If you are still with me...

If you are still with me, I would like to say hello and I am sorry for being away for so long. I have been busy with school and working full-time as a preschool teacher. I have neglected this beautiful space, yet  I have missed it tremendously. Yes, life has kept me away. However, every now and then I do think about this blog and all my ramblings. Well, I think I may be back...

The truth is, up until recently, I have not written. Anything. And as a result, I have felt there was no purpose in blogging. I honestly tried, but everything I wrote seemed forced and disingenuous. I was uncomfortable with posting anything that did not feel real to me, as I take this space very seriously and I care greatly about the content I share on here. From my heart to this screen, my words are my weapon and my truest evidence of my mark in this word. So, what I write does matter.

As of late, however, I have been writing. In fact, I am currently working on a third collection of poetry. It is a small collection, but nonetheless, it is a collection and I am super excited about it! It has been over four years since I released my last collection, Northside Cries and Lullabies. And in those four years I have struggled creatively, going back and forth with my decisions to publish again or not. However, with a little encouragement from a friend, I decided it was time. This next collection, entitled Coming,  is way overdue!

Coming is a small, pocket poetry collection of short poems (or as I like to call them, "shorties".) The idea of writing a collection of short poems came from my love of short and simple poetry. I have always loved the idea of someone taking less than a minute out of their busy lives to appreciate a single piece of poetry. I do not believe poetry has to be long. So much can be said - so much can be felt in very few words. And to be frank, I have survived off of short poems in the duration of my four year hiatus. Writing short poems helped me stay creative without committing too much time. It was kinda like, you write a few lines, and then you carry on. 

And that is exactly what I have been doing - carrying on. And carrying all of my readers in my heart while I have been away. I do have lovely things planned for us in the next couple of months. 

Just wait on it, xoxo.

-nv

Sleepless in Northside

First of all, I want to wish all of you a happy new year. May 2012 bring many blessings into your life. 

Second, I'm writing this morning because I have been up all night. Yes, another sleepless night here in northside. So I figured since I am going to be up, I might as well do something productive with my time. And that's when I decided to record and post this little video of me reading a poem. Just something a little different for the new year. Let me know if you want more of this.

For the man who loves my pilgrim soul...

It was after dusk when the mosquito tweeted
I must have felt the blood leaving
I must have sensed a piece of myself
lusted by something uninvited - a nomad of the night

The sudden twitch of my body woke you
With one hand under my nightgown,
you searched my back for the small opening of life released
It's itchy aftermath

But you found it
And like the perfect host,
you rubbed the wound
until sleep came without a fight

It was dawn
when I noticed the shape of your beard
and the divine nature of your eyes meeting the winking sun
You left me breathless

I kissed your native lips
to catch your breath,
and to muster enough heart to request one last beautiful sleep
for the road.

Hope and I hustle on the same block...

It's been a while since I posted poetry so here you go...written this morning so I'm posting as is.
PS. Happy National Poetry Month!

Hope and I Hustle on the Same Block

I am
an abomination of everything you once thought was real
I am a dreamer
I am everything good that you thought had flown away with the helicopters in your ghetto of dreams
Didn’t you notice?
I am the earnest voice you couldn’t hear over the bullets
I am NOT the slick movement behind closed doors -
The shade that conceals the other side of the window
They don’t call me sunshine for nothing…

My love
I am NOT your baby’s mama –
Your sole piece of drama
I am NOT the warm, cozy and tight little
hole of the night that you can’t find the energy to hold
I am NOT your landlord
Your dreams can live within me rent-free as long as they grow
I am that photo of Parisian lights that you come back to every now and then
just to assure yourself that you too will one day come alive in its luminosity

I am NOT your mother
With me, nothing is easy
and unconditional love is a limited time offer
I am the best of you
You are not the best parts of me
Nor will my body part for you and your forces..…yet.

See,
I’m hard like Monday
But in the core, I am truly Friday
I am the break at the end of a hard week that
you have to earn and
work for

But I don’t own slaves
I am NOT your global leader
I am your pusher
Your pen
Your brush
I am a painter
Sit for me
and then,
only then
can I paint you
a brave world.

Who Said Flowers Don’t Grow in the Hood (re-edited)

Who Said Flowers Don’t Grow in the Hood
(Re-edited)

He creeps into her room again
Steals a seat next to her on the bed
Innocence trickles down her cheek in rivers

She is a beautiful rosita with under-aged thorns
and he knows this
but it doesn't stop the over-grown and
oil-stained fingers from brushing
secrets up between her thighs
     "Shhh, little baby...I'm just here to get mine..."

