Later On (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Time, to be honest,
so much like crying
when the last hour comes,
inconsolable in its own silence.

So off with the boneclothes
surrounding the heart
with all its sickness.

Waiting for winds laden
with unpublished landscapes.

Bloom, bloom with running
and ineffable dresses,
other bones and other hearts
stacked broad with minutes
that were so honestly lost
behind, unheard when clattered.

Oceanfront winds and flotsam
dying to be eternal.

The Audience, Open (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Every morning, start with

a dead star in your mouth.

See the child in the mirror,

covered in rainbows of grey,

put behind him a nest

of summer silence.

Listen to him, his singing

of the night spring,

he reminds of its dew,

and so then the dead star,

its echoflesh mirage,

your day standing still with brightness.

To Morning (a Lorca ‘translation’)

I only have fear
of the dying leaves,
their dewy hearts
sounding like cannon fire
along a deserted beach.

I must sleep …
Let your cold, tired hand
into my gasping chest.

This Dull Sadness

Along these waves,
I can ponder and revisit
no longer.

 
The eyes that must only look back—
let them fall from you as stalks of light,
as all the birds ending their lives scattered
through the leaves and passing winds.
I must not be the night that ends
along the world’s face.

 

 

(another Lorca ‘translation’ gone awry)

Jaundice Grove

 

Relapsing dream,

nest of flowering gold

and my hands at its center.

 

Blood leaving the face,

old eyes blind from starstaring.

 

Those aren’t yellow aspens

on the mountain but fireflies

 

held at call,

waiting for the song

to resume.

 

 

 

(a ‘translation’ / erasure / repair of a Lorca poem…)