Saturday, August 30, 2014

what might be
another Browning

by Roberto Lavidez

foul be
the world
or fair
more 
or less
how can
I care?
how many
precious
months
and years
of youth
had passed
that speed
so fast
before 
we found 
it out
at last
the world
and what
it fears
do you know
I have often
had a dream
of man’s
poor spirit
in its 
progress
still losing
true life
for ever
and a day
through ever
trying to be
and ever 
being
schemes 
of life
its best rules
and right uses
the courage
that gains
and the
prudence
that keeps
what men
strive for
who knows
what’s fit
for us
had fate
proposed
bliss here
should
sublimate
my being
had I signed
the bond
still one must
lead some
life beyond
have a bliss
to die with
dim-descried
we speak
of what is
not of what
might be
and how’t
were better
if ‘t were
otherwise
did I stand
question and
make answer
still with the
same result
of smiling
disbelief
being
as I find
much reason
to conceive
intended
to be viewed
eventually
as a great
whole
not analyzed
to parts but
each part
having
reference
to all
yes
earth
yes
mere ignoble
earth!
now do I
mis-take
mistake?
do I wrong
your weakness
and call it
worth?
expect
all harvest
dread
no dearth
seal my
sense up
for your
sake
I till
this earth
my sweat
and blood
manure
all the
long day
that barrenly
grows dusk
how well
I know
what I mean
to do
when the
long dark
autumn
evenings
come
I have shed
sweat enough
left flesh
and bone
on many
a flinty
furlong
of this land
dream the life
I am never
to mix with
and image
the show
of mankind
as they live
in those
fashions
I hardly
shall know
we mortals
cross
the ocean
of this
world
each in his
average
cabin
of a life
let’s sink
and so
take refuge
as it were
from life’s
excessive
altitude
to life’s
breathable
wayside
shelter
at its base
it’s wiser
being good
than bad
it’s safer
being meek
than fierce
it’s fitter
being sane
than mad
think when
our one soul
understands
the great
word which
makes all
things new
else it loses
what it
lived for
and eternally
must lose it
every one
knows for
what his
excellence
will serve
but no one
ever will
consider
for what
his worst
defect
might serve
god and man
and what duty
I owe both
I dare
to say
I have
confronted
these
in thought
but no
such faculty
helped here
well are we
demigods or
merely clay
is success
still attendant
on desert?
is this
we live on
heaven and
the final
state
or earth
which means
probation
to the end?
I love it
with my heart
unsatisfied
I try it with
my reason
nor discept
from any point
I probe and
pronounce
sound
what so false
as truth is
false to thee?
where the
serpent’s
tooth is
shun the tree
what so wild
as words are
I and thou
in debate
as birds are
Hawk on
bough!
here I wait
the end of
this ado
which wins
earth’s poet
or the
Heavenly
Muse
and now
a flower
is just
a flower
man
bird
beast
are but
beast
bird
man
simply
themselves
the shell
sucks fast
the rock
the fish
strikes
through
the sea
the snake
both swims
and slides
forth range
the beasts
the birds
take flight
till life’s
mechanics
can no
further go
what does it
all mean
poet?
well
your brains
beat into
rhythm
you tell
what we
felt only
you expressed
you hold things
beautiful
the best
and pace them
in rhyme so
side by side
had I but all
of them
thee and thy
treasures
what a wild
crowd of
invisible
pleasures!
flower o’
the clove
all the Latin
I construe
is “amo”
I love!

©robertolavidez2014



















Thursday, August 28, 2014

a little treasury of
nothing, nothing, nothing, 
nothing at all

Muir, Jeffers, Keyes, Thomas, Barker, Ransom, Hardy, Bridges, Yeats, Watkins, Manifold, Lawrence, Auden, Eberh'art, Williams, Lindsay, Wylie, MacLeish, Bogan, Sitwell, Trench, MacNeice, Dickinson, Moore, Owen, Mathews, Sandburg, Pound, Hodgson, Bishop)

by Roberto Lavidez
     
      I

the idle life
I lead
is like
a pleasant
sleep
wherein
I rest and
heed the
dreams that
by me sweep
there had
been years
of passion
scorching
cold and
much despair
and anger
heaving high
care whitely
watching
sorrows
manifold
among
the young
among
the weak
and old
and the
pensive spirit
of pity
whispered
“why?”
there used
to be debate
of soul
and body
the soul
storming
incontinent
with shrew’s
tongue
against what
natural
brilliance
body
had loved
who shall
end my
dream’s
confusion?
life is a loom
weaving
illusion
I remember
I remember
I have played
with god
for a woman
I have staked
with my god
for truth
I have lost
to my god
as a man
clear-eyed
his dice
be not
of ruth
I see
a road
beyond
nowhere
defined by
cirrus and
blue air
I saw
a man
but he
is gone
his shadow
gone into
the sun
and the
dreamer
turns away
from his
visionary
herds
and his
splendid
yesterday
turns
to meet
the loathly
birds
flocking
round him
from the
skies
waiting for
the flesh
that dies
there in
the starless
dark
the poise
the hover
there with
vast wings
across the
cancelled
skies
there in
the sudden
blackness
the black
pall of
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
at all

