December 2011
VOL XX, Issue 12, Number 224
Editors this Issue: Klaus J. Gerken and Heather Ferguson
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Mois Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
Selected Poems
by
Francesca Castaño
Introduction
To draw a chair
Contents
Pebbles
Bearing Fruit
Aware of the glare
10-10 -2010
Summertime
Moving on
Doorways
Reverie
Grilling sardines
Rolling
After Noon
Fly Back
Sugar Cubes
The travellers
Transfixed
Tribute
Walking tall
Our door
Knots
Negotiations
Bones
In motion
Fallen leaves
One chance
Words
Talisman
Traces
Fires
The thread of time
Password
Still Here
Post Scriptum
Twelve to a bag
To draw a chair
For K.J.G
Here I am
At my table,
schedules
forgotten.
Away
from books
and frying pans;
a butterfly with aspirations.
Randomly picking
snapshots of the twisting
goings on,
uninterrupted.
Swerving in the mirror
of mankind, unconsciously
nursed by its contagious
yearnings.
A carpenter
with pencil in hand
imagining all the possible ways
to draw a chair.
Pebbles
To Roberta Burnett
We move our feet––the carpet is pebbles––
to understand a life. In dusk
we close our eyes to see the syntax of
the seeming and its reflections.
At the party we gather
dismissing our links, hanging
the heavy coat of the work week
on a perch.
The beat of the afternoon pulse bends
to Miles Davis’ horn and the clatter
of scaffolding, like an erratic drum set.
In darkness the shape
of reality––its passions––slides
with the sound of his horn.
We are only as good as our lives.
Unsure of his next run,
lost in melody, we hang
in silences of mind, slip
through regions of resistance.
Listening is like searching the stem
of words in another unfamiliar language.
The heart weakens in the enigmatic,
falling sounds of leaves.
The pebbles, once collected,
dissolve under our steps.
We step out of the usual whirlpool.
The heart sighs, leaving heaviness,
lips drink in
the circles of moments.
Bearing Fruit
I look at the sea
awake
under a pine tree
the silver froth
curling
a dark abyss.
And feel part of the wind
alone
like a hut on a hill
immersed in a translucent
silence
of broken monotony.
Calmly
avoiding the fear
of thoughts
flapping
like windows on walls.
Warmly
welcoming
ambiguous designs bearing
fruit.
Aware of the glare
As I walk home
I see the first yellow leaves
falling red
from the trees
with the quiver
of time.
And although the honey skies prevail,
the clouds
are turning somehow
heavy and dense,
crawling
towards an uncertain future.
Leaving the classroom
I retain the magnetism that my students
project.
I can feel their agile minds
flapping
like stretched wings and
sense
the ways they see and touch the world –
their hearts spinning in the vertigo of the unknown—
unaware
of the glare
they cast onto the late afternoon.
At home I sit by a window
humming a song
unobserved--
as the sun falls on the room
with languorous gold
making the immaterial face of things
suddenly perceptible--
Everything held in suspense,
for an instant--life coming closer and receding like the waves.
In this quietness my buzzing blood circulates
to the sound of October coming.
10-10-2010
To Karen Bowles
Bliss has strange moods
It comes
It goes
It hides
It frowns
It smiles
It lives in the strange shell of the soul,
Lost.
Our life is not other than this:
Passionately
Explaining
The reasons why
We don’t want
To die
Hanging on the breath of
What is not.
But the heart
Divides
Its limbs
Among
The dreams
From which we awake
Picking up a ripe berry
From the grass--
That may
Sustain
The mind’s
Insatiable
Desire
To run the distance to see.
Summertime
The sky is wearing a blue dress.
The summer heat is set and still.
A cloud cuts the sun down,
casting a knife's shadow
onto the sidewalk.
I rest a cheek against the windowpane,
wanting nothing but some freshness.
My clothes feel like walls,
the room a Persian rug,
the sounds of the street an echo…
But there’s an odd edge
to the stillness of the moment…
What if the whole city dissolves
like an ice cube
in an iced tea glass?
