Poems for the Body Temple
by
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I was quite shocked the first time you refused to budge. We were late. Tickets had been bought. You couldn’t care less … You were somehow immune, impervious, hovering above the bustle. You glanced at the couch; it was so alluring. No bother plans had been made; your pull was to dive into those soft, mushy cushions, gorging in the feel of their delicate embrace of your almost lifeless limbs. You could already sense the fluffy, fleecy blanket gently stroking your peaceful bearing; you were not about to relinquish these simple pleasures. After so many years of slavish conformity, you will be fooled no longer. My body has a voice, and it will now be heard. As I slather green mud onto my head, I wonder, How long will I put up with this? A true dilemma. Do I risk the toxic ten-minute job I can buy at CVS? My nose stings from the fumes the cheap concoction exudes as it sits chillingly on my nervous scalp. Do I work on my patience with the natural but muddy, sluggish henna that refuses to stay where it should? Dark streaks drool down my forehead, reminding me of Halloween as I struggle to coat my hair with the gooey spread. Do I say, “Enough!” and put up with my own shock as I look into the mirror and cringe at the sight of my patchwork coiffure? Political indignation competes with vanity as I wipe my brow of sticky goo that insists on oozing down my face. My brief affair with long hair is oh-ver. No more clips, no more bands, nothing tugging at my head. A quick shake after the shower and voilà! Freedom once more! Munching on crumbly brown rice cakes, lulled by Bach echoing from my loyal kitchen radio, my brain slowly relaxes into the music. Languidly sipping milky warm tea, I distinguish my son’s familiar whines, announcing his imminent approach. I look up from my plate, and before I can react, a naked teenager, tugging at his father’s arm, has erupted onto the mundane scene. I am blasé at this point. Another banal Sunday morning with autism. I wonder if all men drift into a vacuum so effortlessly … It’s not that I need constant chatter; it’s just that the silent gaps go unnoticed so customarily … I don’t even feel upset anymore. Just really curious, perplexed; okay, maybe frustrated. I don’t miss my workmate’s negative rut, that’s for sure, but a little awareness would be nice. I always remember Jane Austen, so much respect for polite conversation around the tea table; not too much, just enough. She unveiled to us how conversation is an art that few truly master, and yet how noble an art form! Like a splendid symphony, words have the power to fill the void with melodious hues … yet how many truly acknowledge their power and use words wisely? Meditation humbles my mind into its true place in my life. When I sit down, close my eyes, and repeat the mantra, I am revealing to my mind that the stream of thoughts it intends to play back must bow to other lead players in my life. My body needs the stillness, the deeper breathing, the welcome pause. My Soul longs for the moment of silence, for its voice to come through, for its presence to be felt, for its mysteries to be revealed. Sacred time. Blessed time. I make time for you to break free from time … at least for a moment.
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About the Book
In this new collection of poems, the author of Poems for the Soul continues her journey of self-exploration through the healing world of poetry. Enjoy the ride as the author, poem by poem, dives deeper in search of greater meaning and inner peace.
KIRKUS REVIEW
Hugueney (Poems for the Soul, 2016) offers an elegantly crafted “journey of self-exploration through poetry.”
In a recent issue of The New Yorker, Ruth Franklin wrote about the persistent popularity of poet Mary Oliver, arguing that Oliver’s strength is her “accessibility: she writes blank verse in a conversational style, with no typographical gimmicks.” Reading this description, it’s easy to see why Hugueney calls Oliver “beloved,” because the younger poet’s verse can be described in very similar terms. Here, she writes about the elder writer’s influence: “I do not have woods to stroll through, as beloved / poet Mary Oliver, but there are patches of green where I live / and the smell of wet earth, chirping birds, / and a gentle breeze to lose (or is it find?) myself in.” This is Hugueney at her best—unpretentious, honest, limpid. This is her second volume, and it shows her rounding into form as a writer. Although she tackles a variety of topics in this effort, two stand out: the challenge of raising an autistic child and the struggle against a low-grade sorrow that she calls “the fog.” Hugueney has two kids, and the youngest is autistic. She writes, “Autism takes its toll. / Only the strong will be given this challenge. / So many years of feeding, sweeping, swiping, / washing, brushing. / It’s worse when I’m alone with my son. / No one to laugh with, to share with.” Sometimes, that toll seems too heavy to bear; this, it appears, is when the fog rolls in: “As I swipe the elegant marble counter / with my soggy, faded washcloth, / I suddenly feel the fog creeping in again.” One hears the creep of depression in lines like these, but it’s heartening to read an author who’s willing to write so openly about the real emotional challenges of parenthood. Further, the collection’s journey ends with hope for the speaker and for her family. A late poem reads, “I am on the right path. / Angels are lighting my way right now. / I just have to keep hold of my compass. / A new beginning is always possible.” After finishing this book, one can’t help but wish the author well as she continues on her own path.
Affliction resolves into hope and light in this cathartic collection.
About the Author
Luciana Jabôr Hugueney was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1967. Daughter of a Brazilian diplomat, she spent most of her childhood living in different countries around the world. Having been taught to read in English while living in the United States, Luciana developed a strong attachment to this language, favoring English in her poetry. At the age of eighteen, Luciana left her family to pursue studies in New York City, where she concluded a bachelor’s degree in liberal arts from the New School for Social Research. She obtained a master’s in education while living with her husband in Uruguay. Luciana has two sons, the youngest one with autism. Since the birth of her second son, most of her life has been dedicated to unraveling the mysterious autism puzzle and helping her son develop to his utmost potential. He is currently eighteen years old and Luciana has been able, more recently, to dedicate time to two of her passions -- poetry and painting. This is Luciana’s second book of poems. She currently lives with her husband and youngest son in Los Angeles, California.