A Bilingual Love Poem -I love You/Te Amo

couple sepia

I love you,

Te amo,

As the flowers love the sun

Como aman las flores al sol

And the corners love the shadows,

Y las esquinas a las sombras

I love you with that sort of love

Te amo con ese amor

That feels no yokes,

Que no siente yugos

Knows no boundaries

Ni sabe de fronteras

Who, though exhausted,

Que, aunque exhausto,

Never loses course,

Jamás pierde el rumbo,

Because every adversity overcome, is one less obstacle

Porque cada adversidad vencida es un obstáculo menos

Towards you.

Para llegar hasta a ti

I love you because you are my adventure

Te amo porque eres mi aventura

And the warm home to return to.

Y la calidez del hogar a la cual regresar.

I love you because you make me feel free enough to want to stay.

Te amo porque me das la suficiente

Libertad para querer quedarme

I love you because

Te amo porque

You make me mellow and brave,

Me haces tierna y valiente

A trapeze artist flying high,

Una trapecista volando alto, a sabiendas

Knowing that underneath you hold the net.

Que allá abajo tu sostienes la red.

I love you because with you

Te amo porque contigo

Love is not a burden, a fear,

El amor no es una carga, un miedo,

A preoccupation, an invitation to

Una preocupación, una invitacion

Put on a mask and become something that I am not.

A ponerme una máscara y convertirme

En algo que no soy.

Love is light by your side.

A tu lado es amor es ligero.

Love is unchained, untamed, unfazed,

El amor es libre, salvaje, audaz,

A song to be sung, a soul to be explored,

Una canción a ser cantada, un alma a ser explorada

A dream to be shared, a struggle to be faced, together.

Un sueño a ser compartido, un problema a

Ser enfrentado, juntos.

And I could go on and on.

Y podría continuar, sin parar.

But all I have left to say is,

Pero lo unico que me queda por decir

I love you.

Es te amo

Forever and a day.

Por siempre y mucho más.


Resistance is Futile

clear-water-wallpaper-42242-43236-hd-wallpapers-1024x576K. Barratt

There is a clear path, a bend in the river, with water so light it becomes invisible to the eye, like a pause in a song; a hold before the exhalation of the breath; a void that makes no sense, because we know the water is there- it must be there and until we dip out toes we cannot trust the information from our eyes. So, too is love. It makes no sense. It cannot be shown or proved by any sense -just suggested. And inference that there is some there, something deep, something great, with sharp edges that if you are not careful will hurt you. And still, it can be so smooth and tender and sweet, like a child sleeping with a puppy on his bed. And we feel this love all over and nowhere, is neither here nor there, nor any place in between. And yet, it fills every inch of every space of our lives, like a magical beast. We are inflamed by it, enlarged, miniaturized at the same time, crushed by its heaviness, lifted by its lightness. This love is a player, the cat to our mouse, and if we were smart we would walk away. But we are taken by love. We breathe it, eat it, pump it in our blood. And somehow, for all its games, when it is right it makes us more, not less. Like a borg, it absorbs our best qualities and irradiates back to us in a different form. Resistance is futile. Futile and unnecessary, because never are we freer than when we surrender to love, when the I become and us, and we are complemented and framed in such a way that we only want to be the best of ourselves, yet not only for who we are, but for those we are meant to be with. And we enter that river bend, and swim into the invisible water that has confounded our minds. And what we always known to be true proves itself right. And love and we become a one.


Song of Fifty-Four

mature woman 2

K. Barratt

My breasts are round, still firm.

White threads intertwine with

My hair of night. My thighs

Are no longer slim, but

My pubis still fires up, a

Volcano of flesh, erupting at the

Right, rhythmic touch.

And It’s not easy, oh no, this song

Of fifty-four.

I have so much hunger

For things yet to be done,

So much longing for what

Has come and gone.

And there is so much that I wish.

I want an electric

Tricycle. With a basket, for a dog.

I desire to be the weird lady riding it

On the high street and London Road.

