LA CASA DE CAMPO

       NOTA DEL AUTOR:  El poema está escrito en verso libre compuesto 
       para sugerir la seriedad con la que se asocia el verso endecasilábico.  


       La oscuridad del campo nos envuelve; 
       en la mesa, la lámpara encendida 
       alumbra nuestras frentes; se desplazan
       sombras indistintas en las paredes.        
     
       A nuestra espalda se empina la mole 
       caliginosa del bosque.  Tras ella
       se remontan las cumbres de la sierra,
       alturas brutas de dioses sin nombres.   

       Las voces tranquilas de gente buena
       susurran en suave conversación,
       pero la llama clara del quinqué
       me deslumbra, y al rato paso afuera,

       al sereno de la sombra del monte. 
       Ya no se ve la costa.  Porto brilla, 
       a lo lejos, como una estrella rota
       en las orillas negras de la noche.

       Hasta acá apenas llega
       el sordo rugir de la ciudad,
       inextinguible hoguera
       de almas que no pueden descansar.  

       Entre la hierba larga y la maleza 
       muere la brisa sobre la montaña.  
                                 
       Miro las constelaciones vacías
       que giran por las simas de los cielos,
       y me abandono al silencio de Dios,                 
       que es el Dios del silencio.   

          Reunidos alrededor de la mesa, de noche:

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          Silueta de un hombre:
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THE BEST OF IT IS NOT RAP

       Okay . . . so why are your lines 
       trés wry and fey?  Trying

       to keep up, we’re like
       kids riding rodeo

       sheep.  A buck and a kick

       do the trick, and we’re

       flying, right into deep

       sheep slick.  So why 
       don’t you just say  
       why, okay, Ryan?

DHARMA (Originally titled “KARMA”)

No.  I will not consent to return again, 
fooled by a curiosity worse than lewd,
to be sucked through a sweaty pucker into a womb, 
then dropped like a collop into the same old trap again—
So many years of limping pain, frustration, 
humiliation, bullying, shame— 

No, not even if offered as consolation
to race naked in the returning surf, among brothers again—
to bathe, to play, to wrestle, ... and to love 
the beautiful bodies of young men—  

No.  No.  Desire is pain.  

pekbook .com/download/naked-men-on-twitter-quot-think-it-might-be-a-beach-day/aHR0cHM6Ly9wYnMudHdpbWcuY29tL21lZGlhL0M3eGUzaUFVOEFBSHIyNi5qcGc=  

SEPTEMBER SNOW

I noticed it was snowing, dirty snow,
big, fat flakes drifting slowly down.
I was not surprised, although it wasn’t cold—
such strange things have been known 
to happen.  Now I was dreaming, 
I was dancing in the snow, head thrown 
back, arms out, hands open 
to catch the flakes that floated down,
warm and soft on my fingers
like soft, greasy ashes.  And now 
we were running and screaming. . . .

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blog.holidaycars .com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/Nw-York-City-Snow-Storm.jpg

LA NOCHE

A solas en el patio 
       silencioso me siento. 
La noche crece negra 
       como un inmenso almendro, 
con la copa encorvada 
       para abrigar al mundo. 
El árbol se desdobla, 
       se abren miles de flores. 
Blancas y diminutas 
       traspasan el negror. 
El patio vive y vibra, 
       pulsa con la energía 
de soles y de estrellas. 
       Siento en mi alrededor 
la vida de las plantas, 
       la respiración muda, 
el estremecimiento 
       secreto de las hojas, 
las puntas finas, húmedas, 
       un derroche de amor. 
Estremeciéndome entro
       en los tallos oscuros, 
me disperso en las ramas 
       intrincadas, me exhalo 
por las hojas abiertas 
       a la noche estrellada. 
En el negror profundo, 
       como una estrella oscura 
asciendo la honda noche. 

monsieurlabette.tumblr .com/post/186474692626/malcolm-t-liepke     

AFTER THE EXILE

After our exile from that holy place,

It seemed that every stony, thorn-bound path

Led back to the high wall and flame of wrath

Implacably convicting us of sin.

And one day as I wandered, questioning

The reason for the Tempter and the Tree,

If knowledge were so high a good, and we

Created to aspire, who was at fault

That we had fallen? Could it be, the thought

Of our being like Him had called forth His ire,

Caused our expulsion by the sword of fire?

Would nothing ever bring Him to relent?

