The HyperTexts

Freddy Niagara Fonseca



Freddy Niagara Fonseca hails from South America and currently lives in Iowa. He has absorbed the histories and cultures of Greece, France, Spain, England, Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, and the United States through his travels; worked in graphic design and banking in Amsterdam; studied voice and Italian; and worked in films in Rome. He has read extensively in six languages, including well over 10,000 poems by authors native to Germany, the Netherlands, Great Britain, France, Italy, Spanish-speaking countries, and America, and feels a particular resonance with, and a link to, American poetry.

As a young adult, he actually disliked poetry. However, while visiting Rome he was moved by a pedestal inscription on a statue of Lord Byron in Villa Borghese Park, and wrote his first poem the next day.

His poems have appeared in the US, Canada and England in The Dryland Fish—An Anthology of Contemporary Iowa Poets, Tower Poetry Society, The Eclectic Muse, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Candelabrum Poetry Magazine, WinningWriters.com, The Fairfield Ledger, Pivot and Passive Fists—An Anthology by Poets for Peace.

Freddy, who is an expressive performer, has publicly recited his poems, reflective of his visits to various exotic locales, often in concert with the accompaniment of musicians, numerous times. In 1990, he staged, produced, and participated in a Dance, Rhyme & Rhythm Extravaganza in Fairfield, Iowa, reciting and dancing to his own poetry with a cast of 30 dancers, accompanied on piano. In 2004, he created the monthly Candlelight Reading Series to generate entertaining poetry readings of inventive programming, heart-centered aesthetics and downright fun on a great variety of themes. Although original poetry is not shunned, the main focus is on world poetry of all cultures, classical as well as contemporary. The series regularly invites performing artists such as musicians, dancers, actors, poets, mime artists, story tellers, song writers, comedians, etc.

Freddy has made it his mission to revitalize the oral, poetic traditions by modifying and expanding them for modern audiences and opening up the gateways of feeling and meaning completely, fearlessly. His fondest desire is to bring poetry back to its rightful home, which is in the heart of all people, and truly popularize poetry, using as many imaginative ways as possible.

His latest book, The Bomb that Blew Up God, can be perused and purchased by clicking on the hyperlinked title.



The Language of Trees

          I never saw a discontented tree.
          —John Muir

I asked the trees one summer
What they had been thinking of all year.
They wouldn’t say,
But then I heard them wave
And whisper of the ages—
Seasons—
Years, and months, and days—
And countless hours
Of abundant happiness.

I like the tales they tell me.
Autumn makes them talk of leaving all,
And yet they stay,
And as they drop their leaves,
They muse for weeks on April—
Thrushes—
Stars and lingering Indian summers—
Rain—
And latent loneliness . . .

Their voice is low in winter.
Snow and icy winds are on their minds,
And they withdraw;
But in their winter dreams
You hear how branches sing,
And think of dawn—
The sun in distant countries—
Warmth—
And summer peacefulness.

How grand they are each season!
Often have I seen them stand like kings!
A certain awe
Surrounds their splendid forms,
And so they wait for spring—
For flowers—
Verdant prairies—
Butterflies in May—
And simple loveliness.

And then they speak of lovers.
Sudden colors spread their message fast,
And every year
Their many stories bloom,
And brighten noble pages—
Poems—
Gorgeous music—
Heart and mind
With endless youthfulness.

And so we welcome summer . . .
All day long they stand, and think and dream,
And all we hear
Is how they wave again
And whisper of the ages—
Seasons—
Years, and months, and days—
And countless hours
Of unending happiness . . .



The Bomb That Blew Up God

A Fable — The True History of the Big Bang

The Devil insisted on having the latest, baddest
bombs tested, but God wasn’t thrilled, so
Satan flew over to Heaven, smirking and hissing,
“You know that my army is much, much
larger than Yours, and You are opposing Me?”
God glared and said, “Hell, yes! Those bombs
are the worst, and you know it.” “So,”
Satan replied, “and whose fault is that? You
created Adam and Eve!” God sighed,
“You talk back too much. Go back to Hell.”
God retired and Angels sang Him to sleep.

Livid, the Devil went down to Hell, but soon
concocted a masterly, truly hellish plan.
He went over to see the smartest, scariest
scientists around and said, “Make me a bomb
that will blow up almighty God.” Even though
being roundly shocked, they went to work at
once. They’d always been secretly smitten
with Satan’s shenanigans anyway. After
splitting some newly discovered particles,
they called the Devil, “We did it. Come on
over. It’s all yours.” Satan didn’t wait long.