I wish to knit hats and gloves for babes

Smelling of candy and new skin.

I want to tango with a 30-year old

With a great moustache and

A shirt of silk. And I wish

For a weathered hand holding mine,

As we watch the sunset at summertime.

I desire to wear flowers on my head,

And bring fifty-four years of experiences

As an offering to the temple of life.

I want to dance all night

And give half of my stuff away.

I wish to rest and just be in the now,

At the top of the hill from where I can see

Until forever. I want to drink wine

And eat cheese on the beach,

And just smile. And stop worrying

About achievement and success –

Whatever I do, let it be done

From a place of joy and peace and

What the heck. Oh, easy is not,

This song of fifty-four. And yet

The more I live it, the more I feel alive,

Unafraid of the Shadow, in love with

The Mystery, surrounded by hundreds

Of brothers and sisters singing the same

Song. The song of us, the unfinished

Master works, ready for one more chip,

One more stroke, one more stitch, a last touch.

Let us then sing the song of us,

Sing it high, sing it tall, wildly and blissfully,

This topsy-turvy song of fifty-four.

The Club

harassmentK. Barratt



You patted me.

You grabbed me, you groped me,

You reduced my humanity into

Two circles and an inverted

Triangle. You mangled my

Skin with the acidity of

Your touch, you unwanted,

Unrequested touch, a worm

Among the roses. I was fifteen

The first time you pinched

My bum; eighteen when you

Put your scrawny hand over

My leg, as part of a friendly

Job related talk; twenty-one

When you halted at the bus stop,

With your ridiculously big car, an

Invited me to the hotel, unfazed

By my school books and the

Fact that you didn’t know my name.

You don’t care about names.

Nor about my soul, nor about myself,

Even as we are part of the same species

And share culture, values, life,

You have never seen me for who I am.

I am your mother.

Your sister, your daughter, your bestie,

Every woman who ever walked,

Whom you ever loved, is me.

And they all revolt within when

You refuse to see me

As a worthy human being,

I am not your game, your bet,

Your thing, your five minutes

Of satisfaction, your tribal

Right to chase and hunt.

This, my friend, has got to stop.

I don’t care about your boy’s club,

Your locker room talk, your

Urgent needs, the weight of

Your balls, the size of your penis,

The fact that you don’t speak to

Your wife and are still together

Only because of the kids.

I belong to my own club,

The I’ve been Touched club,

And we are closing the doors.

Not more women will

Need to cross them. No more

Women will weep their story,

Wondering if they will be believed.

Your time is up

And I stand in front of you, whole,

Vagina and breasts and brain and heart

And legs, and eyes, and ears, and arms,

And dreams and ambitions and talents

And skills. I stand in front all

Of you, complete and unafraid.

And you shall harm

Not one more mother, nor sister,

Nor daughter, nor friend.

Not one woman, any woman,

Will you ever hurt again.

The time is up.

We are no longer alone.

And we are telling you,

In no uncertain terms: not one more.

Not one more.

Not one more.


A Sunday in Britannia

woman holding a mugK. Barratt



An orchid has bloomed

Against the steel grey

Behind my window pane.

In the other room,

A child practices her piano

Scales and then switches

To a pop ballad.

The cup in my hands

Embraces me with its

Balmy iridescence.

It rains.

The neighbour’s kids

Are coming back from

Their football game.

Outside a man walks his dog,

With no hurry, covered

Head to toe, like

A colourless Santa Claus.

He will open the door

Soon and ask for a towel

For Butch, our chihuahua.

We will have chicken sandwiches

For lunch, the three of us,

And talk about other

Winters, other rains, other

Times safe and cherished only

In our minds. And the child

Will roll up her eyes. And we

Will laugh, and end up playing

One of her fantasy-meets-cute-

Meets-death games.

And Sunday will unfold slowly,

Amid a shared movie and me-times,

A thriller read, a poem written,

A sofa nap, the rain subsiding, a pot

Dinner to keep the bones warm.

