A BALMY DAY...

 

A balmy day     there is no match 

not a single soul   

I come to the football stadium

 to wind down

on the top side of the bleachers 

near the soothing sun:

it's definitely comforting to see

 the vacant pitch the stands

not a player not a single

football-chanter

not a dicky bird.

Only the bright and trimmed lawn 

where some pigeons coo and preen 

each other in the sunshine  a few tabby cats

taking a breather in the shade.

No match no loud insults

like thunderous tannoys

Only some pigeons 

some cats 

and meself nibbling

a sandwich of twilight 

and daydreams.

             ©Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, 1930

WILD HORSES IN THE PYRENEES

 

I would like to spend my last eternity 

 with the wild horses.

Up in the high mountains where

 the sea is only a dream of clouds.

I'd like to stay there to speak no more 

like a monk in a blue grotto

and water drops slumbering

 on fern leaves.

Wild horses that run away

from the horizon to heaven.

from heaven to my shadow

grazing in the wind-kissed grass.

(1996)

WEAVING ESPARTO GRASS

 

As solitary people weaving 

esparto grass by the moon

I weave this words by my self. 

Weave and weave into a basket

with no other aim but the beauty

 of words themselves

crafted together like the ropes

 in demijohns of wine.

I weave this words on and on.

 I am a basket case of wine

 the same wine sipped by Sappho

 when just about to embrace Phaon

near the Leucadian cliffs.

MY HORSE

 I had a horse who fed on jasmine sprigs.

A horse indeed: arabian, handsome, brisk.

When cantering or galloping he sweated golden rivers

and the sweat gave off a perfume that made dizzy 

the whole airspace the whole sun.

He munched on any jasmine shrubs around,

flowers for him were as delicious

as apples or sugar lumps.

The kids made fun of my horse'

scented neighs and withers.

His droppings freshened the ambiance so good

that the mayor ordered never to clean them up.

All was running smoothly till one day my girlfriend

took a shine to my stallion. They fell in love.

They ran away.

Six months after the elopement I received a postcard

from Glasgow. She appeared in the picture

dressed up as a  famous jokey riding my horse. She smiled.

I wept rivers when I saw him

eating jasmine petals out of her hands.

 

THE LAMENT OF HERACLES

 

"Where is now my strength of yesteryears?

Omphale wants me to be dressed

with her yellow silk tunic more blazing

than Helios' smile on the horizon.

Omphale wants me to wear her hoop earings,

shell bangles and blue-laced sandals.

She nicked my lion's hide, my bow,

my long spear and all the vigour of my limbs

now smelling of scented resins and the cedar

perfume that give off  all the Lydian maids...

One morning in the vineyards of Tmolos,

the god Pan did bless us:

I was bound to her like a jolly slave

in the shadow of a golden parasol 

we made love,

in the shadow of a giant eagle,

 we made love...

Presently she forced me to be a woman

while hiding my odorous clobbers.

Now all her maidens comb my long hair,

rub my skin with ointments of wild flowers,

 put lead powder on my face right

 into the pure whiteness of a mortuory mask.

Where is my strength of yesteryears?

Shall I be able to kill the voracious Stymphalian birds?

I want to be at the spinning wheel no more

singing along the chorus of women in thrall.

I want to get up again with my furry hides

stinking of manure and bull entrails.

I want to culminate all the twelve tasks

that can make me an hero kissed by Hera.

Hera,

Hera,

the goddess who I will love forever

even if I keep burning on end

 like deadwood in the freezing Hades."

(2006)