This book of poems was published bilingual in English/Spanish by Dirección de Cultura, Universidad de Los Andes, in 2014.
It is in two parts, the first, Gods and Ashes, concerned with mythological, sacred themes, the second, Ground Floor of the Brain, with levels of perception.
I
GODS AND ASHES
Pan
Propped on his hind legs
chewing tropical thorns
the billy goat looks aslant
his eye sensuous and cynical
the flute sounds subcutaneously
ashy desert shudders
bottles boxes plastic bags
beside the motorway
Matsya
The first shape of god
was a bottom-feeding fish
a blunt snout
and flesh half mud
He rose through dark layers
of danger and strain
to transparent waters
shimmered in shallow bays
gold platter fresh sun
lighting sponges and seaweed.
He wanted oxygen
peered at the shore
now he walks upright
among walls and cables
ruminating statistics
dreams of levitating
to a purer element.
Mother
She wears a blue cloak or green rays
travels through space and smiles when she comes
sweetness shining
in the heart’s almond
Shards of faith are still enough
to kindle sparks of her comfort
among wars plagues betrayals
she can’t pacify
The other mother
Constant on guard
against usurpers of her order
standing on the wheel of circumstance
mounted on a lion
with a lion’s jaws and scarlet tongue
she feeds on blood
she demands blood, it’s poured for her
from open wounds throats
hearts pierced by steel
served on the breast platter,
she’s grateful and fortifies the warrior
In sweat and flames her new servants
spin the threads of their lives
their neighbors’ cruel lives
into the boiling stream
they cut and prick themselves
to draw her opaque compassion
Gaia
The streaked blue orb
fixed her coordinates in space
regulated her oven and the spate of waters
conceived live cells starfish
sprouted furry limbs
spines blood vessels
and the eye
sphere like herself
to contemplate herself
her cloak her air her children
with a hunter’s precision
with love
Exact passionate outlines
of buffalo and horse in caves
conjugated killing and loving
Since then the eye
has become clouded
veiled hardened
its surface is brittle now
blackened by many deaths
outside the law
emptied of love
the gift of sight is withdrawn
Moon
Once many years ago
the moon was friend
distant high radiant
she cared for us and promised
loves round like her own full face
Now we don’t even look at her
she deceives and neglects us
the silver fount has dried
the sweat of coition doesn’t shine
on rough skin nor flow
like mercury to fusion
in another body
The moon inside a head
raves and puzzles
what is my sex where shall I put it
won’t light the passionate gaze
surrender that tears time
The Blacksmith
Buds of fire swell in the forge
the flowers temper the warrior’s sword
burnish his shield
Cowardly smart weapons
give the arm no fortitude
will not become ploughshares
Mutilations at a distance
bring no grace or pardon
Son of Man
Smoke-grey afternoon
threat of fire under my skin
leaves and oranges wrinkle
dust dims resisting flowers
filters among the brain’s folds
I’m angry start to shout
only the dogs hear me
I refuse it can’t end like this
In my head in my heart
a bright green velvet lining forms
in that grass eggs swell
from each one a little god emerges
One grows in my chest
feeding on my organs
taking strength from my bones
handsome and tall as a tree
he’s the Son of Man
and still he blandishes his sword
and still he promises justice
Bast
Daughter of the fanged sun
your scorching breath
created the desert
you ruled menstruation
and the king’s weapons
terrible assassin
you honor me with your affection
you wake me nose to nose at dawn
you stain my carpets
with the blood of your victims
you are wiping out the birds
in the garden
their song is silenced
but your grace remains intact
Feathers
The cat comes at twilight
carrying something dead a little head
hangs from her mouth,
that’s her right I think
her function
she lays it at my feet in the circle
of lamplight
I see the feathers of the little red bird
that for months was catching insects
at the study window
- a “bull’s blood” -
horror lacerates me
I shudder hate the cat
want to pray
for the bird’s soul
feathers become flames
huge wings of fire
erect an angel
Shadows in the garden
for Clide Eliche
Some days I bury myself
under the garden soil
only a hole left for my nose
catches the scent of flowers
My womb’s been sterile for centuries
but sprouts of gods germinate
borrow my bones’ calcium
my blood’s proteins,
the porous web levitates
takes on vegetable tints
acquires outlines
The men I never knew stroll by
sturdy and elegant,
haughty and proud they still approach
prepared for incest
for the garden to go on flowering
so the lineage won’t end
Daibhutsu
Inside the bronze concavity
sealed with joints and rough patches
stand below where the heart would be
on the secret chakra -
have you entered nobility?
In the dome above the neck seam
under the hollow orbs of curls
behind the hooded eyes
how could wisdom not gather
and drip?
