Clatter track-tide wail
Bearing who knows what or where
Vague longing in its wake.

(Almost ready made poetry xxiii)

Madness takes its toll.
Let's do the Time Warp again!
A jump to the left.

It might occur on few nights in your life, that,
you dream awake and listen to a tune,
that certain kind that Bach might have composed,
a ruby string of notes chasing each other
obeying strict necessity, a sequence
so clear and meaningful there is no doubt,
that it must sound and resonate in mind
and substance just precisely in that way,
no matter who, or for that matter what,
might be around to listen, so unlike
the sound that might or not at all ensue
when the proverbial tree falls in the forest
and no one ‘s there to hear it,
your mind will be transported to a state,
in which it gives birth to a train of thoughts
that leads you to conclude there is, or rather,
for certainty is but deceitful pride
in matters such as these,
there must be flocks of sheep that have been grazing
the mountains of Arcadia through the ages.

A flock, and if it just be one, the same,
that nibbled at the juicy leaves of clover,
the golden blades of sturdy grass, back then
when the Achaean fleet set sail to cross
the seas darker than wine and carry war
and doom to Ilion on far eastern shores.
Perhaps some of its lambs rode on those ships,
To feed the heroes craving the next battle,
or to be killed in gratitude for victory;
“Athena nikephoros”.
Perhaps it gave coarse wool to weave the robes,
That kept those warriors warm on chilly nights
And good strong guts to string their murderous bows.
Achaean bows of war and later Dorian
and Roman bows and even later Byzantine.
How many nations bore the happy shepherds,
that drove that flock from craggy pass to meadow?
How many tongues were echoed on those mountains?
Those nations lie in rubble piled on rubble,
the wooden ships are long since gone, and men
do not kill men with arrows anymore.
But though it wanes and waxes with time’s tides
the flock still nibbles at the golden blades.

There stands an Abbey, or, as we were saying,
there must stand one, the ruins rather, sitting
at other mountains’ feet, the Pyrenees.
Abandoned, it would seem for many ages,
just like those cities crumbling back to dust
along the routes where silk crawled to the west.
It is a building as if made by giants,
of gothic greatness and in every way
just what you would imagine if you came
across it in your readings.
It has the pointed arches and the gargoyles,
the flying buttresses, the soaring spires,
the firm intention to increase God’s glory.
And yet that skeleton lacks the essential:
A meaning of its own.
Nobody knows who built it anymore,
but it should be quite safe to say that Monks
once settled there and raised it with their hands.
Who were those men? By what rule did they live?
What was the name of their community?
Do we still think some thought that they conceived of?
Their flock is lost, dispersed in time, and nothing
remains of them, but for the fragile echo
that is our knowledge of their having been;
A mere assumption made to satisfy
the urge we feel to have that ruin explained
the craggy needle raging towards heaven.

There are, or rather, there must be, museums
where you’re allowed to lay your yearning hands
on the smooth surface of a meteorite
and murmur in your lowest voice to it:
What is your substance, whereof are you made?
And wonder at the distance that it travelled
for aeons till it fell out of our sky,
and whether it was grain of sand or mountain,
a fragment of a world long turned to dust.
Its creatures burnt or frozen, gone forever,
whether they grazed in peace on pleasant pastures,
or fought each other for the sake of battle,
or watched the skies and asked themselves if there,
among the stars, were others gazing too.
Will such a world have ever been at all?
Or must it always be mere possibility,
a shape, no more, conjured after the taste
that rules the fickle making of our thoughts?

There must be regions of the world that time,
not quite but almost, seems to have forgotten.
There you might come upon the sight of landscapes
that have not changed for centuries at all,
or have a meal that has delighted palates
of countless generations.
Perhaps you will be served a sweet dessert
that tastes of dew on cypress bounded meadows,
and smiles of silk clad gold skinned women lying
on ancient dining beds,
A dish prepared after a recipe
that lived on in the memory of kitchens
while halls of marble fell and warriors’ feats
were fatefully undone and then forgotten.
What force did such a subtle thing thrive on,
where might and hardness failed so utterly?

