Ekiwah Adler Belendez

Ekiwah Adler Belendez was born on September 14, 1987, in Amatlán, Tepoztlán, Morelos. He is wheel chair bound due to cerebral palsy. Because of intensive therapy programs he did home schooling.Around the age of 10 he began to write poems and short stories, without any formal education on the subject. The Institute of Culture of Morelos (ICM) published his first collection of poems, Soy (I am), when he was 12 in June 2000. Since then he was invited to give talks and read his poetry to over a dozen schools in Cuernavaca, the capital of Morelos. He has participated with paintings in several expositions and auctions organized by ConNosotros as fundraising events. He has been invited several times to read his poetry or be interviewed in radio programs. He has participated as guest speaker in various cultural events.

What I told the Holy Spirit

If I ever go to heaven
I don’t want stillness.
Put me in the busiest spot
where naughty spirits have
highjacked a free flight
out of hell into paradise,
where a group of lovers
have died just for a moment
coming into a pleasure
as deep as the sky
before landing again
into their bodies,
where family members are meeting once more
after a long history of alienation.
You can see them getting ready even there
to throw a party
or start a revolution
protesting the fanciful absurdity
of Gods laws.
You can aid certain souls
who think they should have spent
an eternity in hell,
and I want to be
the one to announce
they got heaven instead,
to see the wide grin of their confusion
as I give them a free tour of their new home,
and I want to prowl in the shop
where the self is trying out many skins
and be a dog or a locust tree
for a day just for the “heaven” of it,
and the new care taker
of all the babies
that did not have time to be babies
because they were splashed back into the universe
by miscarriage or abortion,
and I want to wander in the houses of the living
making fun of their Cartesian space
and stay up all night
whirling in conversation
with Rumi, Lala, Hafez, and Shams
and join the noisiest chorus of birds
and be the fog
discreetly writing a poem
on everything.

What her eyes tell me

Monks march in the streets of Burma,
a congregation of red eagles,
their songs cracking the callous bark of a rotten silence.
They have the bravery to know
chanting is their only weapon.
If you think this a metaphor go there,
watch their shaven heads
shining like moons
as their mouths contort
midway between a scream and a song—
smell the fish salted dried and turned to a pulp,
the finely shredded shrimp,
the dark onions, the gingered rice,
the bitter herbs used to sweeten their pallets
the scorched shrines where candles refuse not to burn,
now smell the gunpowder.
Witness their feet,
more melody then step
as they are shot down like strings
ripped from a red harp.

Veranda poem

The glow of the mall is echoed in these clouds
this is all we see of the shopping center
below us. We gaze out from the wooden veranda
and a tree with elephant limbs is our landscape.
It is not even night
yet the sky is already smeared with its own
prophetic caramel dusk.
Lets not ask were this light comes from
though we know the lowly source from which it emanates
beauty is beauty
it can be evident
in the fine line
going up my spine
pointing to this:
a scalpel can turn into a paintbrush.
How can these scars,
yours and mine
be so precious?
Maybe it’s because when the skin is cut
a part of our spirit leaps out of our body
and dashes out
becoming visible
like a firework.
Or perhaps
remembering our mortality
makes us
bow down before the carnival of our flesh
giving us the intense vigor of autumn
These scars are branches and roots
carved within us
and we become high
erect like the tree we gaze at
from the veranda
how can these scars
yours and mine
be so beautiful?
Beauty is beauty
Lets not ask were this light comes from.
I have to admit from time to time
I drop whatever is holding this poem
I feel adrenalin running through my hands
I imagine us: anointing hospitalized patients
with gushing colors
braking each hard idea
to have poetry spill out
like confetti from a piñata.
The thought makes my hands quiver
and dash like rabbits in the flavorful air.
I owe these days to the scars,
yours and mine
they have begun to talk to each other
and by doing so, slyly like mischievous children
they have possibly set up an appointment
for us to find each other
on this veranda
becoming liquid,
soft like the stars
that bubble up
matter freshening
dissolving in shadows.


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