You see,
She is only 15 and has dreams of becoming a writer
The next Maya
with the power of Sonia, Cherrie, and Audre
But how can you rise
if your roots are tangled with
secrets and eyes too blind to see?
     "Don't tell your mom. What we do is between you and me..."

She always did find it ironic
and amazing
how these screams -
these Northside cries -
this perspiration of a young flower who's face is buried in the concrete -
can echo on paper
Can shift mountains in a place beyond these walls,
Yet, at the same time
can fall so silently on ears
without moving a single grain
Still,
quiet
and waiting for the rumble of words
and wind.

With both hands
The man holds her face
He holds it delicately
Soft and thunderous, he whispers...

“Don't cry.
Don't scream.
Just be easy and take your time.
Like those fancy poems you be writing
Take your time,
mi rosita mas bella”.

The Love Situation

It was mine
A constellation-love hoped for
And sapphire skies set on fire
Flickered flame
burning beds
Love-stained and sin soaked
Love stains, but I still hope
for this,
I for…
you.

In a New York minute
this love situation has gathered
and departed now as we speak
The leaves have settled onto the pavement

You were all
And still, you are nothing at all

I saw the sea inside you...

I found the following poem last night. I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind lately and I feel the things and people in my life are shifting and transitioning in their positions in my heart.

You see, I once loved with my whole heart. And it stemmed from the purest place in my heart. When I loved, I couldn't explain what was happening to me. I couldn't write, or even verbalize the definition of this love and its effect on me. I was so high, blind, but it was a beautiful feeling. I felt safe, secure, appreciated, and understood. I continued on, day to day riding this wave, while secretly inside I awaited the drop of a bomb. And then it dropped (oh, did it drop!) and a great feeling was gone. Reflecting back, I realize I gave my heart away too quickly. It was so eager to belong to something greater than myself that it folded. However, I learned and I collected my heart. To be honest, I'm still collecting it.

This poem by Pura López-Colomé reminded me of that period in my life. I cried when I read it because it stirs my emotions and verbalizes that now bittersweet feeling I couldn't explain before. It truly was an enlightening moment. I was an aimless explorer, and then I saw the sea inside him.


Fons
by Pura López-Colomé
translated by Forrest Gander

Reanimated, spirit restored,
reincorporated, body restored,
I contemplate between dreams
the scene I've stolen
like the one who took fire,
like the one who opened the devil box
out of curiosity,
like the one who saw her equal
and her life's love
were the same and so effortlessly
brought them together.
I took exactly
what was not mine,
with my eyes.
I saw the sea inside you:
on your surface, mud.
I kissed you like a shipwreck,
like one who insufflates the word.
With my lips I traveled
that entire continent,
Adam, from dirt, Nothing.
I knew myself in your substance,
grounded there,
emitting aromatic fumes,
an amatory banquet of ashes.

The Safety of Possibilities

It's safe to breathe
the toxins of my
city; its a pretty
city where the streets
re-play the melody of
our bodies folding into
torn and worn sheets

I am saying this
is safe; Allow these
fumes to play in
your chest for hours
as the waves of
my hair come crashing
down onto your lips
and into your hands
I am telling you...

You are the only
You already did something
to me; You did
something so beautiful that
my bones want to
collapse upon themselves and
dissolve into sweet honey
I want to simply
dip my finger into
the essence of what
this love could be

Anxious to taste it
If it's only possible.

Just thought you should know - A Young Poet's Haiku

A couple weeks ago, a fellow poet, Rebeca, sent me the most inspiring message on Facebook. She told me a funny story of how her 9 year old daughter, Kassandra, discovered a copy of my book, Northside Cries  Lullabies, and how she read a haiku, loved it, and felt inspired to write her own. She ended the message with this: "Just thought you should know. You inspire."

How cool is that! I was completely humbled by her story. Of course I wanted to read the haikus she scribbled down, so I asked my friend and her daughter if she wouldn't mind sharing them with me. She did, and I fell in love with them so much that I wanted to feature them on here and share them with all of you. Please read...

Nintendo

dark pink and pretty,

I heart you.

Crazy man

green glasses and short

I'm laughing.

Jellybeans rolling

down, around and inside small

dark brown fourth grade hands.

Jump, jump high

the moons a baseball

for the night.

Each haiku is a colorful and innocent look into the perspective of a 9 year old. Just perfection. 

