TWO OLD BACHELORS- POEM

Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,- "This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner - since we haven't any money? And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner, But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,- "We might cook this little Mouse, if we only had some Stuffin'! If we had but Sage and Onion we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell" -
Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round.
But someone said,- "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;- And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,- An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up, and seize him by the toes!- all studious as he sits,- And pull him down,-and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion, (cut up likewise into Scraps,)- When your Stuffin' will be ready - and very good: perhaps."
Those two old Bachelors without loss of time The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage, a reading of a most enormous book
"You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in!- We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin'!"- But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book, At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;- And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town, And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin',) The Mouse had fled;- and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door. And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
- Edward Lear

Gioconda Belli: WORDS COME IN WAVES - Three poems

I.

The Sponge in my brain

The neurosurgeon finds a sponge

growing in my brain.

Does it hurt? he asks.

No, I tell him, it only causes disquiet.

It longs for the sea, for water

and it’s afflicted with a voracious appetite for words.

It devours them whole, I tell him.

I’ve been reduced to a solitary animal

Whose sole purpose is to feed it.

Only sleep quiets it.

It dreams Aquamarine dreams of floating medusas,

of pages sinking into the abyss.

Imagine.  How many books must have perished in the tides?

How much paper is submerged among the dunes?

Who’s recorded the libraries that went down with their ships?

Books lost forever?

Logs of inebriated captains?

People lament libraries consumed by fire,

But my sponge imagines drowned manuscripts

And my dreams are adrift with bottles

Carrying love letters

That hover in a limbo of vanished stories.

The doctor eyes me with compassion.

He prescribes soda water

Ocean baths

Meditation.

At the door, I bid him farewell,

Taking note of how much time has passed.

I go back to my sofa

With my books

Wine,

Solitude,

The porous creature

Thirsting

In my brain.

(Translated from the Spanish by Charles Castaldi)

II.

RIVERS OF LIFE

I inhabit a long and narrow space

A canyon dug by ancient waters

Hemmed in by walls

Whose surfaces mark geologic time.

There’s a sky above

Very distant

A blue strip that fills with stars at night

I have seen meteors

With incandescent trails rush by

And I have wished to follow them.

How did I end up down here

In a place where water

Deep and quiet

Flows obediently to the ocean?

There are days

When currents of desolation

Wash over me

And no school of shimmering fish

No wild flowers blooming along the banks

No polished stones

Can rescue me from the void.

Love is a reflected echo

A handsome young man appears in my mirror

And smiles before embarking on countless expeditions.

I float on my back, hair extended,

Watching the flock of migrant birds

Diving in to build their nests.

Their songs bring me an ephemeral happiness

I am a woman who interrogates her body

The rare stillness of her consciousness

As a wind swept water lily

might ponder the meaning of its beauty

Perhaps the rapids ahead will tear at my flesh

Floating branches will entangle my arms

A solitary  fisherman

Will find pieces of my silky garments

Hooked on his lure

And wonder what lovers were swallowed

By the mysterious forest darkness

That stretches to the ridges in the distance

Floating on my back I see

The canyon’s walls,

Clouds over a swath of blue

Nature  which gyrates around my axis

Unfurled on the sails of time

Going like me towards the sea

Towards the final unknown

The deep

Where consonants verbs vowels

Will dissolve

Into nothingness

  

(Translated from the Spanish by Charles Castaldi)

III.

Written in what?

I hear the sound of the coming storm

And wish that my name

Like yours

Mr. Keats

Would be writ in water

Hidden in a cemetery in Rome.

I have often imagined my tombstone

Covered in weeds,

An irreverent epitaph

“I didn’t want to be here”.

And I won’t be there.

I will remain in a space inhabited by ones and zeros

My name writ in bytes

Webs, tendrils, filaments, radio- waves dispersing my sentences niceties “tip-thumbed” on the keyboard, at night,

When I move silently, like a burglar

Things said for a mute, passive accomplice

But suddenly found, discovered by unknown trespassers

Of my restless imaginings

Look at what this woman wrote, they might say,

Perhaps taking me to be the brunette

The browser has chosen to label with my name

-A vague resemblance of myself-

Or they won’t say a thing. They will just read my words and marvel at a time when women had to say: Here I am. Take note.

