Diary: El Cajón de Grecia, April 2017

The rainy season has started, a bit early this year. Four new poems for April, on a variety of subjects, one about talking with friends, one about a movie, one about an encounter with a young poet and one accompanied by a photo of baby birds at the end. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.

To the dead

Old friends sit
lips loosened with guaro
the bombing
the killing
the lies
far away Syria
Afghanistan
still
war endless
since before we remember
the mother we suckled grown
wicked
mean
relief her embrace
to have fled.

Moon rises full
curtain of pines
whisper of wind
into the darking
drink turns to rum
the talk
quiet
of left behind striving
riches
fame
grandchildren’s future
drifting away
hope
despair
equally futile.

Vulcán Poás
magma rising
fuming
gases
dawn mist stubborn
inside the head
silence
solitude
brooding
the sense
of letters and words
a hundred years
ten thousand years
a name
what good
to the dead.

Invincible

The mind
refusing to be put
to anything more than to

pull weeds in the garden

tend orchids
prune dead roots
repot in rock

wait for the rains.

Last night watched a movie
by Werner Herzog
of a young man strong
Invincible
leaves stetl in Poland
nineteen thirty-two
to find fortune in Berlin
sees in the eyes
of crazed men and women
the horrors to come
the new Sampson
returns with a warning
nobody listening
scratches knee with a nail
dies
of infection
final delirium sees
his young brother
the quick one
fly.

Perhaps today
perhaps this afternoon
the rains will come.

Rosario

Invited to read
students of literature
of foreign tongue
a poem chosen
of a mind grown
cloudy of words
and yet another
of full moons passing
poet in shadow
pissing in the wind.

The class dissects
the poems as taught
unearthing meaning
where maybe there’s none.

A young woman
Rosario
eyes aflame
bursts out in verse
of girl bound
to demand of man
washing
cooking
cleaning
primping
her body even
not her own.

The poet
sits
listens
humble.

A live poet
properly displayed
can now exit
well worn
useless
smiling
that the fire
burns on.

Nurture

A decade of days
rain
each afternoon
Poás
spewing ash and fume

haze clears
ridge
white
coffee bloom dust

nest
perched
at the front door
igüirro hatchlings
mother
never far.

Diary: El Cajón de Grecia, March 2017

Five new poems for March, on really different themes: the sudden and unexpected death of a good friend, a scare with Irina, one on the more global theme of what humans are doing to this Earth that sustains us all, and a couple about the experience of writing. I find that now that I’ve finished with the Morera translations (they’re out being passed around for proofreading), I’m getting back to thinking more about my own work. I’d be interested to hear what you think.

All becomes still

Sometimes
the wind comes
over the vulcán
moaning
howling
through the tall pines
burrows the ears
thrashes round
around

The poet paces
flailing
no peace
no ease.

A pillow over the head
dampens the tumult
somewhat
no more than that.

One morning awake
ygüirro singing
cooling
soothing
the arms float
back
forth
slow the steps
rising
falling
poised the body
perched on one leg
snakes
weaves
the gentle breeze
inhale
exhale
all becomes still.

He leaves behind a wrought steel fence

Mark died.

His heart was racing
you see.
Went to the doctor
gave him some pills
to slow it down.
It slowed
then stopped.

Ambulance arrived
in twenty minutes
Mainor himself driving
sells bingo cards
door to door
to raise money
for Cruze Roja.
Another twenty minutes
Mark at the hospital
already dead
just sixty-seven.

Laurie wants no service
no celebration of life
no wake.
A fundraiser
maybe
raise money
for a defibrillator
but just a driver
no medic
why bother.

Mark leaves behind
a fence along the street
wrought steel flowing
plants
flowers
birds
painted vibrant
a like gate hung
from a concrete post
blooming Laurie’s mosaic.

See it
every time passing
the drive down to town.

Middlemarch

Middlemarch
artic ice
begins retreat
winter advance parried
fiery storm and sea.

Trades lingering kiss
shoulders of the vulcán
morning heat preens
foretasting wetness
of a sultry sea
afternoon release.

Drifting in
on unseen waves
shrill cavils
northern lands
peoples proclaiming
wealth and power
proof
of a god’s smile
for the unblessed
reprobation.

Ages ago
were written songs
words now
forgotten by heart
of men grown scornful
of god’s rain
claimed springs and rivers
as their own
vaunting those sufficient.

Streams running
thick and black
human kind once
again turn blind
gathering fury
a god repenting
a race begot
for whom shall be
no lamenting.

Amnesia

Early one morning
a morning like any other
skies clearest blue but
for bank of pale cloud
whisping the ridge
brown jays in the treetops
chattering quietly
yigüirro crooning
his lilting song

You come to me
down through the garden
perch on the low table
and say to me
something’s wrong
I’m scared
can’t focus
can’t remember
what day is it today?

It’s Friday I say
eying you closely
not dizzy
no drooping
no weakness of arm
walking
talking
knowing where
and who
you are and I
names of the dogs

I take your arm
stroll up the path
at the steps you stop
ask once again
what day is it today?

It’s Friday repeating
speaking so softly
google the symptoms
of sudden forgetting
confusion no sign
of bodily insult
I don’t think it’s serious
sighing relief
transient global amnesia
no known cause
no known harm
goes away by itself
just a few hours.
What’s global mean you ask
Don’t know
doesn’t say

You drink your fruit drink
snack charcuterie bits
ask again surprised
to hear that it’s Friday
and ask again
what’s wrong
and again I explain
assure you’ll be fine
again knowing not
the meaning of global
sit you down front
the monitor screen
you read afresh
the Mayo page

Soon after lunch
you ponder out loud
I know we‘ve eaten
see dishes draining
the rack in the sink
don’t remember eating
don’t remember washing.
I washed them reminding
right after we ate

It’s Friday I say
time for the feria
do you feel well
enough to go out?
You answer I’m better
of course we’re going.
We pick up Rick
you tell the story
shopping for produce
bump into friends
tell story over
again and again
and even again
Isabel’s that evening.

A few moments stretching
your being gone
terror of not knowing
how far
how long.

Work on a poem

my love this morning
of wind stilled
warm and bright
on bus to the city
adventure with Jane

debone a chicken
roasted last night
Bela the girl pup
sits alert begging
bits of skin and flesh

black beans on the stove
boil strain out
water and gas
second time simmer
chili powder season
plenty of salt
mash with a heaping
spoonful of pork fat

chicken bones roast
chopped carrot and onion
herbs gathered
parsley oregano thyme
boil for stock
soup or sauce for a supper

tonight I fancy
tenderloin leftovers
sandwich toasted
two day old bread
glass of red wine
upon her return

kitchen play done
sit at my desk
work on a poem