Kencho-ji
An astonished wind
twists itself to form
the hall’s pillars
blue threads of it
weave Buddha’s eyes
splash the roof beams
with birds
Tara
The distance between you and the ground
is simple, no veils or ciphers
Your star touches the earth
plants come up to meet it
mothers are hatched in the grass
they have no names yet
‘lovely’ is gathering its syllables
Gulf Coast dancers
Behind the parted lips in their clay faces
life and death revolve as twin planets
in the vessel of their desire
the gasp that escapes assent to both
the price of each
in the order before words
They dance
perfectly poised till they fall
in their own glittering blood
scattering germs of their ecstasy
across centuries
Dream of revolution
Blocking off a sunken street
a tall church
brick pillars and arches
from the same dun earth
empty of icons
barren womb
In a side chamber
crucible regained
watched over by silent children
garbage seethes
transmutes into clothes glittering
with stones and sequins
II
GROUND FLOOR OF THE BRAIN
When is a haiku not a haiku?
Millions of them
scattered over the internet
and magazines in all the western languages
haven’t understood the rules
this is not about me
the haiku sea is not in my head
or my heart nor represents
depths of consciousness
or multitudinous boundlessness
it’s before metalanguage
where senses meet the world’s surface
and names are born
blue deep
new and always
in a flaring of assent
the sea is the sea is the sea
Lament for words
They have no silence to rest in
picked at and pummeled endlessly
discarded for severity
(who likes “dead” or “old”)
replaced with arbitrary counters
Roots of whole families wither
buried diamonds fall off into darkness
coal loses shine and combustion
potatoes will not be digested
nasty fat beetles and grubs
ooze out of the soil and crawl away
leaving brown stains on the page
when pressed into service
Floating bodies
I’ve read warnings
about old age, lies
(inside we’re always young)
and truths (knees give out first)
but no one mentions the worst
floating bodies
that cloud vision
spiders in the middle of the eye
limbs that invade
the serenity of space
bodies in memory that stayed
out of reach
still present in the heavens
of desire
Chaos theory
Is there somewhere a butterfly
with two different wings
a variant in markings
bar across one owl eye
chaos cutting through
the mirror symmetry
of the body’s sides
like veins in my hands and forearms
two distinct landscapes
purple swollen cordilleras
knots spurs forking
singular and unrepeatable
islands in arid skin
announce their crumbling
I cut my finger
blood wells drips on the floor
my blood is a beautiful color
blood color
and it has not got old
My journey to Mictlán
After the bullet in the brain
no one hears my objections
to how they arrange my limbs
my attempts to say goodbye
only my little dog wants to stay with me
The descent is shadowy and scares us
but we set out groping at first
then more fluently
I didn’t know what to expect for my turn
monsters with a thousand arms
claws and live coals for eyes
musician angels stomachs on legs
none of that, a scattered ark of creatures
salute politely along a thicketed path
articulated people live ordered lives
in dwellings more and more rudimentary
that start to shrink till hominids
scuttle in and out of grubby burrows
and the dog and I shrivel
and slide into chilly darkness
But the little dog wakes me
asking is this really it
and I shake myself and say No
this is what those bloody Aztecs want
and people who say beyond thought
is only grey miasma and horror and madness
We’ll have Asia instead Look at me friend
as I see you We’re purged and blanched
whittled down to a film with holes in it
rags in the cosmic wind
crystal splinters in the light
The end of love
How close to death must I be
before the aching fissure can close
the first split in the all
heart wrinkled and withered
from crossing the long salt desert
alone
Even the empty silhouette
absence that detained a him
is fading
No words of love left,
from the void a rain of gods
surrounds me
splendid with wings or horns
serene and indifferent
beautiful and male
Heatstroke
Opened suddenly to sun
eyes lose consistency
only a thin film wavering
on the abyss of all the rest
bog with crawling lights
defends presence
Another hour of day
the surface holds all existence
dense as chocolate
inescapable as radiation
Reading Paniker in Margarita
All my dead gods
are stuck like concrete posts
in my baking brain
I sweat ambivalence
and it smells of crime
plurality litters the beaches
I aspired to lucidity in another life
separated from this by cubic fathoms
of unsymbolic sea
Things
The tyranny of things
toothbrush washing-up soap car keys
sends me to climb ladders
of contingent meaning
on to planes of understanding
where truth is pure
The rarefied air
of symbolic discourse
chokes me into dissolving
the hierarchies of vision
into comb flower-pot wooden spoon
for company on the ground floor
of my brain
Then there are the other times
the grackle hopping on the roof
at daybreak
the rough waves where the storm
lashed its tail
require no elevation
no deconstruction
they only sing
Scream
Options diminish
cancel each other
expectations crash
against a wall of carelessness
backfire leaving a smatter
of small raw wounds
the last plan wobbles
good reasons bring it down
the whole web unravels
short strings tug neurons
scream
What’s left is a day
an island
An idea for a poem
It came to me days ago
I welcomed it told it to wait
till I’m not so busy
and now it’s sealed
I knead it to make it rise
secrete words in its pores
it’s matted and won’t unravel
it says keep on pummeling and pulling
it stays a stone
Mowing
Symphonic feelings sprout
stems of thoughts aspire
I mow them down
clear relentlessly
the field of expectation
Tiny green plants keep on coming up
a luminous moss
clothing the ground
the floor is not bleak
On a good day
I climb the ladder of sublimation
all the way to the top
survey the variegated world
its masses of sublime
- Buddha’s face, the Parthenon -
and shout my satisfaction
then I look back,
lapping round every step
the subliminal lies in wait
But today I’m strong
and the ladder is solid
acknowledged sacred history,
I won’t fall in just yet
Mozart whistles round the peaks
A change in the weather
Space swells upward
swarms with fresh light
wild flower sweet
inside me
ignoring my age
Earth’s childhood is now
Christmas
New is a property of the ground
as constant as old;
order is unraveling but
the world goes on breathing.