Moving on
Today a single cloud passed high over my head;
I saw sparks of light blazing around the edges of its shadow.
There are moments when the streets are better than home;
the rush of enticing thoughts drilling tunnels inward.
On this idle ramble, the darker spots of life are momentarily suspended;
the eye eagerly chases after the brighter symbols of the world.
Time elapses as we cross from door to road
and the years fade like a departing vessel.
Speaking of which, the poet says: one may wave…but not drown;
inebriated as one is by the desire to get to shore.
This eternal yearning for the nourishments of the heart is like an echo;
an expansion of the brotherhood around, where life and death are jumbled.
But it all seems to happen in a second. And thus,
one polishes the light that falls from the cloud while looking at the feet that move on.
Doorways
We walk about
and the city takes off
its mask
turning impalpable
secrets inside
out.
We cross bridges
and the crowd
seems to be
upside down
in the river
of life.
We take a deep
breath, aware
of different meanings
contradicting and
everywhere
open.
We surrender
to the beatific
spell of
the new
fading
splendours.
We experience
the possible
and the
impossible
of a motionless
gleam.
We invent
another duration
to the wonders
of a nightfall
on a dissolving
page.
We insist
on being part of
the canals
that flow
at our feet
like doorways.
Reverie
Just as the afternoon flushes out
the thickness of the day,
the isolated self begins to breeze
within its own sphere.
So one sits down to music and a glass of wine
magnetized by an unreasonable
happiness. Stroking the chromatic silence
like you would a cat’s head…
…vaguely dreaming of murmuring trees,
stepping from one stone to the next.
Abandoned to the spell of craving hours;
true to the edge of a turning wind.
Then everything swells in the
balancing notes of a sonata;
tragic yet captivating
in enigmatic delights.
To hear the voice
that whispers: alive in the swarm of the swell!
To do what the closed eyes yearn for:
touching clouds with
fingertips in a trembling gesture!
Succumbing to the silence
hidden in vibrating sounds,
when nothing moves.
Grilling sardines
Of course not all the expectations I carry within
are materialized. I am also the woman
with an apron: grilling sardines
with lemon, ginger and garlic;
while worrying about the splits
opening up along the seams of everyday struggles.
Because my goals are irresolute
I go around helplessly
searching for the grip that
ties me in. The wings of the mind
are like bells: sometimes heavy iron,
others a light chime.
I drag over words trying to catch
everything. I mean whatever
the essential is supposed to be.
What an endless longing that is,
what a strange hope! To aim for this
dizzying construction of the rapture of the self.
Rolling
To Jeffrey Alfier
I walk behind a leaf trundling in the wind,
the depth of my mind's eye swelling its bud
into branches, absorbing the light's inheritance
beginning to agonize for oxygen.
The city is deserted at this hour,
and streets feel like rooms of a house,
alleys becoming corridors. Its inhabitants,
drift through sleepy, unseen shadows
from the burning light of midday.
I slide into ineffable joy,
forget about the fear of the fall,
turbulent and green, looking into the abyss
while holding onto the wings
of a branch opening to the white sky.
After Noon
I almost run,
impatiently wishing to be
inside, though the sky
fills with colours.
The door opens
to walnut-tinted light;
an amber, ripe scent
every room suspended
in purple dusk—
flickering
eyelashes
on window panes…
So
I take off
the bag
the scarf
the coat
the watch
the sweater
the t-shirt
the pants.
Put on
the unscheduled
the rhythm
the blossoming
the ease
the silence
the vertigo
the light
A lizard on the wall
sheds its skin.
Fly Back
To Carmen Castaño Méndez
I regret not having wings.
So I beat the air
with hands like feathers;
but despite so much fluttering,
the feet won’t float…
And yet,
I keep standing barefoot
on a bridge imitating the
clouds passing over
soaring through curling shadows
stroke by stroke…
Sugar Cubes
Nothing comes easy in this uncertain journey;
one is very young or rather old,
and the days melt like sugar cubes…
heaven and hell drinking from the same glass.
