We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Who could say for sure? You see it as you pass by: eyes sinking into a broken, red dirt road; to the side, some painters’ shacks: tender blue doorways, smoky roof: the green runs to the back, lively as a hen, pecking at the wash, losing itself among blue distances.
No one lingers to look it over. You find it only when you leave for another place, when there’s no time.
They say in the valley one day, a sweet, innocent lily, full, proud, happy, shone in the sunlight. “Could there be another, tell me true, so white and pure as I?” And she died of envy, howling with madness, when she met Aurelia, who was whiter, more pure.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 60th birthday.
I overcome because I am overwhelmed. I whip my life into shape, one tension, one bit of calm at a time, if I must I give back the distance I run, if I must I rise and cut something from myself.
I’ve arrived at this hour dragging my body from moment to moment. Surreptitiously I serve up wounded blood. The story I bear, how will you receive it? The water I’ve gathered makes itself heard. Here is the mother who keeps her child forever in her womb. And decides she will live, even as she drowns.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 170th birthday.
I wish to leave the world By its natural door; In my tomb of green leaves They are to carry me to die. Do not put me in the dark To die like a traitor; I am good, and like a good thing I will die with my face to the sun
I know, friend, it is all within me as in a sonorously mute coffer. All sleeps within me, tremulously quiet, and in active rest, in a brief palpitation of palpitating entrails, in such sweet presence as to be barely presence at all… I know, friend, my friend, blinder than dead serpents, my friend, softer than overripe fruit: It is all within me.
It is all within me silent, subterranean, fused in pale stratas of light and silence, nourishing my life, growing my life…
There are sorrows that wear red in the streets. There is a pride that screams. There are joys in colourful dress and songs that rent the sun. There are many things, my friend, many things – my friend, softer than overripe fruit – at the surface of its skin. And in me all is silent, dimmed, so silent I can even forget it, as dimmed as a child dying. All as in a mutely sonorous coffer trembling in stillness…
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Father of yesterday who made hope full of children and debts. I conjure your hand which was never dry and never knew stone or spear.
When you were judge, you were ill with insomnia… as you longed to save so many thieves. Let the sparrows chirp peace for you and may you have playthings at last!
I make believe, now, that you’re sleeping and your affectionate greeting, your amazement, lives on. My life now moves with entropy;
Now, I’m truly the sad little daughter that can no longer lean on your shoulder because you died in January, Father.
Grief arrives so violently like the rain after the dawn; today my smile is different: an invisible tear that doesn’t weep.
(I tell myself in secret: maybe he’s coming by, and not only as he knows of this grieving but because I still wait anxiously in case he asks for the key to our house…)
I can’t believe it… I need you, and you are dead, my father, little dead one. This time you are checkmated.
Like a crazy person, in super human delirium, I lift your chess piece with my hand and place you playing in the game!
I have dressed in white, green, red, because grief does not rhyme with love. It has been a long time, my father, since your eyes refused darkness or glare.
Don’t let hail and snow fall on your innocent and foreign grave. Let the birth of spring sing to you let a flower exude perfume on the ninth!
I reserve the glory of your room for you, a happy sparkle of the sun, that I keep apart that piece of earth where you were born, your robes, your books, your saw… It’s not enough now to love you so much: you’re dead, my father, you’re dead.
Your comfortable chair… where is it? Your student violin… how does it sound? You buried pennies in the sand and gave my mother other names.
I keep all your letters and pictures. In my dream your prostate is cured. On the patio floor and in my affection, your last shoes walk on.
I want to see you beyond the shutter. Come, spirit; come, my supportive angel. I no longer know what to do, what to say,
because I long to eat breakfast with my father, my sage, my almsman, at 81 Tirrey Avenue.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.
Naturally, Flaubert’s parrot could not be called Chucho, his author wouldn’t stick him with a name like that. From which follows the importance of names. But in the stories last night —the reconstruction of a postcard which we were creating to resemble Christmas— chess pieces nearly dismembered in the children’s hands before midnight, they had to pull out the parrot with his blue half-exposed chest feathers and the nun who comes when he sings “o whore, o whore, o whore,” and her face colors all the way to the wine all the way to believing herself so —though she wasn’t— with the pleasure of momentarily believing herself something she is not, spilling shame into the alien cup. Is it true that after an outcry they erupt – the things we believed ourselves to be?
The parrot Loulou “…used to descend the stairs by setting the curve of her beak on the steps.” Then she disappeared forever and her owner, Felicity, never got over it, or the nun either. The family blames themselves and they still make the sign of the cross, for they didn’t train him to the level of the occasion: he was not Flaubert’s parrot who upheld a name with her hauteur – her meaning – just an ordinary parrot named, to his disadvantage, Chucho.
We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.
In my garden, roses: I don’t want to give you roses that tomorrow… that tomorrow you won’t have.
In my garden, birds with crystal song: I do not give them to you; they have wings to fly.
In my garden, bees craft a fine hive: A minute’s sweetness… I don’t want to give you that!
For you, the infinite or nothing: what is immortal or this mute sadness you won’t understand… The unnamable sadness of not having something to give to someone who carries on the forehead a portion of eternity.
Leave, leave the garden… Don’t touch the roses: things that die should not be touched.