Each day I saw new errors to repent:

Self-centeredness, demanding from each face

An image of itself; and new disgrace, 

How favor shown to Abel bred Cain’s hate. . . .

Again I saw the Angel at the Gate.

His face shone like the Sun. I stopped, in doubt

Whether to go or stay. Then he held out

His arms to me and said, “May I come in?”

And I was opened to receive God’s grace.    

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Image from   3.bp.blogspot .com/-NoGFDiIgv-c/Ta0fimguVRI/AAAAAAAAEQk/x-E6buUmG6A/s1600/Adam+and+Eve++TheFall.jpg

ROCK OF CASHEL, COUNTY TIPPERARY, IRELAND

https://www.cntraveler. com/galleries/2016-03-15/the-most-beautiful-places-in-ireland  

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD (PARODY)

1 

Among twenty snowy pages

The only piercing thing 

Was the eye of the parody. 

2 

I was of three minds,

Like a book

In which there are three parodies. 

3 

The parody slipped in among the editor’s papers;

It was a small sabot in the machine. 

4 

A poet and a poem

Are one.

A poet and a poem and an editor are one

Huge parody. 

5 

I do not know which to prefer,

The parody of inflections

Or the inflections of parody:

The writing,

Or the whistling after. 

6

Lines of cathartic broken prose filled the long page

With barbaric gas.

The shadow of a parody

Crossed and re-crossed my mind.

The mood

Traced in the parody

An inexplicable snicker. 

7 

Yo, gangstuh rappuhz, hip-hoppuhz n wannuh-be’z,

Why yo ice-cracks showz?

Don’t-chuh see, duh pa-ruh-dee

Dissin yuh durdy hoze? 

8 

I know the sober, stately cadences of standard English,

Its friendliness to earthy, concrete words;

But I know, too,

That the parody is involved. . . . 

9 

When the parody was circulating,

It skated around and around,

Cutting many circles. 

10 

At the scoring of the parody’s

Open counterpoint on the page,

The hawkers of cacophony

Would gasp, aghast. 

11 

They overrode the country

In a million tour buses and DJ vans;

They had no fears, no cares!

They never suspected

The parody would overtake them. 

12 

Crowds are streaming overhead,

The Mall slides by.

Somewhere a parody is hatching. 

13 

This Twilight has been a Dark Age

For ages.

An Ice Age has descended,

Colder than glaciers.

A parody poises itself

Among the pages.

RILKE IN THE LIBRARY

Neither a prophet nor a man possessed 

with eyes of wildfire and haywire hair, 

the quiet expert in the shadows there 

brings nothing new to feed your chic unrest.  

Beside gigantic fronds, half hidden by 

the outsized sofas of the Reading Room, 

a hunter stalks among the elephants. 

Unlike the bright birds and the beasts of prey, 

he does not swagger through the alien gloom 

with tribal arrogance, gauche elegance.  

His disappearance is the only hint 

of the movement of the mind behind it— 

A study by da Vinci, a shark’s fin 

shearing the water as it zeroes in

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A TI, MISTERIO

A ti, misterio, he de llegar,

y en tu santuario penetrar,

como en sueños el solitario      
viajero que atraviesa un páramo

encuentra un templo monumental,

y demorando ensimismado

entre las columnas de mármol cremoso,

divisa la puerta oscura, y se acerca,

y empuña la llave recia, y empuja,      
y abre, y poco a poco

avanza, y a tientas

se entraña en tu negrura.

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(UNTITLED)

 

The conclusion that I have not been able to avoid is that none of the passers-by sees either this pool or me.  No one ever seems to stop by the low, round curb; nobody, as far as I can tell, even glances this way. 

One can’t blame them—it’s not the sort of thing that calls attention to itself; it is, one would almost say, non-descript.  Neither large nor small (although its width does not permit one to reach across it), apparently it is not wide enough to allow the formation of ripples; none is ever seen.

Within the low circle of bricks around its rim, the water is almost as invisible as if the pool were empty.  No light is reflected from the surface; nor, if I should lean over it, would I ever see my own reflection.  It reflects nothing.

I don’t know how deep it is, or where the water comes from—if, after all, the liquid in the pool be water.  It is not unlike ether or alcohol in its lack of density, except that it has no properties or effects, not even that of annulling sensations.  It is perfectly colorless, absolutely odorless and tasteless. 

I do not wish to be here, but I cannot move away, unable to decide; I cannot stop dipping my hand to drink, never feeling either thirsty or satisfied.  

    

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