No names written in water in the 21st Century

Just shipwrecks or magnificent armadas

Lost or parading on liquid plasma

An electronic storm

And a million teacups

Trying to make sense of so many words

Dispersed like raindrops

In a monsoon

Splashing

And bouncing

Endlessly

 

EDUARDO GALEANO: The right to dream of a better world (El derecho a soñar)

Although the United Nations proclaimed long lists of human rights,  most of the world's people still enjoy only the rights to see, hear and remain silent.

TONIGHT I CAN WRITE THE SADDEST LINES- Pablo Neruda poem

When the night evokes memories...

the present fades into the arms of the past...

THE MAN WITH BEAUTIFUL EYES - Charles Bukowski

The Man With The Beautiful Eyes

When we were kids

there was a strange house

all the shades were

always

drawn

and we never heard voices

in there

and the yard was full of

bamboo

and we liked to play in

the bamboo

pretend we were

Tarzan

( although there was no

Jane)

and there was a

fish pond

a large one

full of the

fattest goldfish

you ever saw

and they were

tame.

They came to the

surface of the water

and took pieces of

bread

from our hands.

Our parents had

told us:

" never go near that

house"

so, of course,

we went.

We wondered if anybody

lived there.

Weeks went by and we

never saw

anybody.

Then one day

we heard

a voice

from the house

" YOU GOD DAMNED

WHORE!"

It was a mans

voice.

Then the screen

door

of the house was

flung open

and the man

walked out.

He was holding a

fifth of whiskey

in his right

hand.

He was about

30.

He had a cigar

in his

mouth,

needed a

shave.

His hair was

wild and

uncombed

and he was

barefoot.

In undershirt

and pants

but his eyes

were

bright

they BLAZED

with brightness

and he said,

"hey, little

gentleman,

having a good

time, I

hope?"

Then he gave a

little laugh

and walked

back into the

house.

We left,

went back to my

parents yard

and thought

about it.

Our parents,

we decided

had wanted us

to stay away

from there

because they

never wanted us

to see a man

like

that,

a strong natural

man

with

beautiful

eyes.

Our parents

were ashamed

that they were

not

like that

man,

thats why they

wanted us to stay

away.

But

we went back

to that house

and the bamboo

and the tame

goldfish.

We went back

many times

for many

weeks

but we never

saw

or heard

the man

again.

The shades were

down

as always

and it was

quiet.

Then one day

as we came back from

school

we saw the

house.

It had burned

down,

there was nothing

left,

just a smoldering

twisted black

foundation

and we went to

the fish pond

and there was

no water

in it

and the fat

orange goldfish

were dead

there,

drying out.

We went back to

my parents yard

and talked about

it 

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Quote by William Shakespeare

Time is very slow for those who wait
Very fast for those who are scared
very long for those who lament
Very short for those who celebrate
But for those who love time is eternal

 William Shakespeare

GIOCONDA BELLI

I am really fond of Belli's poems and life.

The Man Who Loves Me by Gioconda Belli

The man who loves me should know how to part curtains

of flesh

Fathom my eye's depths

And know that in me nestles

A tender, transparent swallow.

The man who loves me

Will not covet me like a commodity

Nor exhibit me like a sportsman's trophy

He will stand by me

Loving me just as I love and stand by him.

The man who loves me

Will be strong as the ceibo trees

Solid and sheltering as they are,

Clear as a December morning.

The man who loves me

Will not distrust my smile

Nor fear my hair's profusion.

He will respect sorrow, silence.

And with caresses, he will play upon my stomach,

As on a guitar, making pleasure issue from

my body's recesses.

The man who loves me

Will discover I can be

A hammock on which to rest his burdens and cares.

A friend with whom to share intimate secrets.

A lake on which to float,

Without fear that the anchor of his commitment

Will prevent flight

Should it occur to him to be a bird.

The man who loves me

Will make poetry of his life

Structuring each day

With his gaze set on the future

But above all else

The man who loves me must love people

Not as some abstract category

Mentioned carelessly

But as something real, concrete

To whom one show devotion through actions

Giving up one's life if required.

The man who loves me

Will recognize my face in the midst of a battle

And with knee bent to the earth,

he will love me

As the two of us fire together at the enemy.

My man in love

Will not fear giving himself

Nor fear finding himself magically smitten.

In a plaza filled with great crowds,

He will be able to shout "I Love You"

Or make extravagant announcements on top of buildings

Proclaiming his right to feel

The most beautiful and human emotion.

