Hortensia Anderson: LA HAIE FLEURIE DE HAMEAU

I have returned to the hamlet of my childhood. The tiny village is bordered by hedges of white flowers aglow in the moonlight ― masses of honeysuckle drip nectar as jasmine sweetens the purple-black shadows cast by spikes of heady tuberose. The west wind remains in love with the hyacinth; the narcissus by the reflecting pool remain in love with themselves.

summer dream ―
the perfume atomiser
shattered glass

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York

Hortensia Anderson: WATER STONE, 1986

Surrounded by a field of white rocks roughly the same size and shape, the black basalt tsukubai murmurs. It is like glass, polished smooth as the water flowing over its irregular edges. I wonder if, before his first chisel, Noguchi had already heard the sound

early Spring ―
as it strikes the stones,
water finds its voice.

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York

Hortensia Anderson: SA MAJESTE DE ROSE

Wind carries the scent of a woman in the Alsace region of France across the Atlantic. She is a rose held to the branch. Masses of verdant leaves spill dewdrops on silken petals. How one can forget she has thorns!

summer fog ―
a green beer bottle
rolls in with the waves

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York

Hortensia Anderson: THE EMPTY PLATE

The enameled plums are plump and deeply blue on a creamy underglaze. Camellias bloom over the edges. Three centuries haven’t wilted the pale pink petals nor dulled the porcelain’s glossy finish.

devoured …
the clusters of ripe green grapes
we held in our hands

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York

Hortensia Anderson: RETURNING

My father was a fisherman. Before dawn, he surfcast off the coast of Montauk from a favourite boulder he liked to stand on. Ten years after his death, I return during a storm and come upon the boulder awash in waves. For some reason, I expected it to have gone with him.

dusk in winter –
a roiling sea
churns the sand

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York

Hortensia Anderson: ANDALUSIAN GAZPACHO

The tomatoes – seemingly ripened and reddened by the summer day – are cored and quartered. The holiest of trinities – fresh garlic ground by my mortar and pestle into paste, moistened stale breadcrusts and sherry vinegar from Sevilla have been stirred into a glass bowl – their flavours have seeped into brilliant colour. As night spreads her tablecloth of stars, I smooth the soup, anointing it with olive oil from Cordoba.

almost autumn –
a Flamenco tune
on a lone guitar

by Hortensia Anderson

New York City, New York