Or Am I Or Am I Not A Knot Of Contradictions?
After Harmony by Remedios Varo
Last night I woke up in angst. I thought my cat was scratching
behind the closed door. It must have been a desperate critter
scratching frenetically the surface, caught somewhere within the
unfathomable layers wrapped around our home. Its tragic attempt
at freedom left me terrified. I imagined the wall’s plaster cracking
open, giving place to another dimension from which a trapped bird
or bat would fly, or was it another being immured for too long,
striving to liberate itself as it sensed feathered nests in the back of
the recliner’s upholstery?
When I sit still for a while on my desk, I hear the growth of
underground roots filling the interstices of tiles as though I were in
an abandoned patio invaded by weeds or the ruins of an ancestral
house. I am no longer alone, surrounded by reflections of my
lengthening shadow rising over the walls. That’s when I sense
writing as a form of incantation. See, that’s why I write, not to
tell a story but to reconcile myself with the echoes of the tunes
that keep singing within me like a haunting melody as the musical
score becomes tridimensional, takes a life of its own, or is it just a
variation on the same tune?
First published by The Night Heron Barks
From Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023)
Reading by Candlelight
Bent over the page, I watch the light of the candle cast fluid shadows,
the way the cypress pierces low clouds with its vertical green flame,
flaring will-o’-wisps spring from the spiral staircase of my
consciousness, ferns unfurl in slow motion, spread liquid color
at dawn as fronds fill spaces once covered with snow,
the hearth’s fiery tongues my cat and I watch flicker all night long,
the blue flame rising when I’d flambé cognac over crêpes suzettes,
the flicker of a match lighting a cigarette,
the infamous flames of a pyre or an auto da fe in a central square,
the flame of a candle I read about, lighting Camoens’ table,
his cat sitting on a pile of notes eyes gleaming at the waning wick,
the poet keeps writing in the dark under the light shed from the eyes
of his cat,
the tall flames casting a shadow-show of a couple’s encounter over
the walls of a cave,
flames rising from Beirut at night, as we watched from the mountains
during the civil war,
the flames of violence filtered by the TV screen, more virtual each day,
still color the news, images hiding the smell of blood and charred skin
First published by Poetic Diversity The Litzine of Los Angeles,
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)
Vanishing Point
After Surreal Board Games: Street of Chance by Juanita Guccione
Under a dark moon that has decided to keep silent, I wander
along the street of chance, staring at the vanishing point,
uncertain of the odds of being, but with the certainty that it
leads to the sea. I walk like an automaton among passersby,
gliding as faceless pawns. A couple of black horses pound the
pavement, wavering between going forward or backward.
I wonder what lies for me at the end of this road lined with
lamplights and palm trees. Fan-leaved branches stretch,
unfolding an animated deck of cards turning into murals that
grow in size. Shuffled and reshuffled at each step, some cards
flip into a hall of mirrors in which I lose myself in my own
reflections, as though in an old photo album where the faces
of those now buried are fading.
we’re crossing the bridge of death to leave behind
the madness . . . black sacks stained
with blood . . . stillness . . . snipers. . .
a heart skips a beat.
I walk faster, look sideways: some things are best forgotten.
Let’s fold the night into light. I pass a couple of young men
who seem to get closer to me, then recede and peel off the
murals, disintegrate like antique parchments at the sight of an
imposing woman in Tyrian purple, a younger version of my
mother who takes me by the hand and whispers in my ear:
There isn’t a minute to lose.
First published by Gargoyle
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)
No comments:
Post a Comment