APRIL IS NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

 

 

 I am most grateful to Maria Del Castillo Sucerquia for the translations and making sure this works were included in the wonderful Ablucionistas.

https://ablucionistas.com/linda-imbler-el-testimonio-mas-evidente/

A TRAIN TO SOMEWHERE

I remember my grandparent’s enclosed porch,

their Boston Terriers nipping at my heels

as I entered the yard.

I enjoyed the reminiscences,

repeated at each visit.

I reveled in the laughter that ensued 

after each anecdote about my childhood was concluded.

The story I remember most today

is the one about my lone field trip,

at the age of three,

to the neighborhood railroad tracks.

Little me, found by frantic people 

and returned home safely.

In later years, my grandmother,

Alzheimer ridden,

was found wandering 

those same railroad tracks

by equally frantic people.

I’ve wondered since

if we were looking for the same thing.

TREN A ALGÚN LUGAR

recuerdo el porche cerrado de mis abuelos 

los boston terrier que me pisaban los talones 

en el patio  

disfruté de las memorias 

repetidas en cada visita 

me deleitaban las risas con que las 

anécdotas de mi infancia concluían 

la historia que más recuerdo hoy 

es la de mi viaje de campo

a los tres años 

por las vías del tren del barrio 

una extraviada pequeña 

hallada entre la frenética muchedumbre 

que llegó a casa sana y salva

en años posteriores mi abuela

quien padecía alzheimer 

fue hallada mientras vagaba 

en esas mismas vías del tren 

entre una muchedumbre igual de frenética

me he preguntado

desde entonces 

si buscábamos lo mismo

______________________________________

THE GLASS WINDOWS BEHIND THE PLANT

They stood together in the hall,

Each with a seemingly insurmountable fear.

He with a path so long, and the burden he carried so heavy,

She unable to lean forward from the eighth floor.

Together they promised each other,

One step at a time, one tile at a time,

Each step closer to the end of the hall,

Each tile closer to the window.

They began.

He went further,

She went further.

He channeled gazelles, swift and light,

She channeled eagles, high flying and fearless on the air.

His hospital gown trembled,

Her legs trembled.

At the end he’d walk the length several times

and had looked up and seen her smile,

At the end she had pressed her forehead 

against the glass and looked down.

And he smiled back.

LAS VENTANAS DETRÁS DE LA PLANTA

estaban juntos en el pasillo 

sentían un miedo insuperable 

en apariencia 

él como un camino interminable 

una carga pesada 

ella incapaz de inclinarse hacia 

adelante en el octavo piso 

se prometieron 

un paso a la vez

un mosaico a la vez 

cada paso más cerca al final del pasillo 

cada mosaico más cerca de la ventana 

empezaron

y él avanzó 

ella avanzó 

mientras él encauzaba gacelas

rápidas y ligeras 

ella canalizaba águilas valientes

y de alto vuelo

su bata de hospital

y sus piernas temblaron 

al final

hizo el recorrido varias veces 

él miró hacia arriba y

la vio sonreír 

al final 

ella presionó su frente contra el cristal 

y miró hacia abajo 

y él le devolvió la sonrisa

_________________________________________________

HANDS

 

Hands,

fingers thin like paper,

on this mortal shell,

No evidence these hands

ever held a flower,

played an instrument,

typed a letter,

were ever extended to another to help or heal.

No, these fingertips,

flat and tapered,

stiff,

as it being held rigid against the will

of to whom they belong.

Of all the visible parts of that figure

in the funeral box,

the hands,

the most unnatural,

least human feature left

to share with those who’ve come to say goodbye.

Whoever can one day correct

this artless feature

will have his name lauded throughout the world.

Because those who view the deceased

see only quiet repose,

except for the hands,

the most glaring testament to death’s finality.

