you just awaken every day to stumble through unknown places and trip through the gaps in spaces; you are not safe, you’re lost, you relay stolen lines all the same. you say: “i just need to get through this week” as if, after sunday, unique places will appear, that you will understand, at last. a standstill comes, but now your world is oblique.
My poems are my children, more or less. I care about them, want them to go far, would like the world to love them as they are. Or would it help if I could maybe dress them in fancy words, improve their accent? Yes, though a judicious measure of sobriety might give my work commendable variety. Alas, they're disadvantaged from the start, these single-parent children of my art, and I can't blame their failings on Society.
The décima is a Spanish form of ten lines (hence the name). See my Youth and Age for more details.
In my childhood trees were green, sky was blue, the sun shone gold. Snow fell in winter thick and cold as if the summer had never been, and there was nothing in between. But now I'm old, sky's always grey, no colour left to light my day, winter and summer all the same, and Loneliness my middle name. Why did you have to go away?
The décima is a Spanish form of ten lines (hence the name), rhymed A B B A A C C D D C. I reckon it's quite like a sonnet, only shorter. The Spanish original asks for octosyllables, but curiously in Spanish verse that doesn't necessarily mean eight syllables to the line! So I wrote it in tetrameter (4-beat lines).