Back to Arcadia then, back to the mountains,
where it is easy to imagine life
as careless dream, and things to be more simple.
Where we would find our wary heart’s repose
in tending to the flock, or more precisely
in caring for the sheep;
For why should such a flock that has perdured
through countless ages be in need of us?
Back to Arcadia then, back to the meadows
where we would be content, to still our hunger
with humble feasts of ewe’s milk cheese and bread,
and quench our thirst with water from the brooks,
to be relieved of all earthly possessions
but for a shepherd’s crook and woolen coat.
There where our spirit freed at last from greed
may roam the spheres and ponder whether shape
can be the very substance of the universe,
and whether consciousness can be it’s soul,
the vital force that makes it possible
for patterns to persist through change as things.
Back to Arcadia then, back to the orchards,
where on particularly pleasant nights
the Gods themselves might come to stroll among us
and, seeking conversation, choose to show you
the golden thread they use to weave the world.
And while you talk and share a cup of wine,
it might be that you find yourself in wonder,
for maybe you came long ago to know
that they most certainly do not exist.
But on a night like this, a special night,
one in the myriads that must follow all
the nameless days of sheer eternity,
with breezes blowing softly to caress them
with scents of spice and myrrh and frankincense,
and the cicadas singing for their pleasure
that special music made of sense and purpose,
why should they care what you believe or think?
Why should the gods eternal care at all?

a) Mitos y Hermanos.

La vieja que arde en el horno,
y los niños victoriosos,
en huida por el bosque,
recargados de botín.
Las leyendas y los cuentos
recontados por los Grimm.
Los Grimm, Herder y los Schlegel.
Y los primeros filólogos.


b) Una sarta letal de ideas.

Y su gran descubrimiento:
Las lenguas Indo-Europeas.
La hermandad de pueblos Arios.
Las raíces en la India
Y la Europa emancipada
del mítico origen bíblico.
La evolución y “El origen
de las especies”, el Génesis
refutado por la ciencia.
El destino manifiesto.
La hegemonía de Europa.
Y la superioridad
de las razas dominantes.
La selección del más apto
y la extinción de los débiles.
La conspiración mundial.


c) El progreso al servicio del orden natural.

La extinción administrada,
con número y medida,
detrás de cercos eléctricos.
El botín amontonado
pulcramente en los patios
de los campos de exterminio.
Los crematorios humeando.
Y los que arden adentro.

In Memoriam Thomas Michael Disch

I
Here we stand then,
at this heath of searing helplessness.
No gift shall shield us here
no wit, no wisdom, faith or doctrine.
Not ours by any means,
so pale and frail, and maybe even tainted,
by prideful motivation.
Nor his, which flowed so freely,
in careless generosity, unsung.
For he has shed all attributes and all else too,
the flesh, the spirit and the bone.

II
So here we stand then,
without aid and bare
must face his cutting nakedness. We can’t
take flight in soft oblivion nor in memory;
We cannot hide from it behind the things
we had in common nor inside the rifts
that ran between us.
For it is but a shape and how could we
hide from a shape that has no substance, less
than sparrows’ footprints on the morning’s snow?
We shan’t.

III
Here will we stand then
time and again.
Even when the throb of grief has passed and it,
we know it even now, will pass,
as we grow numb from habit; Even then
we shall return to dwell upon his absence.
For now we bear a hollow on the surface,
an imprint of that shape just now discerned.
And we cannot be whole again, as little
as a shattered Grecian urn
missing a shard.

for Tom Disch

There were no pictures in the papers, not
a single blurry one in black and white.
Nor did the waves go zinging through the night
to bring the news from that forsaken spot.

To tell the truth, most had forgot by then,
the ones who’d put their fierce lives on the line,
who‘d crossed the cold void sea darker than wine.
They’d heard the stars beckon; bright lures of men.

The last of them, no one would write his elegy,
stood there content, smiled through his plastic bubble
at one last alien eve, he’d drained his cup.

He only rued that no one ‘d see the prodigy;
They’d found her lying in the crimson rubble:
Fair Nike's marble statue busted up.

Infiltra su presencia ineludible
a pesar de haber nunca existido,
o mas bien, de cesar el haber sido
en un pasado ahora irredimible.

Si no en recuerdo, en el difícil acto
de olvidar a la luz de la evidencia.
O en el falaz recuento de la ciencia,
que dice de tres siglos: “entreacto”.

Allí están los palacios, los conventos,
los paisajes labrados en la historia,
los sabores, las leyendas y la caña.

