apt to forget to remember ! !
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! ! ! The works published in this volume were written for an international collaborative literary project inspired by the editor’s worthwhile discussions with Chinese director Guo Chunning. It is a follow-up to the Linking Words literary event. The name of the project is a quote from e.e.cummings’ anyone lived in a pretty how town. ! Why do we forget? Why do we remember? What do we want to retain in our memory? What do we want to remove therefrom? - these are some of the questions the esteemed participants from all over the world tried to address.!
! Magdalena Brzezinska!
! ! ! ! ! ! ©
2015, Knara Agasaryan; Paul Brannan; Magdalena Brzezinska; Habiba Chouchen; Guo Chunning; Amy Curtis; María Eugenia Duque; Patricia Emilien; Jim Fleckenstein; Deborah Healey; Carla Grzywacz; Judy Ana Gutlerner; Yulia Ivanova; Tari Khoesumasari; Lidia Lemke; Agneta Lindh; Vianey Padilla Guerrero; Ola Porebska; Rajeswari Raj; Maria Laura Scasso; Maria Schejbal; Arevhat Simonyants; Margaret Teusner; Brenda Thomas; Zita Tóth; Mineko Tsukamasa; Samar Tulba; Robert Wachman; Cynthia Willett ! No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.!
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©
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Cover Art and Illustrations (unless otherwise specified): Magdalena Brzezinska!
Bielsko-Biala, Poland!
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6. 12. 2015
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! Rain… Chorus: I hate the rain! It resembles your tears ! It starts again ! And reveals all my fears! I hate the rain ! This reminds me of pain.! My poor brain! Can’t forget your name!!
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I.
It happened several years ago ! When I let all my feelings go! So we could have a lot of fun ! And thought we’ll need each other as flower and sun.!
! II.
But summer finished very fast ! Then autumn came I learnt at last ! You wanted to play your double-life ! So I refused and said “Good-bye!!
! III.
The fall has started soon again ! And I can see this gloomy rain ! But I’ve got memories of past ! I wonder how long it’s going to last.! Arevhat Simonyants, Uzbekistan
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! (Photo by Arevhat Simonyants) 
I remember I remember! Feelings ! Me, a small girl sitting near the Christmas tree! Believing in miracles! Believing in fairy tales! I didn’t expect anything, sitting there and looking at baubles was the magic of its own!
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I remember ! Mirabilis! By inhaling them deeply! We stuck the flowers of this night beauty to our childish noses! Imagining we’re Pinocchios!
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I remember ! Delight! The loveliest pears from my grandpa’s garden! And the taste of some sweets, left far away in my childhood! I don’t know what they were called ! Or how to find them now! I just remember my love of this taste!
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I remember ! Gifts! A piece of glass of an intricate form that my grandma found in her courtyard! And gave to me! For the small girl that I was! This beautiful wonder was a treasure !
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Situations change! People go away! Even feelings fade with time! And all that remains is just memories!
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So, no matter what happens ! Somewhere deep inside ! In the jungle of my mind ! I keep the precious memories of my life !
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! Poem and art by Knara Agasaryan, Uzbekistan 
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The most unforgettable memories are the happiest or the saddest.... but I couldn't imagine that a memory can carry both pain and joy at the same time... the 20th of April 2013 is a memorable event that showed me that in hard times the last solution left is to be stronger than any other day... when my labour began I felt I was close to death, and my worst fear was I would not see my kids growing, I would not see my mom's face again and I would pass away in a foreign country... I was there, lying on the bed... so tired... so terrified... but then I remembered that in those moments when you're left alone there is that hidden sparkle in the heart that gives you hope and faith... I remembered to pray from the deepest point of my heart, with all my tears, with all my pain, with all my emotions and, thank God, my prayers were fulfilled more than I wanted... they told me I had two boys but I laughed so high when I saw my son and my daughter.... Today all I remember is a wonderful day... exhausting but full of bliss... I was blessed that day because all the pain went away when I saw my babies, and this is the life's secret... you might suffer for ages, but once you reach your goals, your happiness will wipe all your tears...! Habiba Chouchen, Tunisia 
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! (Photo by Habiba Chouchen) 
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Forgetting is not always about forgetting; it may be your memory's decision to give up for a while. It is always temporary, though we may not think so. Things, all kinds of things, tend to come back, rushing out of nowhere, at the slightest hint, and sometimes no hint is needed at all. We think of our memories as poor or weak and talk too often of memory loss, but it is just talk; nothing is ever forgotten, nothing.!
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I have never been able to understand ! How "to forget" can be a verb.! For we have always been taught that verbs are actions ! So how come ! That something that unintentional, that wild! Something that mocking of the mind! Can be an action of the human will? !
