JUNE  2003

not my photo

The Spanish Translations:
 

Coming Back Unfinished

 

They watch him

Cobbling along the sheen of rain

Down the village mountain road

Stopping in a small taverna

Where many men sit silent

Despising alcohol one cheek at a time.

 

 

Not Another Spanish Civil War Poem

 

Look at the heroes in their comforting shadows

Dirt and flint at the edges of philosophical coin;

They are all that is left of the poets of rude mint.

 

 

The Spanish Translation

 

All of my struggles are in her embrace

Loving bandola music under the stars.

Like personal friends she knows their

Handmade books on love and beauty,

Apostolic translation of cubist poetry’s

Huge collage, portraits, angels & soot. 

Her high altitude smoke song played

On flute bone longs to become bread.

A town heaped darker than cows liver

Gropes at the foot of the valley walk,

Dissolving, marble melting in the rain.

My departure, blue with echoes on an

Alta vista bus, agonizes into the forest.

The mountain whining like a gear box,

Hears its names drift down on the mist.