Nos habla en el clamor de mil acentos,
vedándonos negarle la memoria;
El virreinato de la nueva España.

He sees the rose of dawn shine through the mists
where others see but hazy desperation.
He has been shown a better land exists,
not far, across the river’s bifurcation.

He must arrive before the break of day
and lead the helpless groping in the night
and gather all the sheep that went astray
for later none may enter ‘neath the light.

He hears the voice now, calling from the island
it speaks in tongues, that all may heed its lore.
He rushes them to leave behind the highland
and board the ships awaiting on the shore.

They set across, he watches from the strand
For he shan’t tread upon the promised land.

Theorem one: a Chessboard can be tiled
with bones of dominoes, a perfect fit.
The proof: arrange eight rows of bones compiled
Of four bones each. An easy task to wit!

Theorem two: a Chessboard can’t be tiled
With bones of dominoes if you remove
Two corners that are not arranged, not filed
Along a single row or column groove.

The proof: A bone must lie upon two squares
And must obey the chessboard’s chequered law
And therefore has to cover mismatched pairs
While you removed a matched one with your saw.

A tiling needs to hide the same amount
Of black and white but you upset the count!

Why do I wake unrested in this keep?
Where is my sword? Where lie my spear, my mail?
Whose will is it to make my purpose fail?
Whence came the tangled dream, the poisoned sleep?

It bore the semblance of a peaceful life,
There was a wife and children and a house,
And tepid love and nothing to arouse
Cold dread of trouble or shrill din of strife.

As passion flows back burning into me,
The glamour ‘s cast back through the Ivory gates.
I blow my horn, the walls come down, I’m free.

I ride again, the last man on the quest
To bring the cup back to the king that waits
And heal the grievous wound that ails the West.

Nicht tot sind wir, nicht in der Halle, nicht
Gefallen; Verborgen in der Menge,
Ersehnen Schlaf in kühler karger Strenge,
und wachen doch im grellen Sonnenlicht.

Die Rüstung hängt in rostigem Entzug,
Das Schwert, nach Kampf noch lüstern, unbesonnen,
Im Garn der trägen Jahre eingesponnen.
Das noble Ross zieht auf dem Feld den Pflug.

Einst ritten wir im Sturm der Schlacht entgegen.
Uns galt der alten Troubadouren Sang,
der Schwachen und der Pilger dankbar Segen.

Seht ihr es Funkeln fern im Abendrot?
Hört ihr im Wind des Stahles hellen Klang?
Schallt bald der Ruf zum letzten Aufgebot?

The clamour of the steps out on the stairs
Would rouse my hopes by rising, just to die
away a floor below or to pass by,
Indifferent, in rhythmic dwindling pairs.

I'd drain cup after cup of tea in feigned
Placidity. And write in careless tone
As if the care that loomed was not my own.
But soon the cup of self deceit was drained.

Then I would leave my room and roam the streets
In search of stronger potions that might numb
The throbbing of my melancholy sore.

Thus did I spend my days, those were the beats
That marked the passing of the hours glum,
Until the steps, your steps, passed by no more.

I haven’t seen you since we met one day
Still almost children, in a secret garden.
We bloomed together in a strange new way
And swore to Love our hearts would never harden.

I never found back to that glade again,
To rest upon your breasts and breathe your kiss.
But not a single day has dawned since then
In which I didn’t think of you with bliss.

I know not how you were returned to me,
But if we stay together through the night
And cast again the spell of sweat and glee,
We won’t be torn apart by dawn’s cold light.

I woke alone this morning and wept tears
As I have wept each morning all these years.

Wie konnte dieser Spalt vor dem wir stehen
So breit und tief gedeihen, mitten drin
Im menschlichen Vermögen Bild und Sinn
In Zeichen zu verzahnen und verstehen?

Etwa aus Not das Üble zu vertreiben
All das was schmerzhaft ist oder obszön?
Aus Hoffnung, dass die Welt nun gut und schön
Erblühen wird weil wir sie so beschreiben?

Doch nichts lässt sich verändern durch befinden.
Und Lügen sind stets Lügen selbst die klugen,
sie dienen nur dem Wucher des Verkannten.

Lasst uns zur Sprache Adams wieder finden
In der die Dinge wahre Namen trugen,
weil Namen die Natur der Dinge nannten.