A child can still be born
slippery and compact
with all his little toes and fingers
and a crown.
Looking inward
Enclosing the stem where breath
is spliced to sky
stopping sight
blocking power
is a hollow trunk compacted
of parched flesh
punished
by defeats
watered it might soften
free the tender plant inside
Now honesty attacks
desire retires and withers,
the trunk shrinks and blackens,
space is cleared
inside is only a desiccated spine,
a thin milky light
dribbles in and curdles
A solstice falls behind
the ribs are sprouting
antler velvet
under the dome is space
for a soul to cartwheel
Obstacles
I want to walk on the ground
flat shaven smooth
expectant without object
but old furniture sticks up
boxes of faith and duty
splitting at the seams but solid
I dodge them
push ahead in dim light
stop short at the edge
of a bottomless pit
Stillness is yet to learn
before particles of light
join and overarch the field
and all its seeds quicken
Homage to Coleridge
The arrow and the albatross
are burned into my brain
like human outlines
on Hiroshima stone
by a steadier light
beyond survival
the neglected imperative
Nose to the ground
Sullen where I shouldn’t be
at tributes and concerts
even birthday parties
so much discourse spinning
affects and elevations
covering the lovely ground
the world’s body
a sunflower
a slice of aubergine
a rusted buckle
Do I want to be a dog?
On a Buddhist image
Can I say my shadow’s mine
can I say I own it
if through dull days and weeks
I go round without it
I don’t even miss it
until the sharp rays
of sun or temptation
manifest it sticking to my feet
inexorably familiar?
Where is it without me?
Inner space
It’s not nirvana
nor mental blank
it’s a field without boundaries
deserted by the players,
the walls and furniture of dreams
have vanished
it’s a condemnation
a conquest of detachment
a glimpse of purity
ecstatic desolation
desolate ecstasy
forecourt to extinction
unbearable for more than seconds
while life puts back its hindrances
Samsara
Nothing is happening
the cat puts out her paw
knocks down an enamel cup
it chips and rolls
we support occurrence
against inertia
anxious for a leading role
among objects
wielding a weapon
throwing a bomb
or modulating notes
a slight shift
in a raga
Company
A green jay perches awkwardly
on a thin branch
outside my window
real fleshed and feathered company
in this domestic space
pulls me away from nebulous figures
inverted absences
that walk the shadowy arena
of my old head
Dreams after traveling
Two or three times a night
the train is departing
from an echoing platform
I’m on it I’ve missed it I’ve just arrived
stand there with my pile of luggage
or the boat is coming to shore
the plane taking off or landing
huge girders arch over terminals
crowds scuttle
freeze into a bed of fresh lettuce
I’m anxious bored busy
assaulted over and over again
by the same images
Suddenly a different figure
imposing bright-colored blazes
across the muddle
down into the lower reaches
of my mind where devotion’s branches
wait to graft memories
polish them give them gods’ names
send them back up the brain stem
to tell me stories
Caracas
for Dennis
The morning unrolls
an endless concrete surface
in front of the walker
his eyes become multifaceted
like a fly’s
like the green panes of buildings
reflecting blurred motion
his ears don’t filter
they soak up and swallow sounds
into a blender
passers-by loom in on him
irradiating vital organs
trees and towers move along
against him or away
shapes on a mental grid
thoughts uncoil from objects, bodies
to the beat of his passage
The city is company enough
On a parent’s death
The air shudders and atoms
of furniture escape
as sheets become shroud
Without spider the web
of memory – tenderness
battles, falls –
slackens and slips
over time’s knife edge
threads from it extend
into my own tissue
drawn nearer the abyss
The will in the weaving now
belongs to me
I must own it
No stooping bulk ahead
no shadow to hide me
orphan
exposed
to the unforgiving light
To be or not to be
The difference depends
on minute margins
improbable balances
the trail of a meteorite
a failure of imagination
would be enough to erase us
ten degrees hotter
clouds of volcanic ash
an implacable virus
A little bit meaner
we’d destroy each other
a little bit more hopeless
we’d surrender to the void