Looking through my beloved poet Charles Olsen's Instagram I realized he was about to touch down in the city of temptation, New York New York.
A few hours later and with no time to lose I was checking in to a luxury hotel on Fifth Avenue.
His book Antípodas was in all the city's bookshops. Without hesitating I set about buying them all.
The window displays set me imagining my wild nights of passion with Charles…
Even the flowers smelled of Channel.
The patterned walls
of Downtown NY
surrendered to me
and kissed me.
Super-mega-chic
in Little Italy.
I had also found on his Facebook that Charles and his pathetic and not-at-all-stylish wife, Lilián Pallares, were participating in a poetry recital in Elizabeth Street Garden. Before heading down there I took the opportunity to top up my golden tone on the High Line in Chelsea.
Once there…
not only did I have to put up with the saccharine verse of his wife but also witness how they looked at each other with a deep connection which provoked heartache in my eyelashes. Not to mention her faux-pas wearing the very same dress as mine.
The worst of it was how the public clapped them, took photos, sighed, smiled with emotion, and were happy to hear them. I would have to become part of this world of poetry if I wanted Charles to be mine.
While I suffered
in silence with
my heart broken
to smithereens.
The following day I decided to take a train out of Manhattan to inspire me and await the arrival of the muses who would surely be adorned in Versace.
Suddenly, as I was walking through the neighborhood of Hoboken, I felt deep inside the call of motherhood.
I would marry with no expense spared with my darling poet, we would have a little Baby Limón and would appear on the covers of all the jetset magazines as the most fashionable family of modern times.
But in order to achieve this I first had to write my love a poem that would shake him to his sweet core. So I sat before the great Hudson River and flowed with its heavenly blue tones contrasting with my acid-orange headscarf.
YOUR LOVE APPLE
I am your delicious apple,
of golden skin, a goddess,
awaiting your sweet nibbles
with pips in my heart.
My red lips are ripe fruit
well hydrated with strawberry cream.
My Ágatha Ruiz de la Prada heart
beats fast with our passion.
Above the great skyscrapers
fly our entwined names
and birds sing like Frank Sinatra
New York New York, his famous song.
Dressed in the latest fashion
I dream of our wedding night,
our honeymoon in Tahiti
and a luxury mansion with the aroma of lemon.
With mad love, your Lady Limón
After several days in the Big Apple I'm still waiting for Charles’ reply to my beautiful poem. My only consolation is drinking a lemonade (without sugar) while I contemplate the covers of his books.
“Love is an apple forgotten in an old train station. So chic. So enticing. So alone.”
Lady Limón.