And night unrolls, and

Sunday is almost gone

Over these isles of yore.

And as the child and the dog sleep

And husband and I cuddle

On the sofa for our period drama,

Lights turn on and music reverberates

In the court of Oberon and Titania.



nebula 4                                                                            K. Barratt


A flower has opened.

A child has walked.

Outside a window,

A bird has sung.

On a blade of grass a

Dew droplet has trapped

The sky, in a mirror of water.

A salmon has made it back

And its dying in its home.

A cicada has climbed out

A papery body and

Stretched its wings.

A girl has drawn herself

For the first time.

A woman has stepped

Into her new office, with

Window and view.

Inside of a nebula,

A star has been born

And it is already

Turning into a sun.

All in a day.

This day,

The one eternal day

Where all wonders and

Possibilities happen.

On this day,

All the beauty of the

World will unravel;

All the mysteries

Will drop a fresh hint;

All the awesome And weird facets

Of life will shine;

And all that can

Take place

Will take place.

On this day.

For all there is

And can be,

Exists solely in a

Time called Today.



 K. Barratt

The Eastern wind caresses my hair.

I close my eyes to be enveloped by its kiss.

The sea holds my hand in the shape

Of a salty breeze, wind against wind.

And I, floating in between, breathing, deeply.


I feel the sun softening above my head,

The violet shadows of twilight

Cooling the sand under my feet.

And I drift in a here and in a now

I don’t want to miss. The seagulls

Etch themselves against the

Peachy horizon. The night opens

Her arms of navy veils and pearly stars,

And I go back to the shack by the sea,

Where a fire and soup await for me.

And all is well.



And Thus, the Tear Dances

woman-with-tear-dropK. Barratt


The tear is the showgirl of chaos,

Swirling to the right, to the left,

Skipping the nose, at times,

To end on the other side of the face.

And thus, the tear dances

Over pain. She tangoes with

Frustration, foxtrots with love.

She waltzes and belly-dances over

The ice of my indignation

And the lava of my disgust.

Velvety liquid she can be,

A damsel of bittersweet taste,

Who’s also flood, who’s also rage,

All destruction, even death,

Erasing any reasoning,

Any relation between time and space,

Because when the tear hates,

There’s only blindness and deafness.

A convoluted void, a formless form

Forming into the crystal gliding

Down my face unto to floor,

Doing what the tear does best:

Cleansing out life’s dirt.


And Help It Take Flight

2 birdsK. Barratt


So this is deal:

I’m not giving up on us.

I will struggle, negotiate,

Humiliate myself, but

And not letting go of us.

I’m reshuffling the Tarot

Cards, changing the tea

Bags, rearranging the stars

To maintain this love alive.

All that keep us apart

Can bring us together

If we want. What you call

Our weakness can be our might,

What makes this love

Legendary, mythical,

A tragedy that ends right.

We just got to strive. And strive.

Get up, hand in hand,

And face the hurricanes,

The wildfires in our paths,

Holding on to our hearts,

Two sides of a nest, homing our love,

Waiting for it to grow strong

And take flight. And we can then

Soar, together, away from

All the monsters attempting

To rip us apart.

Hover together over a

World that is ours,

If we dare, be brave and try.

Come with me then and fight

For a love worth gold

Tears and light, yours, mine.


Let’s change the tea bags,

Reshuffle the Tarot cards,

Stand up for this  love

And help it take flight.


In the Shadow of his Absence


K. Barratt

She walked without him,

In the shadow of his absence,

Made a cup of tea,

In the shadow of his absence,

Sat in front of the silenced TV,

In the shadow of his absence,

Slept in the stale king-size bed,

In the shadow of his absence,

Bought bonbons for herself,

In the shadow of his absence,

Wiped away the tears,

In the shadow of his absence,

Dimmed the lights of the living-room,

In the shadow of his absence,

So she would not see him there,

In the shadow of his absence,

Staring at her, sternly.

From the hating, bitter corpse,

That used to be his love.