   II

still falls
the rain
in the field
of blood
where the
small hopes
breed and the
human brain
nurtures
its greed
that worm
with the
brow of Cain
there the
beginning
finds the end
before beginning
ever can be
I had
the heart
to relate
the loss
of my charms
the paradise
pets I kept
in my pocket
the bird
the tulip trumpet
the phallic
water pistol
I had
the heart to have
mourned them
but no word
we shall see
the sky
without birds
the wind
will blow
no leaves
will ruffle
no new river
we shall walk
in the desert
together
I flung myself
down on
the earth
full length
on the
great earth
full length
I wept out
the dark
load of
human love
better to
unloose
a flock of
screams
into the rain
swing open
the door
hung by
the nerves
over deeps
of evil
I know that
I shall meet
my fate
somewhere
among the
clouds above
those that
I fight
I do not hate
those that
I guard
I do not love
the heart was
a-weeping
and crying
so small
fol de rol
de raly o!
fol de rol!
the heart was
a-weeping
and crying
so small
are you hurt
my child
are you
hurt at all?
pain has
an element
of blank
it cannot
recollect
when it began
or if there
were a day
when it
was not
O life
life
let me
breathe
a dugout rat!
not worse
than ours
the existences
rats lead
nosing along
at night
down some
safe rut
they find a
shell-proof
home before
they rot

   III

come and
show me
another city
with lifted
head singing
so proud
to be alive
and coarse
and strong
and cunning
it is better
we should
go into Asia
or any other
tunnel where
the world
recedes or
turn blind
wantons
like the gulls
who scream
and rip the
edge off
any ideal
or dream
o look
look in
the mirror
o look in
your distress
life remains
a blessing
although you
cannot bless
when the
world turns
upside down
you say we’ll
emigrate to the
Eastern shore
aboard a
river-boat
from Baltimore
do hold yourself
together and
fight with
a hit-hit
here and
a hit-hit
there
and a
comfortable
feeling
at night
that you’ve
let in
a little air
I could as
hardly make
a moral fit
around it
as around
a lightning-flash
there is
no moral
that’s the
point of it
no moral
now if I speak
my words
can belong
to no book
for my fingers
mingle the
language of
water and dove
ending here
at the source
the journey
they took
there are
things
that are
important
beyond all
this fiddle
reading it
however
with a perfect
contempt
for it
one discovers
in it after all
a place for
the genuine
what is the
metre of the
dictionary?
the size of
genesis?
the short
spark’s gender?
shade without
shape?
the shape of
Pharoaoh’s
echo?
   
   IV

but this
I steadily
assure you
is not the
world’s end
nor even
the end of
a civilization
it is not
so late as
you think
given nature
time…
heart so
subtle now
and trembling
what a marvel
to be wise
to love never
in this
manner
but I can’t
be talkin’
of love
dear
I can’t
be talkin’
of love
if there be
one thing
I can’t talk of
that one thing
do be love

©robertolavidez2014












Tuesday, August 26, 2014

where were we :

Larkin, Purdy, Ferlinghetti,
Cohen, Ondaatje, Heaney, Snyder,
Gunn, Creeley, Olson

