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LEA DIAZ —SPAIN—



Lea Díaz is a poet, artist and an academic. She has painted, played the piano and written poetry and fiction since she was a little girl. In addition to serving on editorial boards, Lea has published two books of poetry, and her poems have been collected in anthologies and literary magazines such as "And Then", "The Independent Literary Review", "Contemporary Literary Horizon", "Viceversa", "Hybrido", among others. She has participated in readings and literary events at McNally Jackson Bookstore, New York Public Library, Bowery Poetry Club, Poetry Project NYC, La Nacional NYC, Saphira and Ventura Gallery, Instituto Cervantes, NYC Poetry Festival, Lacuhe Fair, TAPFNY, Hispanic/Latino Book Fair in Queens. Lea is engaged in activism and has presented contributions in conferences and panels, advocating for the role the arts play in democratic systems and developing the notion of “creative democracy”. Lea deeply believes in poetic action, in the transformative nature of Poetry: Poetry can make each of us a better person and, thus, a build a better world.




POEMS


Songs for the future


I close my eyes, what a brilliant firmament!


Stars from my heart that follows the simple routines of a quiet life


The morning breaks through the fogged window during breakfast


I cross the park in silence on the way to work


And pause for a moment at the sculpture in the fountain


Under the sun, my soul wakes up, like leaves dancing in the autumn,


Flies without wings among words, that paint a different way to exist


In each step, I feel the beat of this moment.


The afternoon arrives while your words still inhabit my restless mind,


Coffee in the cup, aromas and flavors,


In the corner of the bookstore, I write in my journal songs for the future.


At dusk, as I seek for the moon in my pale bedroom, my thoughts return to you


I close my eyes with the vision of a flowing river, an unknown dream.


In my world of cherished routines, your voice calls me sweetly


Towards the radiant new.




YOGA DISTRICT


The sound of the bowls is a sort of a compact, metallic softness.


It invades the studio like a sonorous thread, a wave of light


That pierces the glass vault and expands among the ancient walls.


The gong awakens and illuminates our bodies, our inner world.


It is neither a melody nor a whisper; but a touch, a call


Towards transcendence, orchard protected by a grille


That we hardly cross, clinging tightly to material reality.


The silhouettes draw postures, harmonious movements.


We breathe to the sound of metal.


The afternoon falls


The storm shakes the university city


Thoughts are diluted with the flow of asanas


Worries dissipate oblivious


To the insistent and furious rain.


The way back is placid


We embrace the silence, the wet smell,


The night is stillness and calm


Peace reigns outside and inside


We have freed ourselves




Springtime in New York


The city is fog, glass and frost.


Also rodents that perch on asphalt and chimneys

As I walk with a frozen heart


I feel it rough, hierarchical, uneven:


An icy, imposing lady


The snow falls softly and erases my insignificant footsteps


The elongated, gloomy buildings surrounded by barren, bare parks


The winter seems to me eternal, unbearable


Like that insufferable tenant who camps out


And refuses to leave


I look for the golden ray next to the window


Some sprout or butterfly 🦋 in the courtyard


My eyes lack light, faith in the new season


That surprises us late well into May


The streets are now dressed in the colors of flowers


Fresh fragrances ooze


The sun warms and shines


Sphere, cardinal point up there that marks our destiny


Warm, kind, horizontal


I hear the whistling of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees


The sweet and loving cooing of the birds


The sighs of lovers strolling in the twilight hours in a dreamy stroll


Spontaneous celebration and jubilation. Laughter and games.


In New York, springtime is a miracle


A haven of joy and hope


The pent-up longing that life is renewed and flowing


Even in the innermost recesses of the soul.



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