What happened to these eyes of long ago?
…full moons shining from faces of antiquity…
They search me for answers.
I do the same.
A glimpse of truth from the forgotten…
….a barefoot boy with a tear stained face
….a blind crone with elephant skin
….a somber New Orleans prostitute
….a stern broom beard
Who were they?
hopers?
dreamers and schemers?
I am the same – no different. searching and hungering….
….living a life
I know your dreams
….you are not forgotten
this pit
in which we sit
prunes me with wounding grit;
how can we restore peace and quit
this skit?
mi amor
es una cereza estropeada
blanda y carnosa
manchará los dedos
maneje con mucho cuidado
my love is an
overripe cherry
soft and fleshy
it will stain your fingers
handle it with great care
내 사랑은
너무 익은 버찌이다
부드럽고 살찐 것이다
손가락이 얼룩지게 될 것이다
신중히 처리해야 한다
————–
I wrote this poem 10 years ago when I was studying Spanish in college. I found it on an old hard drive today and decided to translate it into Korean. Apologies if either the Spanish or Korean translation is way off.
He rises with the matins bell
as he has done every morning
for the last thirty three years.
Warm feet on cold stone confirm
once again that slumber has
been broken.
In the darkness, wax papered
hands assemble to solicit
undeserved graces; cracked
lips mumble and stumble for
forgiveness in a time when
Babylonian bones stained in sin
seek solace within the white lily of
the flaming heart.
Fingers fashion fictive forms
with a mirror wrapped in rust.
After salty sable storms
her lovely face collects fine dust.
With a mirror wrapped in rust,
she spies an arresting reddish road.
Her lovely face collects fine dust;
Her heavy heart is bleakly bowed.
She spies an arresting reddish road;
Such a mighty majestic knight!
Her heavy heart is bleakly bowed.
in a fearful feverish fright.
Such a mighty majestic knight,
after salty sable storms!
In a fearful feverish fright,
fingers fashion fictive forms.
A single bead of sweat drips off of my chin
before falling silently onto my cotton dress.
I place a Billie Holiday record on the turntable
and close my eyes to focus on her delicious sounds.
Billie’s sweet salty voice travels into every
corner of this tiny tomb while outside, the crickets
strain to hum along – they yearn to sing like her too.
As I greedily lap up the prayers that are being
washed into my ears I see Billie in a smoky
Harlem nightclub singing for her supper.
She is resplendent in a white satin gown
and scarlet heels which match her lipstick.
The boys from Syracuse sit at the bar downing
every note that escapes from this lonely lady’s lips.
I stand up and begin to sway to the memory
of days gone by when a gentle breeze wafts
in from the open window to baptize my silver head.
Eleanora – it’s only midnight – why did you go so soon?
There once was a farmer from Daegu
Who had a strange fondness for beef stew
Said his wife one warm eve
As she darned his old sleeve
“Our feast just ran off and mooed, ‘screw you!’
In this maddening tangerine sea,
we are sheltered under
olive fruits of unity in a time
when the hungry ghost shining above
swallows the earth in Bendis’ name.
Sons on horses hoist hot torches
beneath undying skies, bearing loving
light that shall carry us home
as wool spinners weave the looming
dawn from fermented flesh.
pages
new, to peruse
revise eyes in stages;
by half past midnight I diffuse
and snooze
Smoke swings in the air,
drowning us in oyster fumes.
I’ll never scrub it out of my skin.
I sit here waiting, having
arrived ten minutes ago.
I was hot then but now
I am turning tepid.
You sit there and feebly flirt;
bumping me with your elbow
as if I’m not even here.
Why did I bother?
He’s not really interested in you, you know.
He comes here; he passes time with you, but
do you honestly think he will take you home?
Or pen you into his biographical tome?
Why do you bother?
Stop blowing smoke in my face!
Wake up!
Don’t you see that he is looking past
you into the mirror to ensure that his
hair is still perfectly quaffed?
A suspicious wife is a willful wife.
I’ve tried to shine truth upon you.
If I could walk out right now, I would.
You must leave first.
This night grows weary of your laughter.
I grow weary of this night.
————–
This is the second in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.
sundry folly 