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How arrogant we are! To think that we are in control, ! In action! Forgetting and remembering. ! You can't choose to fight these whims of memory! All you can do is that ! You merely sit still! And listen.! Samar Tulba, Egypt 
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Stone Garden
! I am a creature of nature, born in the urban jungle. A place of wonder if you are naïve enough, city green by name, exploited and dusted with soot. The green part – the sky should have been blue. Or white, perhaps even grey, but green? The proximity of a power station, coal mines, metal industry combined forces thus producing green skies by night, acid rains and uniform grey coloured buildings. No matter what colour they started their life with. One city flew into another announced only by a sign, certainly not by individual features.! Would it not sound grand if I said I made frequent pilgrimages to the next city to my green oasis, the graveyard; the truth is, it was mere two kilometres from home, as I lived close to the border of another town, clustered with others to make one of the biggest urban areas on earth.!
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I made my acquaintance with this wonderful place due to visits to my paternal grandparents, long dead, in a grave with a nice view of the power station. I often returned with my little friend Agnes, mostly to touch the abundant succulents, native to this habitat. They were hardy and harboured rich fauna of their own.!
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(You could grow pot plants, as a careless gardener, I recommend cacti. They thrived under my sporadic attention, I closely recreated a desert environment through my forgetfulness about watering.)!
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Agnes and I perused the only pair of skates between us. Either wearing it on one foot each, or otherwise using it as means of transport for our endless forages into the patches of green, those forgotten by other careless gardeners being the richest. !
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We set off towing the skates by the shoelaces. We were hoping to secure two snails as pets. One time I saw a big snail on the grave of the pretty girl Maria, we loved the angel sculpture on top of her tombstone too. We visited our favourites, their photographs in sepia forever cheerful. We felt so sad for the forgotten ones, the only flowers they had were the wild ones that grew untamed. !
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We felt compelled to stay for a few moments for those who forgot to remember.!
! Epilogue! ! Bazyli and Teodor were not very well behaved as pets. Instead of kicking back in the miniature basket lined with grass and leaves they tried to crawl out and needed to be adjusted so the basket would not topple. After a quick christening in the St Tomasz church they kept on attempting to escape in their fast snail pace. !
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Ola Porebska, Poland/Australia
! (Photo by Ola Porebska)
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! Memories
! To use a scientific metaphor, lasting memories are like charged particles: I remember those with some emotional “charge” far more than those without. I’ll share two examples from my vast collection, one negative and one positive:!
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Negative:! I can still visualize the scene: I was no more than two years old (perhaps 1946). It was most probably a weekend afternoon in summer, and my parents had guests over; they were most likely all playing bridge, the card game my parents often played with visiting friends and family. I recall it was hot, I had a fever, and my parents made me stay in my crib, which was like a jail cell, raised above the floor with vertical bars to prevent my escape. The bedroom walls were painted yellow. I was really upset, crying and screaming. I wanted to go out and join everyone. I felt it was unjust to make me stay in the room; I recall thinking that I didn’t “feel” bad and it wasn’t fair. Feeling alone and abandoned, I probably cried myself to sleep. From that time onward I would never choose yellow as the color to paint a room.!
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Positive:! More than 50 years later, in July of 2000, I was “popping my buttons” and anything but alone! Most of my family and good friends had gathered from as far as 2,500 miles (4,000 kilometers) away to help celebrate our son Benjamin’s bar mitzvah. Nearly two years earlier, in anticipation of his 13th birthday and the Jewish rite of passage that traditionally takes place at that time, I was concerned because we were observing a minimum of Jewish traditions (such as Friday night candle lighting) in our home, and I doubted that our son would want to undertake the extensive study required. I recalled that this had been a significant event in my own growing up, and I wanted my son to have this experience too. So, I asked the student-rabbi serving our tiny Jewish congregation in our small northern California town, “How can I inspire my son to want to complete the extensive study required to perform a bar mitzvah service?” His unexpected answer was that I could do it with him…and I did! Benjamin and I studied for more than a year, first attending Jewish worship services in a variety of synagogues, from Hasidic Orthodox to Reform;
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then reading extensively and answering assigned questions on Jewish beliefs and practices; and finally, for at least 6 months travelling an hour each week to meet with a cantorial soloist, with whom we studied and rehearsed prayers and learned to chant based on the complex system of “trope.” When the day arrived for our big family event, I was overwhelmed with joy--joy that my son was doing this and that so many dear family and friends had made the effort to join us. In retrospect, however, the event and family gathering were just “icing on the cake.” The more lasting joy was the strong loving bond that developed between my son and me during that period of time. ! Robert Wachman, USA/ Philippines November 22, 2015
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(Photo by Robert Wachman)
! ! Memories
! ! Many memories just ! !
drift away. !
Some don't. ! These subtly shift over time ! !
deepening in color and flavor. !
These are the memories that inform me as I grow ever older. ! What I did badly, unthinkingly; ! What I survived; ! What was good at the start but crumbled over time; ! And what has endured as a central way of being. ! Shame fades into knowledge and forgiveness. ! Pridefulness ebbs with perspective.! Some submerges to become hidden strength. ! Not so much letting go as finally beginning! !