MANOS

manos
flacos dedos como el papel
en este caparazón mortal
no hay evidencia de que estas manos
hayan sostenido una flor
o tocado un instrumento
o escrito una carta
o si alguna vez se abrieron
para curar o ayudar 

no las yemas de estos dedos
planos y cónicos
tan rígidos
(como si se mantuvieran rígidos
en contra de la voluntad
de quien pertenecen)

de todas las partes visibles
de aquella silueta
en el palco funerario
las manos
lo más antinatural
(lo menos humano que queda
para compartir con aquellos
que han venido a despedirse)

si alguien corrigiera esa ingenua apariencia
obtendría la ovación del mundo 

(porque quienes miran al difundo
advertirían sólo un tranquilo reposo
sino fuera por las manos)

el testimonio más evidente
de la muerte

___________________________________

IF ONLY FOR MODESTY’S SAKE

I am undeserving of the sky.

My wings have followed

the history of Icarus.

I was so much like him.

My flight would always be noteworthy.

But, now I walk where green or golden foliage,

and assortments of rocks

litter the land

which trembles under dragons’ strides.

I wish for new magick,

an alchemy transmuting

those rocks and leaves into feathers.

For Icarus was not wrong,

just arrogant,

and if I fly with modesty.

I just might stay airborne.

SÓLO POR MODESTIA

soy indigna del cielo
mis alas siguieron la historia de Ícaro
 sería mi vuelo digno de mención

sin embargo
ahora camino por el dorado y verde follaje
las rocas cubren la tierra que tiembla
bajo las zancadas de los dragones 

deseo una nueva magia
una alquimia que transmute
las yerbas y las rocas
en plumas

Ícaro no se equivocó
sólo fue arrogante

si vuelvo con modestia
podría quedarme en el aire

_____________________________

IN THE DAYS OF LENNON

All satisfaction afforded

in that final frontier.

But here,

we square our shoulders,

while somewhere

in our vicinity,

someone closes weary eyes

for the last time.

Those having passed,

their ghost faces rising,

their spots recently vacated,

as new folks

repeat their gestures,

and God,

with an allegorical flick,

waves them through.

They continue living

with practiced eyes,

and only at the end

do they diminish,

turning into mysterious shadows.

Nothing so dire

as falling through a crack

by virtue of

their extraordinary activities,

having been performed 

throughout their lives,

within the framework

of such a revolutionary thing

as love.

EN LOS DÍAS DE LENNON 

toda satisfacción fue dada
en esa última frontera

pero aquí
cuadramos los hombros mientras
en algún lugar del barrio
alguien cierra los ojos
por última vez 

los que pasan

(el asomo de sus rostros fantasmales
sus lugares recién desocupados
mientras la gente repite sus gestos
y Dios
con un alegórico movimiento
las ondea a través)

siguen vivos con ojos expertos
sólo al final disminuyen
se tornan sombras misteriosas

nada tan terrible como descender 
por una grieta en virtud
de sus extraordinarias labores 

las realizadas a lo largo de sus vidas
en el marco de algo tan revolucionario
como el amor 

 

 

 

 

 Thank you to Kevin of Written Tales for publishing my poem.

https://writtentales.substack.com/p/the-lilies-of-gethsemane?s=r

And there they were on Easter morn
at the peep of day.
Their petals unfolding,
as they had days before,
when they stood as a herald
from inside the sacred garden
where the final warnings were prelected.
Ivory costumed messengers of hope,
once again on the ground of the garden,
like they had also appeared 
when they sprung up 
below the Teacher’s crow’s nest.
Ambassadors of hope,
grown to remember
that much will bloom 
in the springtime of our lives, 
to bring renewal to all things,
including those things  
we thought forever lost.

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem in the April issue.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/04/screaming-pretty.html

Screaming Pretty

 

 

The cowards whisper along the wire,

convinced they wear the wit of the world.

We all exaggerate the what and the why,

but usually the who is the greatest unknown.

They reflect the color association - 

the reds, the yellows, the oranges.

The sore cost of our veracity once shamed.

Our pricey honesty finally paid back with interest

 

as the image of the ill-informed becomes clear,

and wields the deciding blow.

The cowards hide, still whispering along the wire

when it breaks.

A huge thank you to Glory Sasikala of GloMag for publishing my poem in the March issue.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1kTuMa9GUZPLNsaHWUHPsegEn37gWAnQq/view?fbclid=IwAR2o1Cgz6jHACTLbYbZ5SJKf513cmP0el9wZbmNxxSj19Vu-AV6sL_kPXzU