Abuelita Esmeralda

And thus through many seasons’ space/This little Island may survive/But Nature, though we mark her not, Will take away — may cease to give. -Floating Island, Dorothy Wordsworth
Quilt made by Dorothy


The rain keeps on falling and the river keeps on rising,

I can’t tell if it’s the women in the church singing,

Or the echo of this river ringing.

The corrugated steel roof makes the rain sound like the endless clip of an AK-47,

Sometimes it really is tumultuous gunfire and others just God’s desire.

The river is climbing, I swear it’s beneath me,

But it slowly fades away, the heavens on its knees.

And after this cacophonous flood, I’m sure now it’s the faithful that are singing,

Sunrise hymns in tune with the roosters and xolotas.

Even amidst these off-key voices, I hear one that rhymes true and never leaves me blue.

As the water lessens and the puddles remain,

The green of the jungle reminds me I’m sane.

After a silence comes the pat, pat, pat of each morning,

Corn ground pure by mortar and pestle,

The daily routine with which she must wrestle.

Pat, pat, pat, pat and one more tortilla,

Abuelita Esmeralda and an ave maría



Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.


Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.
I waited until the beginning of the evening
when the sun gently began to set.
I took a ball and went to pick the blackberries.
I enjoyed it despite the thorns’ bruises I knew I would get.
The bees where buzzing around.
I started picking up the blackberries.
There were so many. Some really dark and ripe
and others going from a light pink to a vibrant red.
I knew I would come back in a couple of days.
It was really quite. There were just the mountains,
on which the sun was setting, surrounding me.
The same old ones. They have always been by my side.
Picking the blackberries I was thinking
of the jam and pies I would bake
still facing the mountains from the kitchen’s window.


A Wet Day of March

The drops of water fall from the sky,

Making darker the light and soaking what was dry.

The birds rush their quest for a shelter

As I’m sitting in a warm classroom ignoring the teacher.
The glitter of the Leman imprisons my mind,

And all elements mix in a way to me very kind.

The wind baffles my sight as it starts to blow.

Something’s still flying: is it a mew, or a crow?


A vessel crosses the white aisle on the perturbed surface

And I realize how far I went from this artificial place.

As I try to focus on the words wandering in the room,

My brain starts filling with gloom.


Has the weather changed?

The birds are now singing,

They are happy and swinging;

The light that lightens outside

Like a magnet, catches my eye.


Around me the walls disappear,

I was thoughtful, but now I cheer.

I am flying with the birds,

And the inexistence of words.


An allergy turns me into a cry,

My mind is in great confusion:

Is the blue of the sky

Only a mere illusion?


How many springs?


How many springs

Can one year yield?

Across changes of time

Central Europe, Greenwich mean and BST.

Snowy flower-trees

And sweeping winds

Carry me further

Than I’ve been so far.

These recent weeks, the setting sun

– from rocks to waves,

From shore to shore

Elevates the mind.

Not far from home,

There is a spot, offering views

Over the oldest tree,

Which slowly blooms.

And every day,

From early spring

My task is to watch

For subtle changes.

A single petal, a tuft of leaves.

Beware, the first stirrings of Spring

You may find they free you

From winter echoes…

“To keep me from the lake

Is cruel torture.

To see it glisten from afar,

Watch its waves beckon,

Waver in the weak winter sun,

Is it necessary?”

And so I ask, and venture out to see

How many springs

Can one year yield?

– L.M

I remember sitting on the swing

2017-04-08 13.45.1020170407_18170620170408_095136

I remember sitting on the swing

just outside the house, hearing the birds sing.

I can still feel the sunlight, warm on my face,

my heart was slowly beating in its steady pace.

The swing moved but I was resting as if in a freeze,

only my blonde curls were restless in the breeze.

I stayed there for what seemed hours,

thinking of princesses, animals and flowers.

I could be lost in a world of imaginary creatures

and sometimes I would later tell a story to my teachers.

Swinging back and forth on the swing

made me feel happy and I wanted to sing.

There were days on which I would actually dare

but seeing me sing there was rather rare.

All quiet and peaceful, I was brimming over with mirth:

honestly, the swing outside was my favourite spot on earth.


Echoes of 2010


The violent clash of yellow against green

Fields light up

Bees swarm in

There’s nothing to fear, it’s all in hand

The sun, the breeze

And new born leaves.

Letting go of the old

Feeling free, just for a bit

The world is yours to enjoy

Slow down, take it ease


– L.M

Tree Rescuer builds “Garden of Poetry”

Tree Rescuer builds “Garden of Poetry”

At this year’s Giardina in Zurich, one of Europe’s indoor “live your garden” events, a Swiss landscape gardener has created “Garden of Poetry”. A closer look reveals that the low wall of the garden is made of books. Reading is seminal and transforms an ensconced retreat into a cosmopolitan garden: in the carriage on the left, authors of the “Reportagen” Magazine read reports form all over the world.

The landscape designer calls himself the “tree rescuer” and, in his own words, puts books where we expect bricks to return to nature what she has given or we have taken from her.

Of course, I could picture Dorothy and William interested in this indoor-outdoor landscape. But how Dorothy would have processed the experience in her journal I can hardly fathom. And William’s “Let Nature be your teacher”, I wonder what tables it would have turned.




On a walk



On a walk you might find little grass and mosses growing without fear of the trees. They seem to reproduce a miniature forest, where ” insects live their lives – and die : a people world it is ; – in size a tiny room”…  like a floating island. -C.S.

An Unexpected Question

Few days ago, during dinner with friends not schooled in literary studies, and after several readings of Frankenstein, I was confronted with an unprecedented question:

“If Victor wants to find the principle of life and defy death”, asked my friend, “why doesn’t he infuse life into a dead body instead of putting himself through the gut-churning business of collecting dead body parts and stitching them together?”

Indeed, I thought, he would defy death if he brought the dead back to life, just like scientists such as Luigi Galvani’s nephew were experimenting with dead animals and humans. This would have been the solution to his impatience, which was the reason behind his choice of big body parts to accelerate the assemblage and the creation of a human that literally stood out and scared people out of their wits by his sheer size.

Why wasn’t a beautiful dead body enough for Victor Frankenstein?

I wonder what you’d have answered …  – E.S

“I paddled as lonely as a cloud”

or “He paddled as solitary as a…”

Man as immersed into and part of nature or rather an intruder? A good question for anyone contemplating this picture I have just taken.

In any case, such a scenery on an ‘ordinary’ morning in spring really invites to write poetry and to capture the moment as the ‘extraordinary’.
Or is it an ‘extraordinary’ scenery that just needs to be described in ‘ordinary language’? I wonder what Wordsworth or Mary Shelley would answer to this question  – A.K

hid in the uniform clouds



This morning the mountain summits ‘were hid in the uniform clouds’ like Shelley describes in Frankenstein p111 and the sun set like fire over them tonight. This is the part of the Alps in France I grew up with and have always faced. -E.R.

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