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to see.!
Flashes of color and the sepia tinge of old photographs, old memories!
Deborah Healey, USA November 2015
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! ! ! ! ! ! FLOW&ERSATZ
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Dates can be checked and confirmed. She was born in 1932 and gave birth to me in 1965. I know, but, of course I can`t remember it. Every summer we were hiking in the mountains together. I certainly know that and only recently, her friend was talking about it to me. But do I really remember her walking down the hill? She is snoozing in her new wheelchair today. This is what I see now but what will I remember later on? Many years ago I wrote a tale for her. The fable about fear. Does she know that? Does she remember? I am playing with dried flowers to avoid snoozing. Five petals, four petals, three petals. And again five. These flowers are like photos. Taken. From their grassy hills. By her. We hike with the flow.
! Maria Schejbal, Poland 
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(Photo by Maria Schejbal) 
! ! I. The Umbilical Cord of Loneliness
! I 孤独的脐带
! 当你阅读作者之书时， ! 你同时也在检阅， ! 作者的孤独。 ! 在孤独之权⼒塑造的空间中， ! 你如同国王， ! 犒赏那 ! !
! ! ! !
刚刚远⾏归来的孤独的探险者。
! ! When you read a book from the author,! You are also inspecting! The loneliness of the writer.! In the space of power from loneliness,! You sit on a throne royalty like the king,! Reward the adventurer,! Who was just back from a long, lonely journey.!
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! II. A Dinner Party of the Loneliness
! II 孤独者的野营聚餐
! 正如同不是只有中国⼈喜欢炒⽶饭， ! 孤独也并⾮作者的专利。 ! 当你在品味作品的孤独时， ! 作者也唤醒了你体内孤独之种⼦。 ! 如果可以这么说的话， ! 阅读或写作 ! 是 ! 孤独者的野营聚餐 ! 来⾃四⾯⼋⽅ ! !
! !
在⾬过的蓝天下。
Just as not only Chinese people like fried rice,! Loneliness is also not just the privilege of the author.! When you taste the loneliness from their work,! The authors also awaken the seeds of loneliness in your heart.! If I could say it like this,! Reading or writing! Is! A dinner party of the loneliness,! From all over the world,! Under a blue sky just after a rain.! Guo Chunning, China
Surfing on Ice After flying in from Luton on a crisp February morning, eleven English friends gather in the baggage claim area of Krakow airport to collect their boards from the rickety old conveyer belt. We trudge through customs into the arrivals area where our hosts are waiting to greet us, and we encounter the first of many magical moments that we will all remember for the rest of our lives. Five Poles have turned up to greet us, three are dressed as traditional Polish mountain women; but they were guys carrying salt, bread and of course vodka. Their dresses are bright and colourful, the waistcoats finely embroidered and it’s all set off with head scarves and shawls.! After the traditional greetings are completed, we head off to collect our hired vehicles. As we look on, Maniek, one of the ‘mountain women’, proceeds to deface one of our hire vehicles, with graphics that represent our group, in front of the hire company reps. But it wasn’t a problem because the ‘don’t dare argue’ attitude of the Polish mountain women kept them quiet and smiling. We head out of the city after a quick stop for supplies (beer and vodka) at a super market and I get my first experience of Polish roads. Narrow roads made narrower with snow banks after ploughing, almost no road signs or lighting, (it’s after 3pm by now and getting dark) and so many bumps and holes that at times I was convinced we were driving off road. After 2 hours we arrive at out destination, Żywiec, a small mountain city situated 20km south of Bielsko Biała, and check in to our accommodation. 15zł per person per night, and the guys say we have an hour and they will be back for us. So after an hour we are back in the vehicles and heading to Korbielów, 25km south on the border with Slovakia, for our first night out. We arrive at a highlander restaurant that has a folkloristic group booked for our entertainment. As the guys are getting drunk, (I’d agreed to be the driver for the holiday) I started to chat with Polish tourists who had come to the mountains for the winter holiday. I was immediately struck by their friendliness and welcoming nature. It was like a breath of fresh air after experiencing the French Alps the previous year. However, one guy, who had a face like ‘kwaśna kapusta’ (sour cabbage) and turned out to be the owner of the restaurant, was looking at people as if they were dog poo that he had just found on the bottom of his new shoes. He is for sure the rudest person that I have ever encountered in my entire life. He pinned a notice to the door whilst mumbling and gesturing, so I asked my friend 'Jezuz' what was written. He laughed and translated. ‘It’s not Africa!
