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 if 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 on the brink to embrace Phaon

just on the brink...

 jumped to the void

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 rills

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 sweep 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 so elated

eating jasmine petals out of her hands.

 

THE LAMENT OF HERACLES

 

"Where is now my strength of yesteryears?

Omphale wants me to be dressed now

with her yellow silk tunic more radiant 

than the smile of Helios on the horizon.

Omphale bids me to wear her hoop earings,

silver bangles and blue-laced sandals.

She stealthily nicked my lion hide, my bow,

my long spear and all the legendary 

vigour of my limbs now smelling 

of scented resins and the cedar

aroma 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

To his golden fetters.

Shaded by the wings of a giant eagle,

 we made love. The god Pan prancing

and playing a reed flute.

By and by, she forced me to be a woman

and put away my odorous clobbers.

Now all her maidens comb my long hair,

rub my limbs and loins with slick ointments

and makes me dance like a white-robed

virgin around a Goddess censers.

Where is my strength of yesteryears?

Shall I be able to kill someday 

the voracious Stymphalian birds?

I want to be up and running again 

with my flurry of furry hides stinking

of manure and bull entrails.

I want to pull off the Twelve Tasks

that will make me an hero kissed by Hera.

Hera,

Hera,

Hera

 (infinite echo)

the goddess who I will love forever

even if burning like deadwood

 down in the freezing Hades."