My man in love

Will not flee kitchens

Nor the diapers of our child

His love will be like a refreshing breeze

Carrying away among mists of dream and the past

Weakness that, for centuries kept us divided,

As beings of different worth.

My man in love

Will not want to stereotype and standardize me

He will give me air, space

Nourishment to grow and improve

Like a REVOLUTION

Which makes each new day

The beginning of a NEW VICTORY.

 ______________
Reglas del juego para los hombres que quieren amar a mujeres

I

El hombre que me ame
deberá saber descorrer las cortinas de la piel,
encontrar la profundidad de mis ojos
y conocer la que anida en mí,
la golondrina
transparente de la ternura.

II

El hombre que me ame
no querrá poseerme como una mercancía,
ni exhibirme como un trofeo de caza,
sabrá estar a mi lado
con el mismo amor
con que yo estaré al lado suyo.

III

El amor del hombre que me ame
será fuerte como los árboles de ceibo,
protector y seguro como ellos,
limpio como una mañana de diciembre.

IV

El hombre que me ame
no dudará de mi sonrisa
ni temerá la abundancia de mi pelo
respetará la tristeza, el silencio
y con caricias tocará mi vientre como guitarra
para que brote música y alegría
desde el fondo de mi cuerpo.

V

El hombre que me ame
podrá encontrar en mí
la hamaca para descansar
el pesado fardo de sus preocupaciones
la amiga con quien compartir sus íntimos secretos,
el lago donde flotar
sin miedo de que el ancla del compromiso
le impida volar cuando se le ocurra ser pájaro.

VI

El hombre que me ame
hará poesía con su vida,
construyendo cada día
con la mirada puesta en el futuro.

VII

Por sobre todas las cosas,
el hombre que me ame
deberá amar al pueblo
no como una abstracta palabra
sacada de la manga,
sino como algo real, concreto,
ante quien rendir homenaje con acciones
y dar la vida si necesario.

VIII

El hombre que me ame
reconocerá mi rostro en la trinchera
rodilla en tierra me amará
mientras los dos disparamos juntos
contra el enemigo.

IX

El amor de mi hombre
no conocerá el miedo a la entrega,
ni temerá descubrirse ante la magia del
enamoramiento
en una plaza pública llena de multitudes
Podra gritar —te quiero—
o hacer rótulos en lo alto de los edificios
proclamando su derecho a sentir
el más hermoso y humano de los sentimientos.

X

El amor de mi hombre
no le huirá a las cocinas
ni a los pañales del hijo,
será como un viento fresco
llevándose entre nubes de sueño y de pasado
las debilidades que, por siglos, nos mantuvieron
separados
como seres de distinta estatura

XI

El amor de mi hombre
no querrá rotularme o etiquetarme,
me dará aire, espacio,
alimento para crecer y ser mejor,
como una Revolución
que hace de cada día
el comienzo de una nueva victoria.

Gioconda Belli

***
I, the one who loves you

I am your untamed gazelle
the thunder shattering the light on your chest.
I am the wind unchained in the mountain
and the concentrated radiance of the ocote’s fire. *
I heat your nights
lighting volcanoes in my hands,
moistening your eyes with  my crater’s smoke.
I came towards you wrapped in rain and memories,
laughing the immutable laughter of the years.
I am the unexplored road,
the light that shatters the dark.
I put stars between your skin and mine
and overrun you thoroughly,
trail after trail,
unlacing my love,
undressing my fear.
I am a name that sings and seduces you
from the other side of the moon,
I am the extension of your smile and your body.
I am something that grows,
something that laughs and cries.
I,
the one who loves you.

Yo, la que te quiere

Yo soy tu indómita gacela
el trueno que rompe la luz sobre tu pecho.
Yo soy el viento desatado en la montaña
y el fulgor concentrado del fuego del ocote.
Yo caliento tus noches
encendiendo volcanes en mis manos,
mojándote los ojos con el humo de mis cráteres.
Yo he llegado hasta vos vestida de lluvia y de recuerdo,
riendo la risa inmutable de los años.
Yo soy el inexplorado camino,
la claridad que rompe la tiniebla.
Yo pongo estrellas entre tu piel y la mía
y te recorro entero,
sendero tras sendero,
descalzando mi amor,
desnudando mi miedo.
Yo soy un nombre que canta y te enamora
desde el otro lado de la luna,
soy la prolongación de tu sonrisa y tu cuerpo.
Yo soy algo que crece,
algo que ríe y llora.
Yo,
la que te quiere.
Gioconda Belli
 

EDUARDO GALEANO

Utopia by Eduardo Galeano

This is an extract of Palabras andantes (1993) from Eduardo Galeano, Uruguyan writer and journalist.