Overjoyed, he picked up ten bombs, just in
case; dashed in a flash to Heaven; snuck past
the Angels into God’s bedroom, and put a
bomb smack under His bed. God was taking a
nap. Satan snickered, “Sweet dreams,” and,
boom, blew up God! And everything blew up:
Creation, Heaven, Man, the Universe, All.
The only realm remaining was all hell.
Satan lit up, roaring with laughter, and cried,
“Ha, now I can finally play with bombs as long
as I please and bomb the hell out of Hell.”

And so he did. He dropped bomb after bomb
on Hell, blowing up mega zillions of souls.
At last, after killing everyone, he sat down on
one last, functional bomb in Hell and boomed,
“Now I’ll create, for I AM GOD!” And that did it:
the bomb blew up him! From that time on,
nothing, absolutely nothing remained . . . but
God woke up and said, “Do you see now what
I mean?” and started Creation one more time,
but Satan had an even more devilish plan.
God knew, and never, never slept again . . .



Fireworks

pow, ka-BOOOOM, fizzzz.
yellow — pink — green — ahhh,
and behind all that emotion:
endless eternities of stars…



My Daddy’s Hands

When I, a little baby boy, was reaching for
my father’s huge index finger, I didn’t know
what I’m now starting to remember:
that daddy was beyond happy.

But there came a time of misconceptions
and later, rage; tears shed, but in the
open only once. Late came the hour
I could’ve held his old, beautiful hands.

My hands never resembled his, except
for my index finger and thumb. His gently
playing with my tiny, tiny finger lives on
beyond the years in my own empty hands.




Waltzing in Respectable Vienna

When we young ones dance the stately waltz
in respectable Vienna,
we tend to keep our respective upper bodies erect and
at an acceptable distance from
our partner,
that is, as long as we still have enough space and there are
only few dancers on the floor and not yet
boxing us in,

but we do have some delectably busy nights
in respectable Vienna
when the crowd starts constricting us more and more, for
then we need to reduce the allowable ten inches between two
dance partners,
and we have to move closer, respectfully gasping while
breaking into a sweat . . . closer, undetectably closer,
and still closer . . .

just like last night at that frantic New Year's Ball
in respectable Vienna
when the dance floor suddenly got so crowded that some
excitable couples, joined at the hip already, quickly lost their cool
with a bang,
slyly blushing and whisking oh so closely into the
new year without even one inch left between their naughtier
lower bodies,

giving rise to knowing smiles from some in the know
in respectable Vienna
and improvable speculations from those that might guess,
even though most of the culprits were trying to keep the
spine erect
and appear unruffled, at least for a while, but ah the
waltz in respectable Vienna, the famous stately waltz we dance there—
THAT went on . . .

© 2004 Freddy Niagara Fonseca, Published in Pivot 57



Antarctica

I

Cold! Cold! Totally cold! Colder than Alaska or Siberia.
Colder than the North Pole. Cold like my former soul
Are you, oh age-old Antarctica!

Measureless and empty plains with silences as white and deep as death
Descended on me there, and frost besieged the air
From rocks of ice around Antarctica.

Dark and shapeless were the nights while somewhere deep in space, the Milky Way
Rose beaming like the dawn, but never would the sun,
And I withdrew behind Antarctica . . .

II

Warm . . . warm . . . lovely warm . . . warmer than the Congo, Spain or India . . .
Warmer than a bonfire has been my old desire
For always green, tropical Trinidad . . .

Riverbanks and stars arise despite the walls of ice I once evoked
Around Antarctica, for I am thinking of
My always green, tropical Trinidad . . .

Oh, there's the warmth and love of old of starry nights in lovely Trinidad.
Royal are the palm trees, and gentle is the evening breeze
In always green, tropical Trinidad . . .

III

Long ago there was a time my heart was almost like Antarctica
With blizzards all about, where life was just a shout
Across a desolate Antarctica!

Cool is the light on snowy nights when I am thinking of Antarctica.
The cold is like my past and I have changed at last,
And so have you, oh cold Antarctica.

Warm is the light on starry nights when I am thinking of my Trinidad.
The warmth is in the name, and there's a perfect flame
Around my self, my age-old Trinidad . . .

© 1988 Freddy Niagara Fonseca, Published in Pivot 57




On a Painting of the Fall of Man

The Angel turned them out of Paradise,
And God withdrew within.
A glorious Realm receded from their Eyes—
They shrank from loving Him.

The World is like a Darker Sphere until
We meet His Love within.
An Angel full of Grace is waiting still
To lead us back to Him.

© 1988 Freddy Niagara Fonseca

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