Sometimes everything seems easy;
one is young enough to choose
the dreams along with which one rows on...
but too old to play the trumpet like Miles Davis.
Not easy to swim in this restless sea of changing desires;
one is reluctant to accept the truth,
that the wings were not roots…
and the entrance was a tunnel.
The travellers
The travellers
sink towards
the green zone
of the city
and find
the trees
holding up
a cloudless sky
with their stretched limbs.
A peaceful parasol
over the sun-warmed
turbulences
of the self….
the murmuring waters
a lullaby
that sings
stories
of unusual depth.
Transfixed
The heart,
unconscious of its
eloquence,
keeps wanting
to talk
about what it is
or it isn’t.
But the sun
keeps shining
behind
the blinds
on the hottest
day of the week;
blessed be the air.
Small facts
take me back
to the thought of the heart
and its eloquence;
the many ways
to say:
I want your lips.
But eloquence
hides in the hand
of the heart.
And so,
we give up words
and lie down
silently transfixed.
Tribute
Where we live
history looks at us like a mirror.
Under the visible sky
the cracked face of a building glows
like the shield of a knight.
I go onto the balcony
inside the city,
at the very hour
in which the afternoon begins;
strangely aware of the maturity of the air.
Smoothly unlocking
the pulse of time,
I envision the ghosts of other lives
unloading a silent cargo
of washed out memories.
Afterwards, I go silently back indoors
leaving the bare stones
in peace with their tribute.
Startled by the impossible survival
of the reflection in the mirror.
Walking tall
All along the street
I feel the hands
of consciousness
covering my ears
from the irritating sound
of a honking car.
I carry a sign on my forehead
that says: here you have
an urban woman who keeps
getting lost on her way,
in spite of all the good directions--
and sideways.
Surely it makes no sense
to ask honking life
to stop its howl. The rattle
makes the heart tremble;
but the mind keeps cool,
listening for a signal.
Let’s say one puts the ear
to the wall where the pounding
sounds of life turn into experience:
the place in the self where
parts come together…freed
from the shadows of some lost paradise.
And one says: if I could live my life
again I would cross
the same crossroads; even if they led me
to the same intersections.
I would drag my feet
over the same clay floors.
Our door
Warm weather remains despite
the season. Ardor withers like autumn leaves facing a burning sun.
But the mind is a bird travelling
through forests,
tremulous and alert, able
to endure both tempest and winds
between rocks and cracks.
Knots
The spirit
of the day
is
to reconstruct
silence
in order
to subvert
the noisy
clatter
of a discourse
that gives no access
to coherent
rhythms
a magnitude
of breathless
wanderings
oblivious
to a certain
keenness
carried
along hazardous
ceremonies
speeding
to beg another
unknown demand
a bristling
of the winds
that tinker within
the balance of
an overturning
gathering
to hold
and pull
at the continuous
tasks that are never
fully done entangled
in endless knots
Negotiations
The week goes by
abruptly subtracting
time from life.
But it was a good week.
The heart calming the
wild waves that rise
above exhaustion.
Desiring rapture
while humming words;
a silent voice
that grows without
solemnity, revising
mistakes
after long negotiations.
Holding to improvised
inventions that nourish
the stable and the hunted
that lodge in the bosom
of the night.
Bones
There's no threat
to keep us back.
Every evil has already
taken all grounds and many dreams
to the grave.
But yesterday
was yesterday
and tomorrow
is yet to come.
It hurts at first;
to realize what little progress
we've made.
But sacrifice has wings too,
and sometimes horror
meets its punishment.
History is full of examples
of feisty bones that never gave up,
that blossom among tarnished axioms
and rise against all odds
casting an anchor into the future.
In motion
On the subway I rest my head against the seat
and close my eyes
trying to settle into the parallel
reality of the mind.
Motion helps;
tunnels become rivers:
I go down-stream
polishing pebbles
loosening sharp edges
accommodating myself to the moods
of the human landscape,
resting in gravity’s pull;
I slide calmly along the curve of the day with a clear gaze,
terrified by the darkness outside.
