Happy Monday friends! Welcome to another edition of Monday Travels
So today we are in MEXICO and we will explore:
TO MY DIEGO
TO MY DIEGO
Frida Kahlo de Rivera (born Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón; July 6, 1907 – July 13, 1954) was a Mexican artist who painted many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country's popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, gender, class, and race in Mexican society.
Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed
realism with fantasy. In addition to belonging to the post-revolutionary
Mexicayotl movement, which sought to define a Mexican identity, Kahlo has been described as a surrealist or magical realist.
Letters:
My Diego:
Mirror of the night.
Your eyes green swords
inside my flesh,
waves between our hands.
All you in a space full of sounds
in the shade and in the light.
You were called AUXO-CHROME: the one who captures color.
I CHROMOPHORE: the one who gives color.
You are all the combinations
of numbers
of life.
My wish is to understand lines, form, shades, movement.
You fulfill and I receive.
Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells
which are my stars
then goes to yours
which are my light.
Mirror of the night.
Your eyes green swords
inside my flesh,
waves between our hands.
All you in a space full of sounds
in the shade and in the light.
You were called AUXO-CHROME: the one who captures color.
I CHROMOPHORE: the one who gives color.
You are all the combinations
of numbers
of life.
My wish is to understand lines, form, shades, movement.
You fulfill and I receive.
Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells
which are my stars
then goes to yours
which are my light.
Diego.
Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak,
or sleep, or listen, or love.
To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood,
outside time and magic, within your own fear,
and your great anguish,
and within the very beating of your heart.
All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence,
there would be only confusion.
I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you,
you give me grace, your light and your warmth.
I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors,
because there are so many, in my confusion,
the tangible form of my great love.
~
Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak,
or sleep, or listen, or love.
To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood,
outside time and magic, within your own fear,
and your great anguish,
and within the very beating of your heart.
All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence,
there would be only confusion.
I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you,
you give me grace, your light and your warmth.
I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors,
because there are so many, in my confusion,
the tangible form of my great love.
~
My Diego.
I am no longer alone.
You accompany me.
You put me to sleep and you revive me.
Nothing compares to your hands,
nothing like the green-gold of your eyes.
My body is filled with you for days and days.
You are the mirror of the night,
the violent flash of lightning,
the dampness of the earth.
The hollow of your armpits is my shelter,
my fingers touch your blood.
All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain
that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves
which are yours.
~
I am no longer alone.
You accompany me.
You put me to sleep and you revive me.
Nothing compares to your hands,
nothing like the green-gold of your eyes.
My body is filled with you for days and days.
You are the mirror of the night,
the violent flash of lightning,
the dampness of the earth.
The hollow of your armpits is my shelter,
my fingers touch your blood.
All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain
that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves
which are yours.
~
Diego:
It’s not love,
or tenderness,
or affection.
It’s life itself, my life,
that I found what I saw it in your hands,
in your mouth and in your breasts.
I have the taste of almonds from your lips in my mouth.
Our worlds have never gone outside.
Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain.
Your presence floats for a moment or two
as if wrapping my whole being in an anxious wait for the morning.
I notice that I’m with you.
At that instant still full of sensations,
my hands are sunk in oranges,
and my body feels surrounded by your arms.
It’s not love,
or tenderness,
or affection.
It’s life itself, my life,
that I found what I saw it in your hands,
in your mouth and in your breasts.
I have the taste of almonds from your lips in my mouth.
Our worlds have never gone outside.
Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain.
Your presence floats for a moment or two
as if wrapping my whole being in an anxious wait for the morning.
I notice that I’m with you.
At that instant still full of sensations,
my hands are sunk in oranges,
and my body feels surrounded by your arms.
Thoughts:
Yes, this Monday is very different from our usual poems, however, I wanted to share my affection to this beautiful, talented and troubled woman.
I think that there will never be anyone else as Frida Khalo. Her unique view on life and reality is truly something to sit and ponder about. I mean I do not understand how a person can see the world in such painfully colorful way.
Frida was mostly a painted yes, but these letters she wrote to her husband Diego are filled with such depth and poetry that to me they are poems. Poems meant from one heart to another, yet touched thousands.
Nowadays contemporary readers dismiss poetry or books about romance thinking that it's silly, cheesy or simply boring. I think this idea has been imprinted into our minds because we have so many bad literature about love or romance.
Usually it's filled with sex and/or this impossible love because you're a supernatural creature, but I would just to say this, such love letters as Frida's or any other romance/love poem I share with your guys in these Monday Travels, are written with a broken heart, by people who were or are incredibly talented. They give you a peek into their soul, they open their hearts to write these poems about their bleeding heart without even thinking that someone would read it and relate. And yet somehow, whenever I read them, it's as if they are written by my own bleeding heart.
I am a crier but these letters broke my heart. Oh Frida, if you would only knew!
See you Next Monday!
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