Close the door’. Anyway the band that sang and played for us were fantastic and a great night was had by all.! Bright and early the next morning (7am), the guys arrive for us to head off for our first day ‘surfing on ice’. We all, with a few who were beginning to regret their heavy indulgence in the old time Polish tradition of wiśniówka, loaded our freshly waxed snowboards into the vehicles and headed for the slopes, which were covered with 2 metres (six and a half feet) of fresh powder and the temperature at -4 so conditions were perfect. We arrived at Pilsko a 1600 metre (5250 feet) mountain, and the people are like ants. So we head for the one windowed kiosk and we’re introduced to the Polish queuing system. That is to say you push and shove your way through the throng until you are at the front. Then bruised and battered we head for the chair lift half a km away. Only when we get there it’s not a ‘chair lift’ but a ‘drag lift’. None of us had seen one of those for an awful long time (for me 20 years ago in Bavaria). But after a few pile ups we manage to get to the top of the mountain. We came down ‘off-piste’ and had some of the best ‘free riding’ experience for a long time!
Later that night I met the girl who became my wife….but that’s another tale…!! Paul Brannan, Great Britain/Poland
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! ! ! Things to remember:!
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Do it for her.! Lidia Lemke, Mexico/Germany
! ! I'm finally enjoying my much awaited dislike,! And cooling off in the fire that is burning!
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The precious memories I hate to recall.!
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Zita Tรณth, Hungary
โ ฉ
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! This poem is about the process of change and memory! ! ! Watershed.! ! Fragments gathered! Filaments! Forming meshes !
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Sieving ! Sorting ! Selecting !
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Reassembling! Remembering ! Ready!
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Margaret Teusner, Australia
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original artwork by Margaret Teusner
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The Day it Rained Flowers series 1993 Etched copper, patinas, gold leaf 7cm x 7cm
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! ! ! Realisation
! Of my childhood memories I wish I could tell That they were happy and not filled with regret. But here is a message to those who are yet Going through school days and under much strain.!
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It's not very easy for those who are frail! To cope with the others that come in our way.! Their teasing and nagging is only maintained! If they see us suffer under their domain.!
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My family and I moved a lot I must say! And I always remember at school the first day.! It still makes me panic and makes my hands sweat! For I dreaded all the comments the others would make.!
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But now that I'm older and wiser in some ways! I've learnt that others most times mean well.! It's just that we care too much and are too frail! And just don't believe enough in ourselves.!
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So it's time that we woke up and found in a way! that the power inside us can help others as well.!
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María Laura Scasso, Argentina
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A Solstice Day Memory
! I could hardly get through my day as a teacher. I glanced at that clock every few minutes until it was finally time to leave. I rushed into the bathroom and changed into casual clothes. I drove down to the Franklin Pond where my 3 friends were waiting for me. They had all retired from teaching, but I still worked. We were all so happy to see one another and experience the Winter Solstice together. Our plan was to walk all around the pond and watch the sun set on the shortest day of the year.!
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We set off together, braving one of the coldest of days. It was below zero with several inches of snow on the ground. There was no path. We had to blaze our own. Our feet sunk into the deep snow, but we pulled them out and kept going. Each step became harder and harder. One of my friends decided to just fall into the snow and make snow angels. Soon we were all lying in the snow, moving our arms and legs, and deciding whose angel looked most realistic. We also tossed a few snowballs around. !
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The sun was beginning to set. We continued to walk in order to complete our circle. We were awed by the sun’s colors as they were reflected in the snow. The white landscape had suddenly turned golden, orange and red. I remember looking around, appreciating and loving the snow, sky, setting sun and wonderful friends, as we experienced the last of the shortest day. We completed the circle just in time as it suddenly became totally dark. Frozen, shivering, icicles hanging from our noses, but so happy to have completed our Solstice walk, we warmed up at a local Diner with large cups of steaming hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. !
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It was our last Solstice walk together. I moved away later that year. But every year at this time, I make sure to get outside and walk as the sun sets. I raise my cup of hot chocolate and salute to all of my friends.! Judy Ana Gutlerner, USA 
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A Holiday Gift
! My high school aged son played the tenor sax. I was a music teacher at a middle school. My students were performing at a local store for the holidays. I asked my son if he would play with us. He laughed and said there would be no way he would play with middle school kids. I asked a few more times, but he never budged. There was NO WAY he would play and I had better not continue to nag him about it either! Sigh…..!
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The night before we were supposed to play, my only tenor sax player called to tell me he was sick and wouldn’t be able to perform with us. I appealed once more to my son who rolled his eyes and walked away. I was very upset, thinking that we wouldn’t sound as good as we might have. I was also so disappointed that my son didn’t choose to play with us, especially now, when I needed him so much.!
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The next morning, as I was rushing about to leave the house, my son presented me with a holiday card and told me this was his present to me. I didn’t feel like opening the card and was still a little angry. He insisted I open it up immediately. It read,!
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“This card contains a gift of music for you. Your son, Jed, will perform with your students today. Happy Holidays.”!
! He smiled and produced his sax, all ready to leave with me!! !
I have received many gifts for the holidays over the years, but this one is still my favorite.