Fallen leaves
the fallen leaves
creak under foot
like ripe apples,
radiating purple hues,
along the shadows' edge,
absorbing oxygen,
like maturing fruit
not knowing withered darkness.
They dance on my shoulders
like drizzling rain
trundling on the wind,
a gliding gold and crimson,
like a queen’s cloak,
or palpitating hearts;
there’s no violence
in such serenity.
One chance
Going back to reality
after a brief hiatus
chills the blood
with frenzy;
existence flapping
with lethargic aim,
illustrating the idea
of lost hopes, recalling
rules and conditions.
We operate through the mirror
of accompanying artifices,
prey to substantial fears, whipped
this way and that
like Hamlet.
In the midst of the chaos,
in the fiction of the present,
we try to keep intact;
but one should have
at least one chance
to disarm the unalterable.
Words
I hear words
floating like
fugitive omens
full of bandages
and furies
across the hours,
Herculean
in their slow
movement
towards dusk,
strangely orphaned
of vanity
at the end of the day
and practically naked
when they get home.
Talisman
Everything keeps
going on
while I daydream
about the life
of others
and my own.
Intrepid sailors
slipping over waves
sometimes as tall
as the boat—
holding shells
in the palm
of our hands
Traces
A look at the sky
the sun descending
like a migratory bird
plunging into the purple
veil of the afternoon.
Leaving traces of
the hardships of the week
on the dark blue frame
of the window of the eye
half-closed in silence.
Dividing the limbs of the lived
days into small compartments
of fear and happiness
engraved on the body of memory
even when it goes.
Fires
To Michael Parker
We walk to the sea,
relaxed vagabonds
absorbing the rhyme
of a receding tide.
The abstract city behind,
fresh air revisiting the lungs
at the hour when the day
is suspended amid little fires burning.
Feeling complete despite
the unsettling possibilities
that roll with the wind
and won’t let go.
The thread of time
No day is the same, and yet
we are like
pragmatic learners
of the epoch
subjected to
the tread of time
and its peculiar games…
Asking questions
about the exhaustions
of the era;
trembling with
private agitations…
While keeping
busy with
the mirages of the day
that float like
indistinguishable contrails
in the changing
light of this hour.
Password
During the night
the stillness of time
spreads over me.
Nothing moves
except the hours,
stretching out
in lethargic monotony.
The mind wrestles
with the husky silence,
looking for accommodation
in a safe spot.
Drowsy but not numb;
a sailor crossing
the rough sea, alert
in his solitude.
If you want to enter the day
you need a password
to find the sustainable,
to go on
planting watchful sorrows
in plausible gardens,
rising with the sweet lament
of the day's brilliance.
There's no way to describe
how the night
stares in.
Still Here
For Tom
We met dancing.
At a window…the doorway to a life together,
We kissed: a fast translation of the heart.
At a window,
Gently eyeing the spots of the giant city,
wondering…
What was it, exactly, that was meant to be?
In that ordinary bus-stop…
Where life twists…towards the unknown
Your arm over my shoulders
like a fine coat.
I looked at your face,
filled with the sense of being suddenly completed.
What is longing…once it is forced to cross through fire?
We walked holding each other by the arm.
A light wind at our backs
And in the heart.
Love whispering its ancient storyline.
In the room lit up with passion
Oh…look at You!
What is it, exactly, that holds the integrity of this whole?
Twelve to a bag
Behind closed eyes, this day,
a lifetime of flying hours.
Small fires, like elegies,
light our walk to the market,
where the sustaining ripens
luscious, in sharp smells:
loaves of bread cooling on racks; the fragrance
of a red-hot sun softly sponging the lips;
fishes lying on crushed ice,
eyes hard like shells, fresh and crisp;
grapes, slashed from the cluster,
ready for the ceremony, twelve to a bag …
When the clock ticks, the heart knows its hands:
the new sits at our table, silently blazing
like songs unwrapping caramels that’ll last
till the next year’s toast.
*
Copyright (c) Francesca Castaño 2011
All selections are copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2011 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
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