Much love to Rebeca and Kassandra for being awesome and for allowing me to share her growing, yet beautiful poetic voice.

Reading her poems actually inspired me start a project with my own students. Now the inspiration has come full circle. Its a beautiful thing when we are able to inspired and then become inspired, isn't it?

Who said flowers don't grow in the hood

He snuck into her room again
Sat down next to her
Oil-stained fingers brushing
Up her thigh

She is 15 and has dreams of becoming a writer
The next Maya
With the power of Sonia, Cherrie, and Audre
She always found it funny
and amazing
how screams -
these Northside cries -
can echo on paper
shifting mountains
somewhere,
Yet they fall so silently on ears,
without moving a single grain
still
quiet and waiting.

With both hands
He holds her face
He holds it delicately
Soft and thunderously
He whispers:
“Be easy
Take your time
Like those fancy poems you be writing
Take your time,
mi rosita mas bella”.

Si Tu Me Olvidas.

For some reason, I thought about this poem this morning by Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. This poem speaks to me. I am currently feeling it at the moment. Pride is strong. My roots are detangled - loose, detached, and letting go.

Sigh...

I am posting the original Spanish version and the translated English version of "Si Tu Me Olvidas" (If You Forget Me). It's beautiful in either language.

Happy Friday! Enjoy...

Si Tu Me Olvidas
(in Spanish)

Quiero que sepas
una cosa.

Tú sabes cómo es esto:
si miro
la luna de cristal, la rama roja
del lento otoño en mi ventana,
si toco
junto al fuego
la impalpable ceniza
o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
todo me lleva a ti,
como si todo lo que existe:
aromas, luz, metales,
fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

Ahora bien,
si poco a poco dejas de quererme
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

Si de pronto
me olvidas
no me busques,
que ya te habré olvidado.

Si consideras largo y loco
el viento de banderas
que pasa por mi vida
y te decides
a dejarme a la orilla
del corazón en que tengo raíces,
piensa
que en esa día,
a esa hora
levantaré los brazos
y saldrán mis raíces
a buscar otra tierra.

Pero
si cada día,
cada hora,
sientes que a mí estás destinada
con dulzura implacable,
si cada día sube
una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
ay amor mío, ay mía,
en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
sin salir de los míos.


If You Forget Me

(in English)

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

The Resistance

*Edited

There is a speck of false hope that lives in a single breath
It's addictive
It stretches and threatens to take
Remind the goddess...

You
can
resist.

On summer days
Imagine
the weight of the sun upon a certain skin
Breakdown
the many reasons why stargazing on the countryside makes sense
Far from the towers
Breathe
easy and get lost in the miles -
all twenty - two

The things daydreamed, love
are the things that waste the minutes
Yet they attempt to defy the substances that hold us down
Free thoughts can grow wings if willing
If resistance is shallow,
if we are not careful,
they can fly away

Today,
Sadness resides, but thanks is given
There is a force that tugs at the freedom
and grounds the spirit to the earth
Reasoning and resistance lies beneath
It's the reason why we say:
What goes up,
must come down

It's the resistance
It anchors
And like gravity,
All things will
come down.

Featured Artist on VOCAL INKorporated!

Tonight at 8pm (Eastern time) I will be featured and reading poetry on Vocality with Mikki!

Come show me some love and listen in!

Listen to internet radio with VOCAL INKorporated on Blog Talk Radio

You Don’t Get a Poem

I wrote this last night...

You Don’t Get a Poem

You don’t get a poem

You don’t get a word to cling to;

To wonder if these words I am saying are directed towards you

You don't get a poem because your skin reeks of

rotting cities of dreams and hollow stomachs

The poets here

have overgrown into giants

Forcing their heads through the surface of your skin

Spreading your love all over this town

They have grown too accustomed to

these sleepless nights

Your lovers have grown too accustomed to

the pale mumbles of your aching body

And I know I am supposed to have mercy on you

I am suppose to forgive and let go

Go with the flow of your river

After all, I was built to know the suffering

My arms were sculpted to cradle your pain to sleep

My heart is your keeper

But you are so quick to bend down for life

Under the mental arrest of your stupidity,

you are so blind that you can not recognize the glare

of sunlight in your eyes;

Those beautiful eyes that can light up this crazy

little town on a good day

And me?

I am battered

I am wasted

But I am ready to get free

I am ready to claim the breath you

so desperately attempt to steal from my lips

For once I would like to walk away with something

A crown

that I can raise to the sky as an offering

An ode to my goddess, to the life she deserves to live,

and men who deserve her kiss

Our love was never perfect,

but it was mine.