! Judy Ana Gutlerner, USA
Sister I was landed in a country where I never imagined that I would become a citizen. I always keep in touch with my family members. I didn’t know what Yahoo Messenger. I only learned about it when I started living aboard. The first person who introduced to me YM was my Sister. She was doing marketing and expected me to buy her product. She kept talking about YM every time we had a chat on the phone. One day I went to my study room, and I touched my computer. "Hey compi! Let's try to find out what YM is about" I downloaded the app, then I added my Sis as one of my contacts. I typed and played with my keyboard. My first message ever was "Hey, I'm on YM now...!" With extra funny icons... And she replied: "yes, yes I know…" She added an extra icon with a tongue coming out. That conversation was the beginning. Time after time, day by day, we had a chat. It was so much fun! We talked a loooot. We shared our feelings, our thoughts, our happiness, our sadness, our daily life, our duties as a wife, but one thing never happened: we never ever stopped chatting. We didn't have a single argument. We really bonded wonderfully as siblings. The most important thing was that we reduced our telephone bills, since we started chatting via YM. Horaaay...!!! Then, one day my Sis didn't reply... I was extremely sad, worried... I called her... She had a dramatically seriously illness. Oh my goodness… I was terrified, but I knew one thing for sure: she would be active on her YM one day… Yes, I was looking forward to seeing her message." Six months later, God called her. She is an angel now.. My pretty Sister... I will not ever see her being online or even receive her Message… :( If I missed her, I winked to her: "Hey, I'm on YM now…!," but I got no reply.. :( I turned my account to the offline mode, since hers was offline too. I wish I could have had more time with her. Surely, I would have a chance to have more lovely memories with her...
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Every time I see my YM app, I feel something in my heart… And the feeling is so awful.
Tari Khoesumasari, Singapore
! ! This work is dedicated to our beloved grandmother.!
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Galloping through the life ! with a stern look, majestic dignity and merciful heart.!
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Our beloved Grandmother,! Thank you and Love you forever.!
! ! Mineko Tsukamasa, Japan !  
MIQUIZTLI
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Para Arturo, porque desde siempre te he conocido.
El calendario es simple falacia, es mera ilusión arrancar sus hojas esperando tu regreso.
! ¿Por qué y justo a ti hube de quererte ¡tanto!? !
Todo inició con mi afán por conquistar La Historia, cuando mirando el fruto de la tierra –encarnada en Xipe Tótec- ideaba la manera de inventarte. Ilusa de mí, ni siquiera intuía que tu constitución era la muerte.
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En profunda reflexión, rayana al misticismo, parecía que efectivamente te creaba, perdiéndote.
! Hoy, el saber que ya no eres, me estigmatiza con el título de sabia. !
Recuerdo mi primer acercamiento al abrir aquel Códice, contenedor de leyendas, traductor de sueños, Libro de Creación. Destructor que se negaba al silencio.
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Fue al cruzar aquel párrafo, cuando, haciendo de los siglos un juego, comencé a admirarte, intenté comprender tus sueños, hasta que absorbiste el total de mi tiempo, atentando contra la mínima cordura que en mí quedaba.
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Te fui descubriendo de manera indirecta, como se descubre el hilo del agua por la sombra que proyecta su esencia incolora. A veces te identificaba entre otros personajes, hasta que me apropié de tu nombre, el cual sin embargo nunca pronuncié. Vi tu cotidianidad llevada al extremo, tu lucha por salvaguardar el conocimiento de tu pueblo, en peligro a manos del invasor barbado. Admiré tu diario-asumirlo-todo como si fueras un dios…. Y finalmente lo fuiste.
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Tú, como yo, hurgando en los Libros Sagrados, te sumiste en la contemplación pantemporal que permitió aquel nuestro primer ¡y único! encuentro. Quedaste en mí, como la espina de nopal eternamente clavada en la bandera.
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Desde siempre sabía que sucedería, tu religiosidad y compromiso, tu personalidad inescrutable te llevaron al sacrificio. Eras el idóneo, el elegido. Esto te llenaba de gozo. Eso, incomprensible para mí que te perdía…
! ! !
Hube de presenciar tu partida. Héroe en anonimato.
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Te intuí al subir la Imponente Escalinata. Conducente a la Gran Piedra.
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Encarnaste a la deidad. A la deidad volvías.
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Era superior a mí, al amor que por ti sentía, al reconocimiento de tu historicidad. El orden del Cosmos requiere de sangre.
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Mi mirada te seguía ser. pirámides.
lentamente
y el dolor quemaba todo mi
Las miradas como las palabras quedan grabadas en la sierpe de las
! MORÍA PORQUE MORÍAS, Y NO PODÍA MORIR TU MUERTE. !
Hoy sólo queda: El concepto que de ti se esconde tras esa imagen, labrada por el artista ignoto, quien ayunó y te incensó con copal para dejar testimonio de tu Credo.
