Spring

Between dull Autumn and dark Winter, Spring

Came earlier this year, and filled with dreams;
Dreams of an earth renewed supposed to bring
The lasting verdure where fair pasture teems.
These vernal greens, upon whose first green sight
Full thousands for the harrow of the land
Are levied, though, are burning up with blight,
Tainted when first the plot was laid by hand.
Each farmer wants to harvest his own crop,
But who shall reap the fruitage they know not;
And though the land is sick, and farmers flop,
The goods will fill the hand that sowed the lot.
   I fear this Spring, both planned and sprung from rage,
   Shall bring the deadly Winter of an age.

Empty House

No poem, ever more,
Will be a happening:
We now write more, but for
A world that's lessening−

This public in the desert,
Made solely of our presence,

Some poor St. Johns who preach
To creases of their tunics,
A desert owned by each,

Or dogs in endless touse
Inside an empty house.

-----

This is a translation of a poem by Alberto da Cunha Melo:

Casa Vazia




Poema nenhum, nunca mais,
será um acontecimento:
escrevemos cada vez mais
para um mundo cada vez menos,

para esse público dos ermos
composto apenas de nós mesmos,

uns joões batistas a pregar
para as dobras de suas túnicas,
seu deserto particular,

ou cães latindo, noite e dia,
dentro de uma casa vazia.

Sonnet of Remembrance II - The Blue of Beauty

I see a bunch of people by the pool,

Talking and drinking grown-up soda, free;
And yet a bunch of people looks like school:
I'm much more taken with the mystery,
So foot on foot I waddle to the blue,
Attracted by the ever changing light
Reflecting on that deeply shifting hue,
And by its other-worldliness to sight.
But boys of three are not supposed to swim;
Wherefore my uncle, or some friend, will put
Down fast his drink and hurry to the rim,
Before I touch forever with my foot.
   They laugh, but off I go again, alone;
   Again I'm seeking beauty unbeknown.

Act Appalled

Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled,
Your orthodoxy sacrosanct distressed,
Don't fret to grant riposte−just act appalled.

State of the art technology to scald
A rival who should you with proofs molest,
Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled,

Is affectation and an awe-struck yawl.
Against an argument you can't contest,
Just wear a startled face−and act appalled.

Assume that air that says your foe is galled,
Medieval nescience flaming up his breast,
Whenas your stolid views you find bemauled.

Your public will, by now, be so enthralled!
Those further answers can remain suppressed−
Which anyway you lack. So act appalled.

And if the devil still is not forestalled
By such a noble show of shock, invest,
When your void stolid views you find bemauled,
A cry: "You fascist!"−fast−, and act appalled.

Sonnet of Remembrance I − The Voice of Truth

"How old are you?" she asked, the little girl
Who was the daughter of my mother's friend,
A puny thing of three, eyes black as merle,
Two stops opaque the outcome could portend.
"Four", in reply I said, and feeling proud
Anew of new acquired age−what make!
Which to complete my telling head I bowed
To point the four-shaped candle on the cake.
Yet then she countered with a strident "Three!":
She would not be out-aged; and I said "Four."
"Three!", she insisted. "Four!" was my decree,
So forceful timid tears began to pour.
   And though she was but three I knew no ruth,
   For I had spoken with the voice of truth.

-------

This is the first of a series of sonnets on memories from my childhood that I intend to write.

Olympian Dilemma

Between the rule of Jupiter am I
And Mars, thus knowing not which to go by;
Each god requests devoutly to be praised
By active faith−and thus I sway, amazed.

So Zeus, the ordering and mighty Will,
Would have me never more stand static still,
And follow his example: with a form
To shape my world according to my norm.

Ares, relentless in belligerence,
Would bid me arm with stout malevolence
Against the foes and friends, the good and bad,
Reacting at whatever makes me gad.

Of course I'd rather honor mighty Jove
Than follow Mars in his destructive rove;
But who am I to spurn the edicts of a god
Whose spear can prick me with so sharp a prod?