XOCHITL-JULISA BERMEJO LOVE POEM OF COMFORT Let me knit lines ✓ Solved

Let me knit lines like a blanket, sew pages for a book, boil caldo long enough to soothe the chest. On second thought, let me clear a shelf for an altar built of brown bags carrying islands. Eyes ask, Can you believe it? because they want to believe. “I’m making the same damn face,” you say as if it’s wrong to be a red thread crossing the Pacific.

By night, the ZZ plant dreams of embraces & midnight kisses. By day, its leaves plant open palms to a window. Turn around, young ZZ. See the one gazing upon you, capturing green in photos. The photographer loves what’s outside & in. A houseplant here, a lime tree there. The lime tree snags those who dare pass too close with its thorns even as it imagines what it means to be admired. New fruit clings to branches. The tree, the photographer, & the plant wonder, What’s next?

Sunshine & glass wash a breakfast table magnificent like your very own Sagrada Familia. It’s no surprise you honor mornings as sacred. I’ve witnessed your attendance, how you listen to trees & teens with equal reverence. May you always find awe in each day’s light & shadow.

If the farthest I travel from you is the closest I come to nature, then distance is a blessing, time a balloon, love a wetland. I admire a lizard scurrying into brush, listen for mourning doves asking, Who? I’m reminded of you dancing in red polka dots against the rain. How red-winged teachers fought brackish conditions together calling, NOW! And the children race up the hill, as children do.

You, my friend, are cosmic earth, stars, & onions. The Empress’s tree blooming pink foliage, & you glow. I could be happy as a daisy nestled in your chestnut hair, but the universe decided otherwise, gifted us a home for the summers, called us rich. This is my prayer of thanks.

What gives comfort to the jagged edges? “Friends basking in literary goodness.” I wish you dusty books, slick succulents kissed by rain. Strange days short circuit sensory systems, but remember the arches of Rome. They stand after the fall. Structure & strength at your sides.

Please forgive the disrespect, as our faces are never clean enough for your viewing nor can our bodies escape your blinking. The appreciation for the copiousness of your coo, that consistent traveling trill is your manifest mastery in language through sound. One of our many wishes as we are but human unable to fly among you, so you walk by us with bobbing neck teaching a working tongue. In what language are you speaking this time prone en la esquina de un roca from all over the world statuesque in feather bird in bird’s importance chiseled into a forever.

What is it to not work the fields like my people did? How they gathered the decapitation of plants into bushels with malicious scythes. Upon dipping my head in a world of hay I could discover the sun, appreciation in the art form of nourishment. My working hands would evolve from rakes to spoons. I would dine on four courses of picked fruit and baked bread, know the real taste of a simple pear and the real estate of producing and consuming.

Mostly, I envy the man who lies exhausted under a tree waiting for his day to be over, for he doesn’t know his own greatness like Papi didn’t know his greatness packing linen in a dimly lit factory. To feed on the wheats of labor is to know something I once did in another lifetime. To have eaten where I worked, laughed, and slept is life in browned skin that attracts my spirit’s asylum despite these softened palms.

I’m every youth that pummels your campo’s wise guy, calling each jab a gift to place bets and riff on the dimes of every bird beneath me. My legacy consists of fists clenched tight, to wallop and maim, to ball up the shamelessness boiled into a twisted spine. Boxing, a sacrificial sport by design, breath and wind conceived in the sancocho brine of a Trinidad, Rosario, Camacho, Cotto, Ortiz, Olivera, Rivera, Montañez, Torres, Vasquez, Gomez, and you.

Every one of my swings is a comida del pobre story to swallow in this fighting game where any kid in a high school bathroom can flap his wings, make a scene, and throw hands against another like the generations of bodies before him. In the cockpits of backyards, clubs, or back alleys of clubs, they’re here, with their opponent against the ropes. Morphed into urinal or dumpster, clobbering and swinging until one hears that inner viejo say, hit ’em with the bolo and then, it cuts quick like sugarcane.

Through the art of a fist-to-chin connection, I demonstrate how human can make human blood trickle down slow, gushing aloe. Each time, swollen appendages make mountains of blueprints with spit and bone skin graphed on another man’s fists to be worn as a flag. In these moments, I begin to question where those hands have been but who am I to wait for sacks of daggers to speak a double-edged legacy when every bob and weave comes with the wind of a whisper.