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Sólo queda: De-velarte paso a paso, imaginarte cocreador del Quinto sol, destructor de cuatro creaciones anteriores.
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Queda:
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Tu fórmula. Perecer y renacer.
Se me había anunciado que a nosotros, descendientes de la Coatlicue nos era fácil morir. Pero me hiere honda tu muerte en la que no participo.
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Me fui visitante del presente al Templo Mayor, encaminé mi brecha hacia el Altar Tzompantli, con sus páneles de cráneos, promesa de resurrección. Rendí culto a la muerte, a los tuyos, habitantes de Mictlan, creyendo que en el incuestionable binomio de fuerzas también renacerías.
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Gracias a la rueda que es el tiempo, como Venus, como Quetzalcóatl, fuiste una vez más aurora.
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Apareciste cuando advertida por las estrellas, brillantes como téotl, moradas de los descarnados, quise nueva cuenta, otorgarte existencia.
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Respiré el copal, coloqué la ofrenda. Desperté en mí cuatrocientas preguntas, experimenté cuatro soles, recorrí cuatro puntos cardinales, anduve los cuatro años para llegar a Mictlantecutli. Coloqué en mis labios jade. Te invoqué para conjurar tu inexistencia.
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Triunfó tu destino de fuerzas en juego, de jamás dejar de ser, pese a las cenizas.
MIQUIZTLI
! ! !
For Arturo, because I have known you forever
The calendar is but a simple fallacy, it is mere illusion to tear its pages awaiting for your return.
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Why was it you I had to love so much?! It all began with my hunger to conquer History, when, eyeing the fruit of the earth, -incarnated in Xipe-Tótec- I was devising a way to create you. How naïve of me, for I did not even sense that your constitution was death itself.
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In profound reflexion, bordering on mysticism, it seemed that indeed I was creating you, while losing you.
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Today “knowing that you exist no more”, stigmatizes me with the title of the Wise One.
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I remember my first approach opening that Codex, container of legends, translator of dreams, book of Creation. Destroyer denying silence.
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It was while crossing through that paragraph when, making a game out of centuries, I started to admire you, I tried to comprehend your dreams, until you absorbed all of my time, attacking the slightest sanity that lasted within me.
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I was discovering you indirectly, like one discovers the thread of water by the shadow its colourless essence. Sometimes, I identified you amongst other characters, until I appropriated your name, which nevertheless I never pronounced. I saw your everydayness taken to the extreme, your struggle for keepsaking the knowledge of your people, endangered on the hands of the bearded invader. I admired your diary- assuming- everything like you were a deity‌ and finally, you were.
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You, like me, sleuthing in the Sacred Books, you submerged yourself in the timeless contemplation, which allowed our first –and only! – encounter. You lasted in me, like the spike of the nopal* eternally stuck in the flag.
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You always knew it would happen, your religiousness and commitment, your inscrutable personality led you to sacrifice. That filled you with rejoice. You were the ideal one, the chosen one. That filled you with joy. That, incomprehensible to me, who was losing you.
! I had to witness your departure. ! Hero in anonymity. ! I sensed you while climbing up the imposing staircase. ! Conducting to the Great Stone. ! You incarnated the deity. ! The deity you were becoming. !
It was superior to me, to the love that towards you I felt, to the acknowledgement of your historicity.
! The order of Cosmos requires blood. ! Mi gaze followed you s l o w l y, and the pain burnt all of my being. ! Gazes and words alike remain engraved
on the pyramids.
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I WAS DYING BECAUSE YOU WERE DYING AND I COULD NOT DIE YOUR DEATH.
! Today only remains: !
The concept of you hidden behind that image, engraved by the undiscovered artist, who fasted
and incenced you with copal to leave a testimony of your Creed.
! Today only remains: !
Unveiling you step by step, imagining you being a co-creator of the Fifth Sun, destroyer of
four previous creations.
! This only remains: ! Your formula. TO PERISH AND TO REVIVE. !
It had been announced to me that to us, descendants of the Coatlicue it was easy to die. Yet it hurts deeply your death in which I do not participate.
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I left as a visitor of the present to the Greatest Temple, I routed my way towards the Tzompantli Altar, with its pannels made out of skulls, a promise of resurrection. I rendered tribute to death, to your people, inhabitants of Mictlan, believing that in the unquestionable pair of strengths you, too, should be reborn.
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Thanks to the wheel of time, as well as Venus, as well as Quetzalcóatl, you were once again the aurora.
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You appeared when perceived by the stars, shiny as téotl, home of those with no body, I wanted a fresh start, to grant you with existence.
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I breathed the copal, I placed the offering. Four hundred questions arose in me, I experienced four suns, I traveled through four cardinal points, I walked for four years to get to Mictlantecutli. I placed jade on my lips. I invoked you to conjure your existence.
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It was your destiny of forces in risk which triumphed, the one of never failing to be, despite your ashes.