So no,

you don’t get a poem

Not this time

This one

is for me.

In the Thick

In the Thick

Halfway never felt so good on this side of the bed…

And quiet are the secrets we recite to our walls each night

They land on petals upon my thighs

Your rosey lips could cure this madness

Absorb our screeching moans and oohs

Coming hard like a train…

And halfway never felt so good on this side of the bed.

Catching shadows on the ceiling,

I realize I can lie here

like the good lamb and give in.

I could grow tender - fall off my bones

and crawl onto your tongue…

Because halfway never felt this good on this side of the bed.

In the thick night,

you come to play the beast,

and in your slow purr

you whisper into my wet ear…

“What is it, Miss, that will take you away from me?”

Photography by pakpao on DeviantArt.com

Book Release PARRRRTAY!

Come join me welcome as I celebrate the release of my second collection of poetry, Northside Cries and Lullabies!!

Friday May 28th, @ Sin City nightclub

258 E Allegheny Ave (B & Allegheny)

Philadelphia, PA 19134

8-10 pm

Book signing and reading followed by open mic and an after party celebration!
Free refreshments and cash bar available.
For questions/more info: goodbyegirlnv@gmail.com

Northside Cries and Lullabies is the second collection of poetry and prose by poet N.V. Torres. The book is a poetic exploration into the growth and struggles of a woman living on the northside of Philadelphia.

You can purchase and advanced copy of her book for 12.99 at:
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/northside-cries-and-lullabies/6408946

About the Author:

N.V. Torres is a Puerto Rican poet and artist from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Born and raised in North Philly, she has been writing poetry since the age of eleven with her very first poem being a love poem for her best friend. Northside Cries and Lullabies is her second collection of poetry and prose. In 2007, she self-published her first collection of poems entitled I Know All The Right Things To Say.

http://www.nvtorres.webs.com/

http://www.itsalwayssunnyinnorthside.blogspot.com/

She is the Way (a poem)

Yola! Been away for a while, but for good reasons. I have lots of updates to add on here very soon, but until then enjoy this new piece...



She is the Way

What does it mean today
when a woman can scrape off
your layers under harsh light and
bury your old skin in the backyard where the dogs cannot dig them back up?

What does it mean
when a woman removes the moon from between her legs
so a simple man could feel
stroke
and taste
the god that dwells inside of her?

Sometimes you forget
A woman can not only extend her hips,
But she can expand her mind and screams wide enough
to flare up a revolution within you
You forget that she is the way

She is
a beautifully made instrument
She is a vessel in which the best things travel through
A vessel of love
Carrying water
Harboring seeds, stories, and truth
With the ability to lift prayers too faint to reach heaven

She is grace
Every inch of hip, breast, arm, and belly
Every laugh line, wrinkle
Every broken heart, wet eye, drop of blood
was premeditated
and rightfully positioned
to preserve the truest combination of beauty and power in the universe.

She is the way
Follow
and love her…

Love her.

Nights when we knew...

Nights

What happened to those nights
of smeared lipstick
and wandering hands.

What happened to
white, wrinkled, linen sheets
and sweaty palms.

What happened to
passion at night
followed by pancakes in the morning.

What happened to
swollen lips
from kisses that vowed to never end.

Did they find a new home?


2007
From my first collection, I Know All The Right Things To Say.

Instarzz Feature

Shout out to Inkstarzz.com for featuring my poetry in their Writer's Corner!

Check it HERE, people!

Enjoy ;)

RIP Ai

Ai

(October 21, 1947 – March 20, 2010)

Conversation

by Ai

We smile at each other

and I lean back against the wicker couch.

How does it feel to be dead? I say.

You touch my knees with your blue fingers.

And when you open your mouth,

a ball of yellow light falls to the floor

and burns a hole through it.

Don’t tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.

Did you ever, you start,

wear a certain kind of silk dress

and just by accident,

so inconsequential you barely notice it,

your fingers graze that dress

and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,

you see it too

and you realize how that image

is simply the extension of another image,

that your own life

is a chain of words

that one day will snap.

Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,

and beginning to rise heavenward

in their confirmation dresses,

like white helium balloons,

the wreaths of flowers on their heads spinning,

and above all that,

that’s where I’m floating,

and that’s what it’s like

only ten times clearer,

ten times more horrible.

Could anyone alive survive it?