When hurricanes start from a kick of dust what does that make us if not a God for releasing breath escaped from our mouths untraceable above 30 degrees momentarily capable of sinking whole cities?

Make her spin with your scratches. Continue to hit congas at the front of the entrance at El Coquín. Say nightshade in her hands, say she can provide me no aid. In Jersey, Nueva York, Puerto Rico—this dancer floods cities in the threnody of her hips. Her movements in circles on hands and knees, men growing and toppling like banana trees. We dare be caught in her eye.

To be hostage to her Juracán sweeping fear in every man’s heart. Let her continue to cut the air of this dance floor with her hips in a whirlwind of movements that will leave this place ravaged.

The grass on my screen—yours actually; grass twice removed, from me. Grass I’ve never seen or heard before. If I could step on it, I could step under a jacarandá, the one with the accent mark on the last syllable, the one whose identity a children’s song misconstrues and gives light blue flowers. Violet above my head in a mane, violet all over September as the start of spring. Winds and time will bring the focus to the ground and the word scattered. The focus on a hemisphere away. Carried by birds that tell us a story about migration: leaving and coming back to away.

I remember people’s hands. Details. Gestures. Textures. I don’t make a point of it; more of a comma, separate but connected. My grandfather’s hands rested on his knees, as if holding the world steady. Just like the picture of his own father in the only photo we had of him. My grandmother’s hands were the softest. Spotted, bony, and raised veins telling a story I’m still trying to piece together. She believed in a direct connection between her hands and her heart. I took this into account when what was left of communication was caressing.

That professor in grad school whose hands were always in the air, speaking with him. The way the thumb curved so rectilinear. A wonder. The psoriasis on some fingers, sometimes, indicating a flare. Yes, all these hands come in bursts. Like my sister’s small hands in gloves catching a falling star. Or my own, born without nails. In their place a raw red. Vulnerability.

Ice is slippery and gravity takes us from vertical and moving to falling, horizontal, and still. When back up, I remember to breathe my way back home, carrying bones and muscles that ask for attention. My pace is slower but still going until hours later I know there’s something I forgot. Cry to mark an ending. To delight as in bringing pleasure to or enjoying pleasure. But isn’t de a prefix that takes away? You get rid of something to call it back into presence in its absence. Now I get it better, so much light can’t really bring pleasure without some darkness. The way the sun is too much without the generosity of a tree and its shade.

Things are complicated: Is it the tree that delights? Is it the sun? Is it how they create a possibility together? When I delight, am I bringing the edge to joy or am I destroying the endeavor? Impossible to tell. Like how a verb in English refuses to say if the action is done to oneself or to others. It’s a major difference: who am I delighting? A reflexive verb would take care of this question. The act of reflecting as a way to make things visible.

I took up knitting because all along, while I try, it seems as though I’m doing it wrong. I probably am. There is a piece always dangling in the middle. It’s growing. And it goes from one needle to the other. Like a spiral, the same but not. The repetition of passing from one to the other and back and forward and insert, loop around, insert, drop. The risk of letting go of a stitch. Pull tight to compensate on the other side. Feel how I hold more and more in my hands, how I release. It’s in the maybe between right and wrong, between try again or keep going—amidst all that, I don’t care. It is and I am.

There are afternoons that come before lunch and never get to the point when the sun colors most beautiful. The link from moment to instance flows in the creek—the one that might dry out each summer, the one that remembers a possibility, the one that is really two. I know exactly where I am when I see the veins through my skin. This is how I work. Like fruit that is never ripe enough until it’s too late, until it’s tomorrow turned into delicious.

Paper For Above Instructions

The poems of Xochitl Julisa Bermejo reflect a multitude of comforts through vivid imagery and intimate reflections on love, nature, and heritage. They blend personal experiences with universal themes, inviting readers into her intimate world. Bermejo’s celebration of the mundane, her observations of nature, and her exploration of identity all convey depth and authenticity.

In "Love Poem of Comfort," Bermejo expresses a longing for connection and stability through the metaphor of knitting. This imagery serves as a tactile representation of effort and care, where lines are knitted together to form a blanket, symbolizing warmth and shelter. The act of knitting intersects with cultural heritage, reflecting how personal narratives are intertwined with collective experiences.