María Eugenia Duque Gómez, León, México, 2015 (Translation into English by Estefanía López-Duque)
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! At The Very End
! ! At the very end, what is what is left from us?! It isn’t the money, or the pieces of art that we had.! It isn’t our house, or how much time we had.!
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It is the smiles and how many times we said goodbye.! It is the sun that shone brightly in our eyes.! It is our words, and it is our cries. ! It is our heart, and the halo it left behind.!
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It is our tears, and the way we said hello.! It is our dreams, and where we wanted to go.! It is the souls that we touched,! and all the smiles that we brought.!
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It is not the objects,! but the things that we do.! Because without memories,! those objects have no value.!
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At the very end,! there is nothing left from us but memories. ! Memories that live in people’s hearts! from the time we were alive.!
Vianey Padilla Guerrero, Mexico
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! ! ! ! ! ! ! Acrostic Memories stored in heart or mind! Always waiting to be triggered! Gladly recalled I think you'll find! Delightfully remembered I figured!
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Alas, however your recollections form! Lovingly hold them near! Especially when they are warm! Never remember with fear!
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A trip down memory lane with Magda! Paul Brannan, Great Britain/Poland
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Yulia Ivanova, Russia 
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You and I in memory...! We had a love you and I,! A love that stretched through all of time,! The things that have happened,! The words that have gone unsaid, ! Just a look a whisper a touch that took my breath!
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We had a love you and I,! A love that stretched through all of time, ! Each memory I hold, they are mine, undead, ! I keep them alive! Tucked nice and neat in my head!
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Each day I've hoped ! With deep shielded belief ! Would be a day closer I come to the life I need!
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This life I see is the life I believe, was the path all along, which seemed too easy to be!
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Now I hope and scream out loud for all to see, that I'm not too late for these memories to be free!
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For I have a love for you you see,! A love that will stretch through eternity! Carla Grzywacz, Great Britain
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I am fearless!! I am King of the World.! - My cape, my sword.! I can fly!! Let us save the World! - it is big and we are small,! but I fear nothing !
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together with you. Remember... ---!
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AND NOW, when the world is smaller,! and I could fear less -! I fear more.!
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The Cloak of Invisibility! is weighing on my shoulders…! ...my sword. My Sword?!
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My pen, my sword.! My pen, my sword. - My Pen, my Sword!!
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I will not fear the World.! My cape is red,! so is my love.! I will bleed for you.! Remember?! Let’s stand together.!
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Fearless.! - I am fearless, with you.! Let’s fly.
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Agneta M Lindh, Västerås, Sweden, 2015-11-15
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Photo by Agneta M Lindh
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I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget Long ago pushed aside by those more urgent in nature,! Memories rush back to me brought on by all human senses.! I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.!
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Surrounded by darkness, without any light,! There are distant deep tones of whistles calling into the night.! Loud rambling noises, pounding heavy like rain,! Match the sound from my childhood of the late running train.!
! I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.! !
Sitting back, watching the gathering with a casual gaze, ! Enjoying the sight of families engaging throughout holidays. Children and adults joined in joy and merriment,! Embracing friendships all filled with gracious sentiment.!
! I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.! !
The warmth of a hand subtly brushed against my cheek,! Intended or not simply adds to the mystique.! Unsure if the touch were accidental or a sign of affection, Forever imbedded now having made that connection.!
! I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.! !
One as sweet as molasses from my grandmother’s cookie jar,! The other deeply inhaled as the smell of a fresh-lit cigar. The scents are as strong as those of a freshly picked red rose,! I have often enjoyed the aroma of each as I breathe them into my nose.!
! I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.! !
So many tastes from my youth I assuredly savor,! But the first tastes stand out having the most intense flavor. 
! Some bitter, some sour, some mild, some zest,! No matter if liked least or those expressed as best.!
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I have chosen to remember thoughts I neglected to forget.! Long ago pushed aside by those more urgent in nature,! Memories rush back to me brought on by all human senses.! Jim Fleckenstein, Atlanta, Georgia, United States of America
Jim Fleckenstein, Train circa 1974
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! Acrostic
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Making! effectual! mindfulness! of! repressed! yesterdays!
Brenda Thomas, USA  
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! The Act
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The act of searching! for truth! is the whittling of trees! to splinters, holding! what’s left in your palm! and insisting others see.! But the truth is! there are splinters! hidden in the folds! of your shirt sleeves! and a few of the sharpest! flung on the back! of some nameless moose,! or else buried! beneath the soil. ! Amy Curtis, USA
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Memories and Us Memories.. are so powerful.. they change history, build or destroy lives..! Can we control them to break away and go towards a better future?!
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In life is it really possible to be happy just in yourself? We all feel connected to something - family, friends, our dog, the environment. Part of being human is to feel, to have emotions. We humans are social beings and if we cannot control the bad things from the past is it going to help the future?!
