous, a threat to both herself and to the others, and no one was safe. From her fiery gaze, they hid behind paper thin doors through which they could hear her crushing steps thumping through their village. Fearful of her booming voice, they cowered and shook so viciously that the coins in their pockets rattled together and made a sort of little song. Enticed, she danced a little dance, hopping from one foot to another, flailing her arms and lifting her skirt, exposing her ankles, thin and strong, her calves – all muscle and smooth skin. Her knees were discolored from rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. They were no stranger to the ground just as her face was no stranger to the heavens.

The others peeked out from behind their paper thin doors to see her dance and ceased their trembles to watch her spin - round, round, round - not sure if she was laughing or crying, until she hit the ground. And the world was never so serene as when she kneeled on the ground – face to the sky, palms following suit. But the wails that came next were too severe to bear. They screamed danger, and like any artist without an art form she was dangerous. A threat to herself and to the others.
They plugged their ears to block her cries and hummed from under covers to deflect those, her deepest woes. Always wet, ready to flow, it seemed that God had given her eyes so only she could cry. And cry she did. So long and hard that she began to shake with so much force that the ground began to quake until the others could not stand without holding on. They held tight to walls and chairs, anything that was theirs, for so long that their knuckles began to raw and they could only think that it must be love. For who but the broken hearted could cry that way. ‘Til the skies turned gray and made the waters stay, in still and salty rivers.
The waters started rising, from her thin and strong ankles to her calves, all muscle and smooth skin, then hit her knees, abused from years of wailing and then her thighs off of which the others could never keep their eyes. The soft fabric of her dress was caught in the wind and it was such a sight to see. A floating photo of her thighs, so smooth and soft, reflected on the waters that always seemed to stop right beneath them. Always right exactly there.
She was… wading in her own tears.

And fear overpowered their curiosity for all but one small boy with a pocket full of coins. They weighed him down as he made his way to her, quickly kicking his legs in the salty river and paddling his arms to stay afloat. He arrived at her side and he called to her in a small voice that could not compare to her wailing but he held out, treading in the still river of her tears until her steady cries became scattered yelps became silent sighs of exhaustion.
She quickly turned her head to see who was there and was met with the curious wide eyes of the boy with pockets heavy from coins. She reached out to him and as the others watched on from behind paper thin doors and through finger smudged windows, he reached, also, to her and did not tremble or fret when she pulled him out of the waters and placed him onto a floating by plank.

“Why are you crying?”
She was taken aback by such a question, a question she’d never been asked or had thought to ask herself. “Because God gave me eyes to cry.”

“And lips to smile,” he replied.
But when she had smiled, no one smiled back. Her tears, though, had made them watch and be mindful. Mindful of the way her strange and beautiful face would contort and her sweet gaping mouth would produce such heart quaking howling.            

The boy sized her up and she did him and as he steadied himself on the plank he began to walk back and forth, rubbing his dainty chin and as he stepped so heavy, his coins began to rub against each other, tumble over one another and clang and chime. As they did, her smile grew wide and her wounded knees began to sway back and forth - those knees that were no stranger to the ground and knew rocks, concrete and hard wood floors. Her feet whirled about the water, making tiny twisters and she threw up her gown and let it float back down over her thighs, off of which the others could never keep their eyes.

And there, in her still and salty river, she danced. Danced and danced. And the boy stomped his feet and made for her, music.

The others watched on and smiles and grins crept up onto their faces as joy welled up in their souls. Gathering on the banks of the river, they congregated, clapping and waving and dancing along, swaying. And they saw that she was a threat to neither herself nor the others but a joyful artist who had found her art form. 

Tired

TIRED

            A 21^st century response to Fenton Johnson’s 1918 poem.

I am tired of expectations; I am tired of holding up somebody else’s made up roles.

Let me relax for a moment

And then

I’m gonna walk up to the city, turn my face up to the marquee and drink in the idea of a memory of the world that is supposed to be mine.

I will shake off the responsibility to make the cotton fields mean something more

Then uncuff my own shackles of making up for lost time

For the women who birthed me

And the men who kept me fed

I just wanna be in the city sipping gin with Zora, laughing about Tea Cakes we loved and fear to love. Crying with Nella about passing for something we ain’t but don’t haveta be to be…

Throw the future in the Hudson, sink it down with the past.

It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are

colored

covered

molded

to be some stand in for a dream that was lynched on a sticky red poplar then            castrated and burned

Catch the shooting stars by their tails and connect the lines of the drinking gourd then follow it North until you are

no

longer

tired.