cristina-umpfenbach-smyth
German
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth was raised and educated in Germany. She lived in Southern France for a number of years before making her home in the Manhattan, NY. / She was a staff writer for a German travel magazine. / Her short stories and poems have appeared in several publications. She is currently a translator of romance novelettes. Her poetry will appear in the upcoming " BOUND BY THE SECRETS WE HIDE" by Desperanto Publishing Dec.2012.
Smokey Edge, Georgia.
I Wait in the diner. Not long ago Whites Only.
Now filled with black folks.
Mom would say “persons of color,”
that would include the two Hispanic truckers
and the Chinese cook.
Mom said “don’t go, no need to”.
She’s never been.
Gives me the silent treatment
while murdering Chopin on tortured keys.
Cousin Ed slides into the booth.
Across from me he glistens sweat,
wipes his forehead, grins, squeezes my hand.
“Hi cousin Citygirl, “ and adds “Chocolate au lait”!
Mocking, or teasing, I don’t care.
“Ok, double espresso” I say.
Red on white No Trespassing sign rusts in the grass.
Vine assaulted shack is all what’s left of it,
the Juke Joint where grandpa played
banjo with a bottleneck slide,
making it screech and sing.
Where the women Bess sang and danced.
The one he talked about incessantly,
when he had forgotten who we were.
How he pressed into her, ****** her behind the joint,
how she smelled and laughed and rocked the blues,
how she put her lips to the glass of bathtub gin, just so.
Short crepuscule gives way to night. Mosquitos come thick.
“Listen up Citygirl, hear the sounds, ghost drums and strings.”
I hear grandpa’s banjo, the slide’s screech, Bess sings.
I smell the funk, the sweat, ripe heat, the Blues.
I put my arm around his waist, grind into him
I want him hard, in me, lick his sweat.
He pushes me away, “hear up Citygirl,
I‘m not grandpa and you aint no Bess.”
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth March 2012
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
PREY.
He sits at the corner of the bar,
fades into the shadows.
Unnoticed, non discript
among the regulars.
He eyes the dark haired woman.
*Well nourished female, 130 pounds,
5 foot 6 (or thereabouts)
Red rose tattoo across left upper arm,
hands tied behind her back, feet bound.*
She sips her drink, laughs at a joke.
He watches, waits.
*Stab wounds to her chest.
Cause of death strangulation,
evidence of ****** assault.
Evidence of mutilation.*
She leaves, waves from the door.
Excitement swells his veins,
tightens his chest.
He starts to follow.
Someone shouts: “g’night Cinnemon!”
He retreats back into the shadow.
Prey can’t have a name.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
Grey stone buildings jumble on the promontory.
White cliffs fall to the sea like a bridal veil,
merge with the blue waters of the summer season.
The land lies still, wanting, waiting.
Change of season late in coming.
Cisterns are dry, roses wilting.
A black clad woman walks the garden.
Dry leaves dance suddenly along the paves.
Her tongue licks the faint movement of air,
storm clouds gathers in the East.
After Vespers and Compline
the young nun enters her chamber,
opens the window, pushes back the heavy panes.
Sea fuses into obsidian sky.
Starlight dims behind racing clouds.
She sheds her habit for a white muslin sheath,
beds down on the narrow cot.
A slight breeze rolls over the window sill,
continues though the room, playfully
caresses the woman’s feet, licks her cheek.
A stronger gust follows,
pushes under her sheath,
waves up her inner thighs, caresses her belly,
rustles the stubby hair of her shorn head.
Her toes curl, knuckles turn white.
The storm comes suddenly and strong,
carries dried leaves of roses,
the scent of salty seas, fecund fields.
Her sheath pushed up around her waist,
an offer to a pagan God.
Window panes clank in protest,
waves crash against the rocky shore.
Clouds shed a load of steady rain.
The ****** sleeps, limbs askew,
until the hour of Aurora and Lauds.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
Strong winds make rain dance on the roof.
High heels perform passionate flamencos.
The windows weep pear shaped tears.
Fog wraps the house in ***** rags.
You died
1 year
12 months
365 days ago.
Your aunt said “he’s in a better place.”
What better place than here, with me?
Your uncle said “it was his time.”
I saw no expiration date.
I feel no anger, no denial and accept
that you are gone. The deep ache in me,
the painful rise and fall of memories
will never cease.
I hold your favorite shirt, fold it under my head.
It smells of you and sea and sand and sweat.