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The past is gone.. we cannot do anything to change it but we can definitely not let it affect the future.. Can we not liberate ourselves from the narrow confines of of any rigid religious or national doctrine and focus on a shared future of hope, peace, health and security? Otherwise we are in this continuous cycle of history repeating itself as we have seen. !
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After all we all want the same for our children and we all live in this world of infinite possibilities if we know how to manage it well. There is enough for everyone.. if we could reign in our greed..It doesn’t have to be for just any one country..!
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It means as an international community caring for each other, intervening early when human beings and their lives are threatened and not wait for all hell to break loose. It means strengthening people with resources, skills and technology so they are self sufficient and human dignity and pride can prevail..They would then feel empowered and not hopeless. We would then not have the deluge we have now.. We have seen enough lessons in history.. do we want to repeat the same again? !
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I am no expert on these matters but as a simple human being and observer I wonder is there not another way? If there is anything I could do I would stem this tide and turn it around so that we lived in world where we lived our lives in compassion, hope, mutual respect and empathy with all beings around us and the future structures will evolve from this..and all developments in law, technology and science would be towards this..There are already international forums for this..it is time they played their part to the full.!
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I believe it is possible if there is transparency, trust and hope at the individual level through to the highest level and not fighting a turf war as to which religion, or tradition or values are best..and destroying all that is good from the past..!
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It is possible if only we can open our hearts and mind to new ideas in the spirit of co-operation and mutual good..it is not about religion, power, politics.. it is about trust and mutual good for everyone of us.!
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For me if I could contribute to this in any minuscule way that would be divine.!
Rajeswari Raj, Great Britain
 
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« Remember or Forget !»
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Princess in a nice pink organdy dress ! Assorted socks and patent leather shoes! Prince in elegant black trousers and white shirt ! Head high up with or without a tiara, a crown ! Pride your parents feel strutting around ! To arrange every single detail behind ! Your mischievous little eyes ! Ready to fail to comply with the parents’ rules ! Forgotten seems to be the chorus! You’re at times the one that dazzles your beloved’s eyes ! At times the cloud that hides another memory! When following instructions seems too complicated ! For the impish youngster that‘s tight to you ! Forgotten doesn’t apply to the eyes of love that watch you ! You’re the rain that keeps their pastures green ! And their forests alive and erases their hard moments! Who minds your untied braids! Who minds your wrongly tied laces ! Every moment, event, encounter is a picture ! Store them in the mind, an unforgettable open drawer ! Words have their use; stick them up to abuse! Paint, draw and keep their sense in motion! The growing-up genius in action! On the path to a foreseeable future! Caring for the distant vision of the next generation ! Be ready to amass age’s wisdom! To distribute endless rules to your own heirs! Patricia Emilien, New Caledonia
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Mother
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Sitting there, by the bed with adjustable rails, which was borrowed from the hospital and squeezed into a tiny room, she watched her mother breathe heavily, asleep. There were hardly any wrinkles on mother’s forehead. She didn’t look her fifties, but for some minuscule lines in her slightly sagging cheeks. However, across her face there was a crimson rash, and her palms were lesioned. !
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One of the frills at the cuff of mother’s ancient nightdress was slightly torn. There were some terracotta-colored stains on the sheet on which she was lying, as well as some rubber wheels marks and scratches on the wooden floor, under the bed. The room was full of blemishes of all sorts. !
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The olive-green bottle of morphine on a collapsible table was almost full. Beside it, there were some syringes, needles, glass ampoules with injections and innumerable medicine containers that she liked to arrange in a rainbow, with burnt orange being the widest stripe. !
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She raised the pencil she had put in her lap, on a piece of thick paper, and she started sketching, her moves quick and jerky. She drew the glossy rails, the rough sheet, the frills, the coarse hands, the cheeks, the hair thinning out…!
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The dusk was falling. Outside, the sky was the color of soft graphite. Some lights were switched on in the apartment building opposite, so she rose from her chair a little, and she turned on a small bedside lamp that looked like a tiny rotten mushroom, all black and skewed. !
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Her mother moved uneasily in her sleep. She switched the lamp off for a while not to wake her up, and then she cautiously switched it on again. The picture was almost ready. As she was giving it the final touch, she heard some distant, chaotic, incoherent shouts and laughter. She shivered. The noise was increasing in volume. !
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She put the drawing and the pencil away, and she absently rubbed one hand against the other in a mock attempt to remove the soot from the side of her right palm. Then she pressed the lamp switch one more time. Darkness was everything there was.!
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! ! The human noise was buzzing right behind her window now. She straightened up, hamstrung. !
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And then it was happening. The staircase door slammed, and she heard dull thumping: in the staircase and in her chest. Then there was more thumping, and when she almost stopped breathing, she could hear desperate banging on the door. She gently enveloped the sides of her mother’s head with a skillfully arranged cushion, and she pressed her hands against mother’s ears.! !
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Magdalena Brzezinska, Poland
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