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DREAMSCAPES

 



Dusting off the shrine of a goddess 

I forgot her name.

She blessed me once

 in light blue robe, golden nimbus

and myrtle blooms

when I was an outcast 

in an outcast country


(I forgot its name too)


*


A woman in the nude dances

on top of a beached whale in summer,

massive whale as the full moon

on the horizon. A sitar is playing

some kind of monsoon ballad

before a bonfire and silent gannets.

It's eventide. The full moon in yellow dress

dances with the naked woman.


*

 

I come across a top hat

in the middle of the street

dancing with a stray cat

in black fur and yellow feet.


The top hat hops me a scowl,

the cat spins me around a smile,

and the moon waxing awhile

in the golden eye of an owl.


The stray cat nimbly runs away

when some foxes bark to the top

hat now flying up on his way

to the hand of a whistling cop.


 

Under an opaline sky

a wolf not famished 

but philosophical

strolls along the beach. 

Likewise an odd man

 in golden raincoat

 and black beret.

He's the poet of the village

 and never speaks

except to the pebbles, 

the rainbows

and the wandering wolf.



In fine fettle the old lion

Still holds up the sun

with his mane at dawn.





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POEM

 

What saves me of topping myself today:

my cat doing a handstand by the window,

Dalida singing Bambino at dawn,

the beauty of contrails streaming along the blue sky,

the smell of horse manure in the streets, 

the fulsome warbles of a thrush in the morning,

the siren-cry of ambulances that carry not my corpse,

the rain-scented beams of the sun,

that William Carlos Williams' line:

the night passes, and never passes,

the loud laughing of mum in 1978

while sawing at her Singer,

the last smile you blew like a feather

into the air before waving a fond adieu,

the last spoor of kiss you left 

on my hoary stubble...


Love passes and never passes.




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DREAMSCAPES

 

At the center the Minotaur

waits for me


the winding maze is

my wandering mind


I lost the track of the thread

spun by Ariadne's 

ball of twine



*

A woman in a moon-glossed coif

pours blue milk

into a Dutch oven.

She smiles at me

still struggling at stool

to feed verses into

my tablet.

Suddenly the woman

 flew away

like a moth




*


'Non serviam'-said Satan

to God


'No serviam"-says the Muses

to me every morning

at stool        just about

to be inspired

to be poet

to be



*


At stool

I dreamt of Tizian 

painting you 

with his fingertips

using all the colour-hues

conjured up

 by words


*

Strolling about the Heath

-as was my wont-

Star-addicted and mud-ridden

all coalesced 

in the pool of clarity

today

nothing is out

of kilter

of me






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A DREAM

 


Strolling around the river gauche at Quai Voltaire I stopped over one of those bouquiniste stands by the Seine to take a quick glance into the bouquins since I hadn't enough time and was strapped for money. But a thick volume in beautiful binding, rose vellum, gold embossed caught my eyes:

"The Correspondence between James Joyce and Clarissa Holloway(1928-1941)

Hogarth Press (so revealed the ex-libris)was the publishing house. Year of issue: 1953.

At first sight I thought it was a long-winded and pedantic essay about the metafictive connection between James Joyce and Virginia Woolf's styles. But when I started to flick through its yellowish pages there was not the slightest doubt: I was reading the crossed letters between a real person and a fictional character from a very famous novel. 

Well upon my soul!, I muttered to myself smirking, pretty sure that was only a boutade contrived by some two-bit admirer of Georges Perec. 

However, I noticed the book was prefaced by Leonard Woolf himself who spent several years to compile the letters. I read some of them with the growing curiosity of a scholar and that really oozed the aroma of something pukka, not a bogus. 

Enthused with such a rare trove, I asked the bouquiniste(an old blue-eyed geezer with grey beret and Quebec's accent) about the book price. He dusted it off examined the first pages like an expert with a magnifying glass, at the same time he tipped the beret over one ear, then over the other like a madman. "40 euros"-suddenly he snapped without raising the eyes from the book. I was surprised, rather expecting a hefty price, maybe 100 euros, even more. Nevertheless, I only had 20 euros on me, so I nearly entreated the bouquiniste not to sell the book to anyone, that I'd be back in a jiffy with the fric. I nipped to the next ATM and withdrew 60 euros.

 When I hurried back I came across the same stand, the same books, but not the same bouquiniste: this time I met a young and strapping Senegalese with long and colourful dreadlocks. His dark shades mirrored back my face. A kind of piercing glinted on his lower lip. Sat down on a stool, slouchy, he seemed more interested in selling old postcards about Notre Dame de Paris. I asked him about the old man with grey beret and the book he had put me by. I flaunted my 60 euros. His dark shades reflected the sad and overcast sky of Paris as well. He only grinned and gave me the cold shoulder and after billowing out the smoke from an odorous spliff, he got up to attend a gaggle of Japanese tourists. Disappointed, I asked around all the stands, all the bouquinistes but nobody knew anything about the book, let alone about the blue-eyed old geezer with Quebec's accent.