By Roberto Lavidez

where
were we -
a girl in
a red skirt
high heels
going up
the stairs
before me
in a made-
over barn
white-wash
peeling
we lived
together
in the loft
on cool
bare boards
lemme
tell you
something
kid
back in 1910
who knows
you?
who remembers
you?
but in
your house
a ritual is
in progress:
it is not
finished:
it needs
more people
let us arise
and go now
into the
interior
dark night
of the soul’s
still bowery
and find
ourselves
anew
where subways
stall and wait
under the river
cross over
into full
puzzlement
and always
the voice
will sound
certain
you approve
this audacious
purifying
elemental
move
beyond
all this
the wish
to be alone
beneath it all
desire of
oblivion runs
while rain
cries out
against us
and darkness
swallows
the evening
and morning
moves into
stillness and
mist climbs
to our
throats
while we
are running
while we
are running
as the dead
prey upon us
they are
the dead
in ourselves
awake
my sleeping
ones
I cry out
to you
disentangle
the nets
of being!
what am I
to myself
that must be
remembered
insisted upon
so often?
is it that
never the
ease
even the
hardness of
rain falling
will have
for me
something
other than
this
I think
of all
the toughs
through
history
and thank
heaven
they lived
continually
the dog
trots freely
in the street
and sees
reality and
the things
he sees are
bigger than
himself and
the things
he sees are
his reality
my body
was braille
for the
creeping
influences:
dawn suns
groped over
my head
and cooled
at my feet
through
my fabrics
and skins
today
what is it
that is finally
so helpless
different
despairs of
it own
statement
wants to
turn away
endlessly to
turn away
birds
suddenly are
a multitude
the flowers
are ravined
by bees
the fruit
blossoms
are thrown
to the
ground
the wind
the rain
forces
everything
all the junk
that goes
with being
human
drops away
hard rock
wavers
even the
heavy present
seems to fail
this bubble
of a heart
midnight
storm
trees
walking off
across
the fields
in fury
naked in
the spark
of lightning
by now
all’s wrong
in everyone
there sleeps
a sense of
life lived
according
to love
eating each
other’s seed
eating ah
each other
kissing
the lover
in the mouth
of bread
lip to lip
why then
I’ll stay
at least
for tea
for all the
brownness
is too brown
and all the
whiteness
too damned
white
I’m afraid of
being any
other woman’s
man who
might be me
we have
no prairies
to slice
a big sun
at evening
everywhere
the eye
concedes to
encroaching
horizon
is the birth
of air
is the birth
of water
is a state
between
the origin
and the end
between birth
and the
beginning of
another
fetid nest
is change
presents
no more
than itself
if quietly
and like
another time
there is
the passage
of an
unexpected
thing:
to look at it
is more
that it was
where there
was nothing
left to
understand
and where
one must
re-enter and
re-enter
thought I saw
someone
I knew
she was
young in an
old summer
I tried
to remember
very carefully
balanced
on one foot
and concentrated
and concentrated
between
my finger
and my
thumb
the squat
pen rests
I’ll dig
with it
there is
my fear of
no words
of falling
without
words
over and over
of mouthing
the silence
as many nights
endure without
a moon or star
so one
will endure
when one is
gone and far
to grey
confusion of
the space
between
now as I
sweep it
clean
I realize
that love
is an arranging
constantly
risking
absurdity and
death
whenever
he performs
above the
heads of
his audience
the poet
like an
acrobat
climbs on
rime to
a high wire
of his own
making
I labored on
an external
silence
like the space
between
insects
in a swarm
electric
unremembering
and it is
aimed at us

©robertolavidez2014










Sunday, August 24, 2014

Cuban 10 :  Lopez, Ezcobar, Vega,
Feijoo, Florit, Guillen, Retamar,
Padilla, de Oraa, Nogueras