But for the haircut, uniform, and gun
you couldn't tell them from the Poles and Germans
you just arrived with, flying with the sun.
They are their nation's face. It is proclaimed
on posters hanging from the booths they man.
You wait in line as each of them determines
who is with them and thus is not against;
who may come in and who is under ban.
These are the heartland's people, barely tamed.
Hard working people, friendly and polite
whose idealism can be clearly sensed;
their dreams America's their heartbeat hers.
Their stance denotes well meaning yet confers
the fact it doesn't take much provocation
to make them bare their teeth and bring about
their stern and merciless determination;
That tool their forebears used to take the land
and keep it, never questioning their right.
They welcome you, admit you with a smile,
but once inside, you're taken by surprise:
Is this a place you have already seen?
The decor's barren flair, the carpet's hue,
are thirty years at least behind in style.
Outside soft clouds are grazing pastel skies.
The sun by virtue of its flawless glare
has set the air to quiver casting doubt
on the solidity of what's in view:
The fading buildings, hangars, airplanes diving
or rising from the cracking pools of sheen.
These sights, the signs, the very words they bear
arouse in you a quaint forgotten mood,
like scents of childhood's day smelled once again.
You wonder at this feeling and conclude,
you might have travelled farther than you'd planned.
“Perhaps”, you tell yourself, “you are arriving
at L.P. Hartley's foreign country: Then”.

Por un instante están allí hostigados,
desfigurados, roto el cuerpo, el alma.
Huidos de si mismos, embriagados,
despojados por siempre de su calma.

La pérdida es atroz, quizás la amante,
el semblante, la vista o la razón.
La expresión, estridencia delirante,
anhelante de pan y comunión.

El corazón vencido por el hado,
espera redención que nunca llega,
porque quedó atrapado en el pasado.

Pasa el momento y cae la sombra ciega.
El mundo continúa despiadado
esquivando el escollo aunque lo niega.

At first they are fragile as buds in spring.
I raise them in the luscious woods of pages,
that has grown wild upon my shelves of ages,
where they can murmur in the shade and sing.

They sprout in yellow beds of patterned leaves,
that give them warmth and nourish them with lyrics,
that muses whispered once to brighter spirits;
The histories of lovers, gods, and thieves.

I tend them carefully with clumsy fingers,
and pray that when my pencil makes them bloom,
they’ll turn out loud with colour and perfume
of passion, insight, wit, and spice that lingers.

And then I make them ships of fourteen planks,
and set them out to thrive on distant banks.

Old Khronos half along a placid stroll
becomes aware once more he has been walking
half an eternity. Then briefly balking,
he turns around, sets out, his hearth his goal.

Thus history at last comes to an end,
reflects back on itself, its flow reversed.
Now no occurrence ever will be first,
nor will surprise await around no bend.

Chance, once mysterious scout who chose the course
becomes reduced to trivial afterthought.
Stern Fate, who made things turn the way they ought,
is useless now the destiny ‘s the source.

Once home old Time will take a meal, a bath,
and maybe later he’ll tread another path.


_______________________________________
This one is dedicated to joculum

They gush relentless from the deepest holes,
from dungeons drenched in strenuous sweat of fell,
men toiling and men toiled on for their soul’s
sake. Lest they’re condemned to another hell.
They pour through vicious fences of camps. Flow
incessantly from mouths or what once were,
from camphored corridors of wards aglow
with pain. From shapeless bulks that barely stir.
Brought forth by shame, by longing and despair
reverberate in all things whether glum
or bright; In atoms, oceans, lives, and dreams
engulfing all in waves that chill the air
until at last the whole world has become
The wreckage littered bed of river screams.

1. Fundación

Fueron tres los primeros que llegaron,
acaso de Pantasma o de otro valle,
haciendo nueva trocha no había calle,
de ingenio y osadía se bastaron.

Eran colinas vírgenes, sin nombre,
que nadie había pisado o cultivado;
Colinas sin leyendas ni pasado,
que no habían dado a luz a ningún hombre.

Montados en la cima de una de ellas,
cercaron con la vista todo el monte
que estaba mas acá del horizonte
y partieron la tierra sin querellas.

Fue Úbeda quien de ellos con su clan
fundó allí mismo Planes de Vilán.