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FERROL-GIJON





estoy a bordo de un tren Ferrol-Gijón, 
voy a ver a un amigo enfermo que vive en Burelas. 
Gaviotas, cuervos que emergen 
de una niebla perfumada de eucaliptus
 disputándose unos cotos de claridad o azul. 
Un anciano de Ferrol me comenta:
 "cerca de aquí lincharon al marqués de Sargadelos 
durante la invasión napoleónica, por afrancesado".
 Pensé en mi amigo enfermo-también francófilo-
que me esperaba para leerle algunos fragmentos de
 Proust. Foz. Viveiro. Ortigueira... 
 El tren bordeando un mar que guarda 
en los cofres de la lluvia memorias de exilios, 
leyendas de pescadores que han visto la Atlántida,
 la cola del leviatán. veo acantilados oscuros 
que presagian el Finesterre. veo ninfas desnudas bajo la lluvia 
jugando con la verga de los caballos salvajes 
 gaviotas que limpian sus picos ensangrentados 
en la grasa de una ballena muerta.




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MATSUO BASHO, EDO, 1694



The sound of water,
the whisper of water trickling
over the conical hat of Matsuo Basho,
over the glossy plantain leaves
under the moon.

He falls asleep. Even the incessant
blue pheasant wingbeats
cannot wake him up,
nor the lovestruck choir
of the frogs in the pond
"Furuike ya 
Kawazu tobikomu
Mizu no oto"

While kipping under the stars
He caresses in dream the purple eggplant
-first of the season-
a present from a Shinto temple's priest
to honour his most beautiful haiku...
While he sleeps al fresco his words 
turn into golden fireflies 
outshining the Mount Fuji.

The sound of water,
the buzz of a lovelorn wasp
embracing a triple-peony 
foreboding the springtime.
White peonies of gilded edges,
sometimes pink like the kimono
of some geisha massaging 
his aching back his virile member, 
numb.

The whisper of the water 
over the green-porcelain leaves,
over the massive straw hat...

He's dead asleep like a log.
Even the high-pitched call
from a crane hatching in the willows
cannot wake him up,
nor the nigh sob of a maiden
turned into amber of millenary pines
for being deflowered by a Yizo in the road.

The poet glimpses himself in reveries 
as a samurai lost in the mist,
in the nude, with his sword erected,
gleaming at sunrise.

"Mizu no oto"

The sound of water 
so smooth
like the hands of a youth
rubbing his painful feet
at sunset.

"And in the last minute of the journey 
he clearly glimpsed his soul
in the shape of a deer running away
into an emerald woods,
the eternal silence of Buddha"



    



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ELEVEN VARIATIONS ON A HEADSTONE IN HIGHGATE

 


I


Teetering on the brink

of a blue poppy, a bee.

Melancholy over a mossy

headstone, a white cat.


II


One, two, three crows

space out on a headstone

like undertakers having a laugh

in a sun-kissed bench.


III


A madman sings " Vesti

la giubba" at a headstone.

The pouring rain on the grass

sings along  as well

the wind sighing through

the ash trees leaves.


IV


A lizzard slithered across

the tall grass in blue dew,

the yellow star thistles.

Then climbed upon a headstone

and stayed put for flies.


V


A Red Admiral has landed

suavely on a headstone...

or rather slipped into

the colourful dreams

of a fox sleeping by?


VI


In shade of mother-of-pearl

shimmers the sky.

A goblet of daffodils

yellowing up a headstone

rain-stained and green.

In an oval portrait in sepia

a Victorian girl smiles.


VII


From nearby a din

of chainsaw and rooks.

A red squirrel upon a headstone

plays with conkers.

The morning fog

with a will-o'-the-wisp.


VIII


Spoken for to the moonlight

an owl broods over a headstone.

Her lilting hoot hardly starts 

a mouse that nibbles on dead bones.


IX


From golden to ashen the moon

glosses a brushwood glade.

A couple of smoochy foxes read

the name of a poet who died young

chiselled into a headstone.


X


The pattering of hail

against a headstone

not even perturbed

the reveries of a ghost

illumined by lightnings.


XI


Overrun with greenery,

bluebirds and white buttercups,

a headstone is no longer

the hallmark of worms.








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POEMAS DE ERROR Y MISTERIO is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at habaneroerrante.blogspot.com.