Tag Archives: bugs

Diary: El Cajón de Grecia, September 13, 2021

Today, a plethora of poetry.

A couple of bug poems, accompanied by photographs. Especially for you, Bryan!

First, caterpillars.

Juno silverspot caterpillars 

A black lump
teeming larvae
oozing over the patio
moving much faster 
than any one could alone

a rolling track 
of caterpillars
those on the ground crawling
at regular speed
those climbing their backs 
cover twice as much distance
those running on top
cruising faster yet
all swapping positions
each taking their turn 

quickly crossing 
expanse of tile
the roiling mass 
disappears into dense 
green growth of garden.

Next, a walking stick.

Giant spiny walking stick

At break of dawn
a twelve-inch stick
stuck to the screen
of the bedroom slider.

Feed in the night
phasmids rest the day
their disguise of twig
to keep them safe.

This one, three legs
but little matter
phasmids able
to regrow dropped parts. 

Most likely female 
no need for a mate
hatchlings like-sexed 
males rare to null.

The stick walking
off with the light.

I’ve been slowly working through a careful proofreading of the book of Rosibel Morera’s poems in the original Spanish accompanied by my translations into English, preparing for a future edition. Here’s one of my favorites, showing her more sensual side.

From the memory of my body 

Today there is barely a breeze
and
that
skirting 
slight
flagging
the air
its 
location 
to things

today
in absence of spilled fire
may remoteness burn us
may length of skin bring you 
because it is cold
animal warmth distant
I take you from the memory of my body
from its moist reliquaries 
and I make you 
come
prodigy
in my own flesh.

De la memoria de mi cuerpo

Hoy que es apenas la brisa
y
que 
bordeando 
leve 
señala
el aire
su
lugar
a las cosas
hoy
que no hay lumbre derramada 
lejanía que nos queme
largura de la piel que te traiga
porque está frío
el tibio animal
de la distancia
te tomo de la memoria de mi cuerpo 
de sus relicarios húmedos
y te hago
venir
prodigio
en carne propia.

Credits: Photos by Irina

Diary: El Cajón de Grecia, November 2017

All of my books (in ebook format) are now available for free at Smashwords , go to the Purchase My Books page for details. Hopefully they’ll be free at Amazon soon. Please consider buying a paperbound copy if you like the works – the books and their artwork are beautiful, and the experience of reading poetry is much more rewarding holding the book in your hands.

For this month I have two new poems. Also, a translation of a Rosibel Morera poem that she and I worked on together, about the relationship between a writer and the artist’s reader.

On the plinth of the porch post

at morning’s first light
two moths lie together
heads antiposed
like Molly and Poldy

white etched black
shaded in gray
her downy wing blankets
the whole of his body

there unmoving
the all of the day
as would befit
creatures of night

dawn the next
the male is gone
she lies there still
unseen moves on.

Mourning

Jose’s father died.

Eduardo.
(had to ask Ligia,
didn’t know his name
though we waved each time
passing the shop).

Friday morning
Mainor working by himself
car won’t start
after stopping at the little store
just two doors down.
He sets his task aside
together we walk
hand him the key
he turns it
nothing.
Back up to the shop
and down again
carrying a cable
opens the hood
clips the jumper
cranks the car, it starts.
Bring it in Monday
can’t get to it today
he says
I’m all alone
in Spanish of course.

Early afternoon
at the Rosvil Super
waving and smiling
José and his wife
(Vanessa her name
had to ask Ligia
though we often spoke greeting).
I took the day off
José says.
Felicitaciones
I say.
My father died
José says.
Oh I’m so sorry
I say.

Drive back up the hill
tarps are stretched
shading benches and chairs
in front of the little house
attached to the shop
where Eduardo lived.

Late afternoon
on the way to Isabel’s
the street’s lined with cars
seats are filled
people milling
crying
hugging
open casket laid out
crowding the small sala.
We stop
leave flowers
with Ligia
she’s a Barrantes.

Saturday
funeral at the church
just a few doors down
street again lined with cars
hearse parked in front.

Sunday
the chairs and benches
under the tarp at the front
of the house at the shop
again fill with people
mourning.

Rosibel Morera:

The reader

you come to this book
fleeing like me

you know me by name
and by little snippets
on the back cover

Poetry:
the serious sound of pen
that becomes as one as we talk alone

languages
flow for hours
speaking of you and of me
identities joined

brief the summer
giving way to thunderous storms
of rain

everything will come
to this grand party
to this smoky corner
that you set for your love and mine