Posts December 4, 2017

the cry of i'm alive

A child wakes before dawn crying Mama, mama Every cry her name Every name his breath:

Breathing in, he breathes her in Breathing out, he exhales her:

The cry of I’m alive:

Want was will wait when Now how he has here:

His mouth fills with what is A cry an inarticulate sigh As the earth wheels The sun to the point of being

“Proverbs Chapter 22, verse 6” by Kevin Williams @ DeviantArt.com

Posts November 15, 2017

grateful for the given hour

grateful for the given hour an open hand that lets the sparrow fly wings return the spirit from the sky like water to a flower

every element is born to die like water to a flower becomes a scent, a color fills the senses of the passersby

like water to a flower they, becoming blossoms, smile and sigh the petals fall to ground, the sparrows fly grateful for the given hour

Posts October 8, 2017

Convava l'ou de la mort blanca

I was drawn to the spirit of Brazil before I knew two words of the language, through the open-hearted music of Milton Nascimento, playing over the vegetable fields in Glencoe, Minnesota. Similarly drawn by the music of Silvia Pérez Cruz, I wanted to translate this rendition of a poem by Maria Mercè Marçal, a Catalan poet who lived and taught in Barcelona.

A few days ago we learned that Catalina’s cousin in Sevilla had passed away from cancer; that afternoon I began this translation, only to discover with a chill and a cry that it was Marçal’s poem about her own impending death, from breast cancer, in 1998 at the age of 45.

Posts February 8, 2016

comfort

what was simple once that you assured me the color and the weigh of wool sustains the body

this fruit as well sustains the body and this word the soul

we talked, so often birds chattered in the eaves our breath frost on the window your hands were so young

and all our easy prayers easily answered: keep this family well

before we were tested

Nov 2003

Posts April 14, 2015

the elements

the tide is made of the arc of the sun of the moon

a wave is wind over water over sand over time

I thought I was alone: but alone is only a thought

how many elements am I

“Lumi” by Raluca Dumitru @ DeviantArt.com

Posts March 5, 2015

A Practical Justice

For Arthur Henry Schultz, 1898-1961

He poles a stem of rye before his face
	wide as the number one, true as it is.
		“But son, have I ever turned you from your place?"
			“I am I, not we,” the younger says.

The dove depends its wings upon its breast
	then bends its head, as if to think on this
		then falls upon the door-sill, dead.
			Whose fault was this?

The statement, or the question weighed amiss?
	A word is a want with decoration;
		a nod is a sword, unclassified;
			without a sound a dove has died.

The younger turns as though to turn the world;
	the elder lays a hand upon his chest.
		“It was I who made you bone and blood.
			Don’t forget. I fed you of the best;

Were you in need, my interest stayed;
	if you would call, I left my place;
		My day began when your sun fell,
			my night was by your day erased.

Whose is this ground beneath your feet?
	Whose harvest shod you, set you walking straight?
		And now you tell me – tell me to my face –
			to work with me is your disgrace?"

Guilt is an arrow will only pierce the good
	while good already lives as best it can:
		the younger stays, a boy, or leaves, a man.
			“Father,” he shows his hands, “here’s blood:

for every cell of me, a cell of you
	your dust in which I sleep, your clothes I wear
		your field-stone keep kept me secure;
			from birth this was your child’s due

his blood watering the fields you till
	his blood trickling at your heels.
		Now I make my first and one request:
			stand aside,” he straightens. “Let me pass."

Youth and wind demand a destination
	that bends around an indistinct horizon.
		The old man steps away, a little older.
			The door sighs to a rest against his shoulder.

“Wait!” His blind hand fumbles in his vest
	to find a coin, the smallest he can guess
		and throws it in his son’s unyielding wake.
			“That’s the last of me you’ll ever take."

The copper tumbles lifeless onto stone
	a spiral ringing til its breath is gone;
		the doorway holds the shadow of his boy,
			the nothing but the rust of evening sky.

Posts February 15, 2015

Canção Amiga

The year is 1990, and I am standing in a field in Glencoe, Minnesota. The horizon is wide here; the trees that rush from the east to greet the Mighty Mississippi seem hesitant to venture far from her safe waters, into the wide, wide prairies, and huddle here and there around farmsteads, brought two or three generations ago by the sodbusters who begged shelter from the merciless Alberta winds, even partially, even for a moment, that sped unimpeded from the Rockies to the Great Lakes.

Posts January 24, 2015

Two

The broad sheet billows and embraces wind The wind escorts the voyage out to sea

The shoreline spies the receding craft: Why have you gone away from me?

The passengers seek the shrinking coast: Why have you gone away from me?

As the racing stars and their distant masses Faintly lighting the slumbering planet

Reflect the infinite choreography: Why have you gone away from me?

Porto Alegre, Brazil – December, 1990

Posts December 25, 2014

The Argument We Never Had

To live inside of words… how could I unlodge him?

My body spoke, my eyes listened; a stone, he heard nothing.

I said, Boot; he answered, Dollar.

The mind feels no wind! I cried; The wind’s in the mind, he replied.

With time the bell tolled measuring a death.

I walked to the fields, where the sun was rising.

I asked my questions there and all the grasses bowed to me.

Posts December 19, 2014

men and flowers

“Offering” by Niavaah @ DeviantArt

If a man forgets he was a child
	the flowers, I am telling you
		will have to regard themselves.

If a boy is never asked his opinion
	does it matter if the flowers were planted?