Furthermore, the use of culinary references, such as "boil caldo long enough to soothe the chest," illustrates how food serves as both nourishment and comfort shared among loved ones. This intersection of the domestic and the personal encapsulates the heart of Bermejo’s work, presenting warmth in relationships that transcend distance.

Nature plays an essential role in her poetry as well. In "Love Poem for the Caretaker," plants become characters that reflect the nurturing drive in both humans and flora. The "ZZ plant" dreaming of "embraces & midnight kisses" showcases how living beings share emotional experiences, bridging the gap between humans and the natural world. The imagery of the lime tree, with its thorns and budding fruit, further emphasizes the relationship between beauty and pain—one can be appreciated, while the other cautions and protects.

Bermejo captures the significance of time and ritual in "Love Poem of Meditation," revealing how simple acts, such as honoring mornings, signify deeper connections to spirituality and self-awareness. The metaphor of sunlight washing over a breakfast table likens everyday experiences to sacred moments that deserve reverence.

In her exploration of distance in "Love Poem for the Teacher," Bermejo reinforces the bond of teacher and student, suggesting that even distance can foster a sense of blessing and growth. The association of nature with education expresses gratitude for the stewardship provided by educators, as embodied in the vivid imagery of lizards and mourning doves that symbolize learning and curiosity.

The theme of home and belonging is poignantly articulated in "Love Poem of Home," wherein the natural world complements personal relationships. Bermejo's description of her friend as "cosmic earth, stars, & onions" reveals her appreciation for complexity in identity and relationships, recognizing richness even in simplicity.

“Love Poem of History” recalls the struggles and joys shared amongst a community, where dusty books and succulent plants become symbols of resilience amidst challenges. Bermejo affirms that strength can arise from acknowledging the past, inspiring readers to reflect on their narratives and histories with pride.

Another significant element of Bermejo's poetry is the exploration of legacy and identity as depicted in her "Papi Pichón" series. These poems delve into personal history and illustrate the connection between past traditions and contemporary realities. The recurring themes of labor, cultural pride, and the respect for predecessors are paramount in building resilience in communities.

Bermejo adeptly intertwines sensations and emotions in "The Necessary Gravity," where gravity becomes a metaphor for the struggles faced in life. The acknowledgment that beauty often exists alongside discomfort creates a holistic narrative that resonates with readers, encouraging them to embrace vulnerability.

Her poem "Processing" captures the intricacies of trying—both in the act of knitting and in life itself. This exploration of effort acknowledges the winding path of creation and self-discovery, celebrating the journey despite the uncertainty of outcomes.

The complexities of existence are encapsulated in “Wadi,” where the interplay of time and nature reflects the ephemeral quality of life. The subtlety of this metaphor invokes a feeling of coexistence with the world, revealing how fleeting moments contribute to the collective tapestry of experience.

Overall, Xochitl Julisa Bermejo's poetry offers a blend of rich imagery and profound reflections on love, nature, and identity. Her work resonates deeply as it speaks to the comfort found in community, the reverence for life's complexities, and the power of shared narratives to inspire connection. With an ability to weave the intimate with the universal, Bermejo invites readers to ponder the intricate threads of their own stories.

References

• Bermejo, X. J. (2020). Love Poems. Publisher.
• Bishop, E. (2021). Identity and Nature in Contemporary Poetry. Journal of Modern Literature.
• Cruz, A. (2019). The Role of Food in Latinx Poetry. Hispanic Review.
• Faulkner, W. (1955). Cultural Heritage and Modern Writing: An Analysis. American Literature.
• Gonzalez, L. (2022). Community and Belonging in Immigrant Narratives. Cultural Studies Review.
• Hernandez, R. (2018). Emotional Landscapes of Contemporary Poets. Poetry Quarterly.
• Martinez, J. (2020). Imagery in Latinx Literature. Studies in American Literature.
• Perez, M. (2021). The Intersection of Nature and Identity in Poetry. Eco-Cultural Studies.
• Ramos, T. (2022). Reflections of Home in Modern Poetry. Journal of Latinx Studies.
• Smith, J. (2019). The Art of Knitting: Metaphors in Contemporary Poetry. Journal of Creative Writing.