Across the front it reads:
“keep the daily bread, give me the wine and cheese!”
I hear you laugh and swallow tears.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
The barrier between her and me,
thin shifting fog, blurred lines
between my happiness and her pain.
She carries the burdens
of the darker side of my life.
I hold the beautiful moments,
those that shine.
We are getting closer.
The membrane of separation falls away
as we become I.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.
Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my green silk Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******
She had too much of all of it.
Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving Cinderellas,
trophy wives of mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a blow job.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.
Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?
A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones. Mold vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.
A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Winter walks beside me,
kisses my skin with frozen lips,
paves my path with ice,
whispers snowflakes,
tells me spring is dead.
Leafless trees scratch a molten sky.
A pale sun caught in gnarly branches
bleeds into the ground,
seeps to the roots of comatose trees.
Spring stirs, winter lied.
@Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth 2011
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 6:36 PM UTC
Facades rise in memory.
Paint peels, marble columns lean,
Rain drowns piazzas.
The bridge of sighs moans in sorrow.
Windows stare sightless into the past.
Cats remember the rustling of silk,
jeweled hands tending morsels,
magenta robes, the cloaked,
the caped, flash of daggers in starlight,
the glory on sun drenched Sundays
when church bells summoned the faithful.
Morning sun bounces off golden domes,
water shimmers a crisp mother of pearl.
Gondolieri untie boats from painted poles,
swiftly ferry their fares in narrow vessels,
pass through the shadows of bridges.
Navigate the water webbing the city,
pass slow laboring barges with overflowing loads.
White seagulls crisscross an expanse of blue.
Shouted greetings echo.
In the white palace, laced with marble columns,
painted ceilings in wood paneled rooms tell stories.
Rich and poor bow to the Republic’s justice.
Doges in pointed hats, crimson robes,
cast fate from bejeweled hands.
Ornate basilicas, simple stone chapels, ensnare sinners.
Priests give absolution behind velvet curtains
in musty confessionals reeking of secrets.
Jews marked in red hats hurry to the ghetto.
On the dock fishermen spill their iridescent catch
from hulls of brightly painted boats.
Merchants shout of silk and salamanders in markets.
Women fill woven baskets with foreign colored bounty,
peaches beckon with pink cheeks,
grapes make sweet promises, purple plums tantalize.
Sun inhales musty smells, exhales sweet scents of basil
jasmine, mint, a woman’s sweet odor of lavender lingers.
Dogs lick cobblestones, savor every rancid morsel.
Window sills host lazy eyed cats.
Goats bloated with milk make their way,
pass baying sheep herded to slaughter
by burly men in soiled leather aprons.
Top sail schooners from far away shores,
carved bare breasted mermaids at their bow,
unload treasures. Silk and spices, chained trunks,
casks of sweet wine, gold will fill coffers.
Vines dig roots deep into walls, cling in crevasses,
perfume courtyards with intoxicating smells.
A flock of small yellow birds alight from rose bushes,
drink from a tiered fountain.
Cascades of faceted crystal spills
from the mouths of carved fishes,
stone maidens’ urns. They display their charms,
smile wistfully, wish away pigeons perched on their heads.
Lovers pass, exchange furtive glances, dream of night.
Dark sweaty men push a barge with a coffin
draped in gold threaded brocade, blood red roses.
A priest at the bow, a cross encased with jewels
catches the light in a blinding reflection.
Altar boys swing shiny vessels, incense permeates the air.
High voices intone monotonous chants.
Mourners follow in gondolas, sway in a rhythm of grief.
Black silk shines. Under veils tears streak
white chalked faces, red lips know of secrets.
Celebrants toast a newly wedded couple
with sweet scented deep ruby red wine.
Boar roasts, seasoned with sage, rosemary and thyme.
Round loaves of bread crust in a brick oven.
Pairs spill into the street, dance a joyful pavane,
pounding the cobblestones to the sound of tambourines.
They freeze in a moment in silence,
watch the funeral procession,
make the sign of the cross, return to their feast.
Now canals choke in mud.
fight ruin in oil slick stagnant waters.
Palazzos put on a false-face,
prostitutes heavily painted.
Greedy currents lick at foundations,
slowly swallow remains,
**** them into hostile marshes.
The Campanile rings the hour.
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth July 2010
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
I want
Moonlight
to pale my skin,
silver my hair,
take my breath,
dissolve my bones.
Scatter me
on beams of light
among the stars
into the endless,
timeless,
unfathomable
ALL
@Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth January 2011
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC