The Youngest Doll

Early in the morning the maiden aunt had taken her rocking chair out onto the porch facing the cane fields, as she always did whenever she woke up with the urge to make a doll. As a young woman, she had often bathed in the river, but one day when the heavy rains had fed the dragon tail current, she had a soft feeling of melting snow in the marrow of her bones. With her head nestled among the black rock's reverberations she could hear the slamming of salty foam on the beach mingled with the sound of the waves, and she suddenly thought that her hair had poured out to sea at last. At that very moment, she felt a sharp bite in her calf. Screaming, she was pulled out of the water, and, writhing in pain, was taken home in a stretcher.

The doctor who examined her assured her it was nothing, that she had probably been bitten by an angry river prawn. But the days passed and the scab would not heal. A month later, the doctor concluded that the prawn had worked its way into the soft flesh of her calf and had nestled there to grow. He prescribed a mustard plaster so that the heat would force it out. The aunt spent a whole week with her leg covered with mustard from thigh to ankle, but when the treatment was over, they found that the ulcer had grown even larger and that it was covered with a slimy, stone like substance that couldn't be removed without endangering the whole leg. She then resigned herself to living with the prawn permanently curled up in her calf.

She had been very beautiful, but the prawn hidden under the long, gauzy folds of her skirt stripped her of all vanity. She locked herself up in her house, refusing to see any suitors. At first she devoted herself entirely to bringing up her sister's children, dragging her monstrous leg around the house quite numbly. In those days, the family was nearly ruined; they lived surrounded by a past that was breaking up around them with the same impassive musicality with which the crystal chandelier crumbled on the frayed embroidered linen cloth of the dining-room table. Her nieces adored her. She would comb their hair, bathe and feed them, and when she read them stories, they would sit around her and furtively lift the starched ruffle of her skirt so as to sniff the aroma of ripe sweet sop that oozed from her leg when it was at rest.

This is an excerpt from a short story by Puerto Rican Writer Rosario Ferre, called "The Youngest Doll". I read this story when I was a senior in high school and it inspired me to write folktales and magical realism stories: Making the ordinary surreal; magical. Rosario Ferre's books and short stories are full of depth, weaving metaphors and similes in her prose which reflects the struggles that all women face trying to have their voices heard. The doll symbolizes how men view women, as dolls, trophies they can show off in society. Ferre is a feminist, storyteller and poet who uses her words to to protest against the illusions and models of perfection we all try to live up to in our cultures. She heightens the senses with vivid images through her words; you can see, smell, and taste what the character experiences.

Ferre translates her own stories from Spanish to English because she doesn't want to loose the true meaning of her words, which usually happens when a foreign piece is translated into another language; pieces are missing. Though Ferre has written many books and stories, this one stands out, because it was part of her short story collection of the same name, that sparked controversy in Ponce, Puerto Rico where she raised. Women in Puerto Rico hated how she represented women's sexuality, and condemned her for basically speaking her mind on such a "taboo" subject. This lead to these pious women burning copies of her books their backyards. Little did they know that by burning her books, more people wanted to read them.

Anytime I have writer's block, I read "The Youngest Doll". It helps me to relax, yet makes me view my surroundings differently. My pen ripples, the walls of my room shimmers like glass, I look at the palms of my hands and no longer see lines, but road signs, mountains, valleys.


Check out other stories and books by Rosario Ferre: Sweet Diamond Dust (book),The Fox Fur Skin Coat (short Story),The Dust Garden (short Story), and Eccentric Neighborhoods (book).

Here is also a website where you can view the stories: http://www.thefreelibrary.com

Writings on Bathroom Walls

I have been noticing lately that a public bathroom is not just a place to release your bowls, but can be a haven to express your thoughts and opinions. People write slangs, curses, rants, political statements, on the stall walls, creating pieces of poetry. This type of art form is seen as vandalisism, but its much deeper. I believe these individuals want to let their voices be heard; inspire and shock others, to allow them to view the world from a different perspective. I decided to write a poem, combining the messages I have read on a bathroom wall.


Blood stains cover the brown tiles, creating roses.
The toilet flushes away the echo of voices, as paper sticks
to the bottom of a shoe.

The head turns sideways, eyes absorb ancient etchings
carved in wood, bleeding ink:

I love myself, I hate myself
Life is politically incorrect
Be beautiful
TH and GB forever
'No Toque mi sueño'
Fuck you
All you need is love
Your full of shit

Fingers trace the words, ink tattoos them
on the skin.

The stall door opens, hands reach out for the
faucet, to wash clean the images.

But, the cries become embedded in the pores.


Not all poetry has to rhythm or follow a concrete patten, it can be a stream of unanswered questions, simple or vivid images, words that seem out of place, yet form a puzzle. Even though the sentences on bathroom walls are written by different authors, they are connected by a single idea of freeing their minds; and sharing a common space.

Illusions In Art

What do you see when you look at this painting? Obviously there is a beautiful woman naked by a water fall. But look closely, do you see anyone else? The rock the woman leans upon is a face of another woman, and the naked woman is actually also the face of an old woman: Her knee is the old woman's chin, her arms and elbows is the nose, breast the eye, and the cascading water fall is the gray hair.

I love optical illusions in art, to be able to see what wants to remain hidden. You have to stare deeply at the lines, angles, curves and break the symmetry, to reveal the message of the piece. The painting above "Waterfall" was created by Octavio Ocampo, who is a genius, creating beautiful works of illusions to trick as well as to intrigue and inspire his audience. He is almost like a magician, he tries to fool the eyes but expand the mind.



Here's another optical illusion. Now concentrate, use your fingers to trace the image. At first it might seem like a profile of a young woman turning away, then you discover that there is a old woman smiling: The young woman's necklace is the smile, chin the nose, and her the old woman's eye. This is one of the famous illusion pieces that many artists try to recreate; but the original artist is W.E. Hill, who was a cartoonist. Hill published what he titled "My wife and Mother-in-law" in Puck Magazine in 1915. The illusion is full of his humor, and adds a web of mystery.

It take such awesome skill and talent to be able to paint illusions from the mind and unto a blank canvas. I think that all artist should try to make a illusion of their own, to challenge themselves. To understand the special techniques that mold such pieces and realize that if they can create an illusion, it opens the door for more awe aspiring work in the future.



For more illusions check out: http://www.visionsfineart.com/ocampo/aa_index.html

Where the Buffaloes Roamed

Here's another poem of mine I will like to share with all of you. I wrote it when I felt angry with the world, especially mankind, who seems to only want to hurt one another. So here is my poem:



I walked where the buffaloes roamed, seeing white bones
laying in the yellow dust.

How can a small silver bullet cause an end of a race,
a species?

Before humans wore false faces, they had wings. We
were noble predators, swooping down on prey, to end
our hunger, let out a harsh cry and fly away.

Like the buffalo, we disappeared, turning into bones
and dust.

We traded our wings for total dominance of other
creatures.

Now we are the prey, being hunted by ourselves.





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Poetry Slams

Poetry slams are a way to let writers express themselves by sharing their words and voices to other people. These Slams are not just coming on stage and reading off a sheet a paper; it's memorizing your poem, digesting, and belching it out through a rhythmic song. The poems are long, yet have deep meanings about: Racism, Culture, government, community, or any personal conflicts. By using your voice, hands, and emotions can allow your audience to "feel" the power and message behind the poem, that wouldn't be as affective if it was written on paper.

Even though I'm a storyteller and poet, I have never entered a poetry slam. You have to be vulnerable, put yourself out there emotional, creating a beat, which has a flow as if you were rapping or singing your words. Maybe one day I'll be able to slam, but for now I will watch others perform, and hopefully that will give me courage. The slammers I will like to show you: Sarah Kay and Oscar Brown Jr. were featured on the HBO series Def Poetry Jam. It ran for six years, created by music producer Russell Simmons (Def Jam Records), and hosted by hip hop artist/actor Mos Def. It showed cased up and coming poets as well as guest appearances from celebrities such as: Common, Lauryn Hill, and Jill Scott. Right now DeF Poetry Jam is Touring in L.A.



I think the poem "Hands", is simple, yet deep. Hands are a way we can express ourselves emotional, spiritually; or violently in our everyday lives. Other slam poems of Sarah Kay's are: "B", and "Jellyfish".

Another slam poet I will like to show you is the late Oscar Brown Jr,who was raised on the South side of Chicago, IL. He was a civil rights activist, poet, and singer/songwriter. Though he died in 2005 the messages embedded in his poetry is still shown among younger generations. Oscar's Poem I will like to share with you guys is "I Apologize," which is a dark yet, reflective piece of how it feels like to be a African American/Black in America.



I believe Slam Poetry allows writers to boost up their self-esteem, realizing their thoughts and opinions do matter, which connect with people all over the world.