Ella está en el horizonte [...].
Me acerco dos pasos,
ella se aleja dos pasos.
Camino diez pasos
y el horizonte se corre diez pasos más allá.
Por mucho que yo camine, nunca la alcanzaré.
¿Para que sirve la utopía?
Para eso sirve: para caminar.

--
It is in the horizon [...].
I move two steps forward,
it moves two steps away.
I walk ten steps
and the horizon runs ten steps further on.
No matter how much I walk, I will never reach it.
So what is the utopia for?
For that what it is: to move forward.

Extract from "Voices of Time: A Life in Stories"

Time Tells

We are made of time.

We are its feet and its voice.

The feet of time walk in our shoes.

Sooner or later, we all know, the winds of time will erase the tracks.

Passage of nothing, steps of no one? The voices of time tell of the voyage.

The Voyage

Oriol Vall, who works with newborns at a hospital in Barcelona, says that the first human gesture is the embrace. After coming into the world, at the beginning of their days, babies wave their arms as if seeking someone.

Other doctors, who work with people who have already lived their lives, say that the aged, at the end of their days, die trying to raise their arms.

And that’s it, that’s all, no matter how hard we strive or how many words we pile on. Everything comes down to this: between two flutterings, with no more explanation, the voyage occurs. 

 

Witnesses

The professor and the journalist walk in the garden.

The professor, Jean-Marie Pelt, stops, points, and says, "Allow me to introduce you to our grandparents."

The journalist, Jacques Girardon, crouches down and finds a ball of foam peeking out from the blades of grass.

The ball is a town of microscopic blue algae. On very humid days, the blue algae allow themselves to be seen. They look like a wad of spit. The French journalist wrinkles his nose; the origin of life isn’t what we might call attractive, but from that spittle, from that mess, come all of us who have legs or roots or wings.

Before there was a before, when the world was barely a baby, without color or sound, there was blue algae. Streaming oxygen, they gave color to the sea and the sky. Then one fine day, a day that lasted millions of years, some blue algae decided to turn green. And bit by tiny bit, the green algae begat lichens, mushrooms, mold, medusas, and all the color and sound that came later, as did we, to unsettle the sea and the land.

Other blue algae preferred to carry on as they were.

And still are.

From the distant world that was, they observe the world that is.

What they think of it we do not know. 

Greeneries

When the sea became the sea, the land was still nothing but naked rock.

Then lichens, born of the sea, made meadows. They invaded the kingdom of stone, conquered it, turned it green.

That happened in the yesterday of yesterdays, and it is still going on. Lichens live where no one lives: on the frozen steppe, in the burning desert, on the peaks of the highest mountains.

Lichens live only as long as the marriage lasts between an alga and her son, the mushroom. If the marriage breaks up, the lichens break down.

Sometimes, fighting and disagreements lead the alga and mushroom to part. She complains that he keeps her hidden from the light. He says she makes him sick, feeding him sugar day and night.

Footprints

A couple was walking across the savannah in East Africa at the beginning of the rainy season. The woman and the man still looked a lot like apes, truth be told, although they were standing upright and had no tails.

A nearby volcano, now called Sadiman, was belching ash. The rain of ash preserved the couple’s footprints, from that moment through time. Beneath their gray blanket, the tracks remained intact. Those footprints show that this Eve and that Adam had been walking side by side; at a certain point she stopped, turned away, and took a few steps on her own. Then she returned to the path they shared.

The world’s oldest human footprints left traces of doubt. A few years have gone by. The doubt remains.

Copyright © 2006 by Eduardo Galeano
Translation copyright © 2006 by Mark Fried

The Nobodies written by Eduardo Galeano

User Rating: -- /10 (0 votes) - vote - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Print friendly version E-mail this poem to e friend Send this poem as eCard Add this poem to MyPoemList

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms. The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way. Who don't speak languages, but dialects. Who don't have religions, but superstitions. Who don't create art, but handicrafts. Who don't have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources. Who do not have names, but numbers. Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper. The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them