CARLOS

My child asked me today,

what a poem was

and I told him.

Perhaps,

in a state of happiness

for his interest

in such an important art form,

I betrayed thousands of years of verse,

and killed so many poets.

So I went searching

and found it all too confusing.

Why, I ask, does the poet

make his verses so impenetrable,

why does he make it so elusive?

I felt sad and small,

that my child waited,

while ignorance wrapped me tight,

like a heavy visible cloak.

And I did what others do

when they don’t know:

I told him of how busy I was.

My child became a teenager:

resilient, smart and unable

to allow a parent

a safe retreat anywhere.

When he met a poet,

he called me at once:

a poem, Carlos told him,

is nothing but a beautiful box,

with life inside.

Trains

I will go by train

it doesn’t matter

where

the tracks will sing

the tick tack of time

passing

rivers, mountains,

small villages,

and lonely houses,

kissing the tracks

at precise distances.

I will go by train

it doesn’t matter

where

as long as it’s not here

where you know me

and I know you

and all is so common

place

we eat,

we sleep

we see the years mounting.

On these tracks,

I will go far from here,

where you are

where I am

where we share

the desire to forget

ourselves

in landscapes,

running alongside the tracks. 

I’ll wave

goodbye

I promise to write

to send a gift,

a token of the ones who left,

right or wrong

in the pursuit of happiness.

                                                  

Ernest

Ernestly tell me,
how do you ride a bull
in these days of dying virtues?
When every boy is taught to be a girl,
and every girl is forgotten
in her sexuality.

A day
when we no longer make any noise,
a day of peace.
A day
when the structures around us
squeeze us into a shapeless form.

We are building men
who acquiesce to all,
tongues tied to every dime
they will ever make.

Bullfighters
inside a ring,
timidly holding their white cape,
reasoning with the beast.

Sunset

It is necessary to remember.... 

to remember the sorrows,

to remember the victories,

to remember the deceased...

In our short walk

through this world,

every single memory

confirms our existence.

They say that 

knowledge

is the only thing

that can’t be taken away from us:

rubbish.

I don’t know who they are,

but they are all unimportant:

the bankers, the judges, the royals,

hiding behind walls,

ears pressed against 

exquisite wallpapers

pretending desperately not to hear 

the footsteps approaching,

full of fears, full of despair

forged into majestic cufflinks. 

She will come for you,

she will come for me,

and this knowledge 

we ought not to remember.

Our memories

will only be preserved

by our imagination

in the buildings we leave behind;

the necessary windmills,

the parks, the bike paths,

a simple pencil.....

and let’s not forget

to plant a tree.                                                                                                           

Our legacy

is all the tangible and material;

not the love we once had,

not even the love in our hearts.

Love is the blessing,

a gift we must possess

to allow us to hold hands,

to walk on the beach,

to watch sunsets,

and not see ourselves

witnessing darkness come,

rehearsing the inevitable,

full of contentment, full of joy, full of life.     

Letters to Marie

 

 Paris, 3 de April de 1973

moment in time

 

Paris, 3 de April de 1973

     I was thinking of you now; a fleeting thought, so I decided to take a fresh, clean sheet of white paper, a mechanical pencil and make that feeling last. 

     The memory that brought you back to me was of you tossing bread crumbs to the ducks; of your anxiety: “ what if they come here? All at once!!” and you looked at me, and I thought that to be hilarious.

     I’m sure that it was not your thought but I felt as if you were checking to see if I would protect you from a bunch of hungry ducks. Marie, I would certainly run and hope you had the wits to follow me, and the common sense to leave the bread crumbs behind. I am pretty sure we can not outrun a bunch of flying ducks. But you threw your bread crumbs,  and they didn’t give a “ duck” about it. Kids these days!

     Your face looking at the ducks, at the bread crumbs, back and forth between them and the bread crumbs. Our synchronized laughter to a moment in time. Our joy of being.

                                              

hi

  

Paris, 3 de April de 1973

    I was born long ago, and again the other day, when I met you. I will forever remember, and tell others that the first body part of you I saw was your feet. Now, I don’t know how interesting this detail will be to anyone but it is what I choose to remember. I looked over the book I was reading and saw them entering my frame; then I raised my head and saw your beautiful face. “Hi!” you said. “ I just wanted to say hi.” and you had an “ I’m just a simple Canadian girl” expression; which I immediately understood would be your spiel. I remember thinking: “ Yes. Sure. P-liz, lady!” I could sense you coming light years away.