When @zord189 proposed that this week's challenge be about our feet, almost instinctively my mind got caught up in the poetry, echoing some old verses over my fingers, my little toes... one, two, three, four, five...", as I vaguely remembered. Then, I realize that the feet contain poetry, the poetry of life traveled through, what has been stepped on, what has passed, what leaves a mark, what marks us and even what drives us disbalance.
Intrigued about the recurring count, I googled who those verses belonged to, because I knew the poem existed, but I had forgotten who its author was and it turned out to be the Venezuelan poet Andrés Eloy Blanco (1896-1955), with his "Palabreo de la loca Luz Caraballo", that start with this quote: "The little fingers of your hands, the little toes of your feet; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. (Anonymous)". Then, I noticed that I only treasured the account 1-2-3-4-5..., not the details that literally go like this in the second stanza:
Los deditos de tus manos, los deditos de tus pies; uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez. (Anónimo)
De Chachopo a Apartadero
caminas, Luz Caraballo,
con violeticas de mayo,
con carneritos de enero;
inviernos del ventisquero,
farallón de los veranos,
con fríos cordilleranos,
con riscos y ajetreos,
se te van poniendo feos
los deditos de tus manos.
La cumbre te circunscribe
al sólo aliento del nombre,
lo que te queda del hombre
que quién sabe dónde vive:
cinco años que no te escribe,
diez años que no lo ves,
y entre golpes y traspiés,
persiguiendo tus ovejos,
se te van poniendo viejos
los deditos de tus pies.
"Your little fingers, your little toes of your feet ; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. (Anonymous)"
"From Chachopo to Apartadero
Walk, Light Horse,
with violets of may,
with little January littles lambs;
the blizzard of winters,
the summer bluff,
with mountain cold,
with the cliffs and the hustle and bustle,
are getting ugly
the little fingers on your hands."
"The summit circumscribes you
to the very breath of the name,
what you have left of the man
who knows where he lives?:
five years he doesn't write to you,
ten years you don't see it,
and between hits and missteps,
chasing your sheep,
are getting old
your little toes of your feet."
Thus, taking counted steps, of which one later loses count, the feet advance through life treading hard, marking footprints. Feet dressed in suits of lights and dreams. Naked feet dreaming of the future.
Dressed feet, with dreamy soles, shiny decorations, and rainbows.
Barefoot, walking prisms, sometimes cheerful. sometimes with a scowl. Fraternal ying and yang.
Feet aware of the passage of time, of love, of resentment, of pain. Beloved, valued and sometimes neglected, but rescued.
Loving feet sharing with others: daughter's foot, grandson's foot. Dreams fulfilled, dreams on the way and others to be dreamt.
Poetry walks, passing the flame to others, turned into a lamp to light itself up and then switch on to others. And, in this blink, I noticed that I was remembering another poem I love by the same remembered author:
Coloqio bajo las palmas
Lo que hay que ser es mejor,
y no decir que se es bueno,
ni que se es malo,
lo que hay que hacer es amar
lo libre en el ser humano,
lo que hay que hacer es saber,
alumbrarse ojos y manos
y corazón y cabeza
y después, ir alumbrando.
Lo que hay que hacer es dar más
sin decir lo que se ha dado...
"Colloquium under the palms"
"The thing to do is to be better,
and not say I'm good,
or that you're bad,
the thing to do is to love
the freedom in the human being,
the thing to do is to know,
and seek to illuminate your eyes and hands
and the heart and the head
and then, to go illuminating.
The thing to do is to give more
without saying what has been given..."
The feet, like the hands, are twins, to walk they need to be supported, one step behind the other, building roads. Steps that cross with other steps, steps that give way to other steps and steps that accompany our steps.
Our steps are our own. We are responsible for the chosen path. Our feet will walk as fast or as slow as we decide and will go as far as life takes us. Life needs dreams and dreams need illusion, heart and poetry. Life is poetry. And when we have been on the road for leagues, our feet know poetry because they have been through life counting 1, 2 , 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...
By Zeleira Cordero @zeleiracordero
The images are my own taken with my Motorola X2, using Burlesque filter.
For your kind reading, THANK YOU
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