by Roberto Lavidez

the years
are lost
lusterless
crackled
the gap
in memory
the sweat
and
sea-spray
you and I
will die
early
you and I
will die
tomorrow
not tomorrow
today
we could
even be
dead
already
the impure
flames
streaked
forth
devouring
in their
delicate rest
the flutes
the hair
the face
fire
constrained
the hoped-for
rational
endings
where
all of us
each are
nothing
but a drop
of water
a mote
of dust
one of those
rising sadly
from the
chimneys
as when
the landscape
disappears
at the
lowering
of eyelids
alexandrines
and forced
marches
vital reasons
and potions
fell silent
disappeared
I would
have wanted
to be let
loose in
the garden
and that
the garden
would grow
and become
the whole
world
I want
to be vast
and swim
in my own
dense waters
to introduce
my face
into the
fortunate
shadow
to reach
that happy
freedom
I will refine
my heart
with different
solitudes
strange
the serene
song
rises in
the evening
and the
green
quiet
trembling
over the
green
and the
disquiet
set in
the deep
background
where the
movement
from abyss
to star
must end
as I descend
without
vocation
or noise
behind what
little there is
of this
unhealthy
wind
and thus
I get
tangled up
insist
repeat the
I can’t touch
since I still
don’t know
if the stain
is my body
my body
shakes
I tremble
torment
myself
what is this
that comes
for me
drowns me
in dark
tears as
would mud
and says:
still
still
you’ll see
how I
immolate
myself
so as
to speak
the shadow
mother
all the way
to the
machine-like
neglect and
broken wings
how the mask
arrives
ash of speech
and the soul
of the poet
uncomprehending
deaf to sighs
insensible
to pleas
refused to
recognize
lubricious
waterfalls
trembling
secret sighs
puddles of
filthy water
happy
the mouths
that the
cloudburst
strikes the
old rains
left in
our hearts
only remnants
of springs
yesterday
I wrote a
magnificent
poem
sadly
I lost it
somewhere
and now
I can’t
remember it
but it was
great
it said
more or less
that I was
in love
is it because
love
so rarely
passes by
that to see it
brings
wonder
shock
astonishment
nostalgia
as if one heard
a language
perhaps
once known
which
the tongue
scarcely
remembers
except as
whispers
the remains
of whispers
we who have
always glanced
with irony
and indulgence
at the motley
collection
of things
from the
turn of the
century
but let those
pass
who make
worlds
dreams
illusions
symphonies
words that
confuse and
construct us
those crazier
than their
mothers
drunker than
their fathers
more
delinquent
than their
children
and more
devoured
by burning
love
oh light
oh great
oh dawn
of strangeness
oh tunnel
that moment
breaking
with the
tenacious
star of your
sleeplessness
my tribute’s
gloomy
splendor
always
past your
shoulders
I see
the world
it sparkles
beneath the
storm clouds
when I’m far
far away
far away
in that valley
so far away
when in
that valley
so far away
I see
the water
I see
the water
golden and
peaceful
dead
when you
may be
on an eternal
voyage
to be
yes
to be
above all
like the
light that
slips away
and in waves
of color
catches
its kiss
tell the truth
at least
tell your truth
and after
let anything
happen
imagine
you’ve got
the night
inside
your basket
imagine
a blind
horse
imagine
the sea’s
a basket
full of
thoughts
a night
you’ve
never seen
will soak you
and you’ll
drown in
the basket
I try
to write
what I see
what I hear
what I can
beneath
the full moon
they went
hunting
guitars and
brought back
this one
pale
delicate
shapely eyes
of inexhaustible
mulata
waist
of wood
with an
opening
the tenor
is in ecstasy
contemplating
the tenor
in the mirror
who is
the same
tenor
in ecstasy
who
contemplates
the tenor
what is
beautiful
is only the
incitement
of the terrible
that we can
yet endure

©robertolavidez2014






















Transtromer
lost in translation

by Roberto Lavidez

I walk 
home
through the
humid woods
with the
ground
springing
under me
from the
deeps of 
the forest 
I rise
it lightens
between the
trunks of trees
then suddenly
I feel 
the chill
from far off
the moment
blackens and
stays like
the mark of
the axe
in the trunk
task: to be
where I am
even when
I’m in this
solemn
and absurd
role: 
I am
still the place
where creation
works itself
as when 
a man
goes so deep
into his dream
he will never
remember 
that he 
was there
when he 
returns again 
to his room
there’s so much
we must be
witness to
reality wears
us so thin
but here is
summer at last:
everyone is
queing at
everyone’s door
many.
one
you are alone
on the water
society’s
dark hull
drifts further
and further
away
the storm
puts its mouth
to the house
and blow s
to produce
a note
talking with
contemporaries
I saw
heard behind
their faces
the stream that
flowed and
flowed and
pulled with it
the willing and
the unwilling
when darkness
fell
I was still
but my shadow
pounded against
the drumskin
of hopelessness
the black
grand piano
the shiny spider
trembled in
the center of
its net
of music
just as
a memory
is slowly
transmuted
into your
own self
the small
things I love
have they
any weight?
so many
dialects
of green
the language
marches in
step with the
executioners
therefore
we must get
a new language
talking in
misspelled
English
understanding and
misunderstanding
but very little
conscious
lying
it is still
beautiful
to feel the
heart beat
but often
the shadow
seems more
real than
the body
I don’t know
if we’re in
the beginning
or in the
final stage
no conclusion
can be made
no conclusion
is possible
in other parts
of the world
there are people
who are born
live and die
in a perpetual
crowd
it was the
living dead
who wanted
to have their
portraits painted
as if it were
necessary
as if the last
childhood were
being broken
into pieces
to pass through
the grating
as if it were
necessary…
it is easy
to love
fragments
that have been
on the way
a long time
a dog’s
barking is
a hieroglyph
painted in
the air
above
the garden
a tune escapes
from the
bagpipes!
a bagpipe tune
approaches
with its skirl
of freedom
fantastic to feel
how my poem
grows while
I myself 
shrink
I come
too seldom
down to
the water
but I am
here now
among
large stones
with peaceful
backs
where the last
words of love
evaporate
waterdrops 
that creep slowly
down steel wings…
we battlegrounds
are proud of
our many dead
said a voice
as I awakened
this is not Africa
this is not
Europe
this is
nowhere 
but
here

©robertolavidez2014