"fermin" poems
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
No rush of the bulls
filled these narrow cobbled streets
where tradition and
songs sounded over pinxos,
and stories of San-Fermin.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 2:28 AM UTC
I ain't ever belonged to no one--
not even those that came before,
those frightened immigrants and spanish tangerines tumbling
below deck, toppling into the scattered bed rolls that still smell
like cumin and tarragon, sea and spiced salt seeping through the strong lungs of every youthful San Fermin boy in Pamplona
the raised voices in Seville singing San Jose and my mother's
maiden name--
i fumble in the dark for things to keep me rooted
the strong arms of working men and their weak hearts
barely beating
secondhand boys breathin' dollars an' truck exhaust
lookin' for their match, someone that'll fit
or do 'em just right
sharp things that'll sit pretty and
look good in lowlight,
and me with my tulip bulb heart
plantin' myself in wax, in muck,
in Utqiaġvik, Alaska
during the Polar Nights,
in my palms, beneath pillows, sproutin out the lungs of
those unassumin' who think i'm healin' them
of all the silly, misplaced ideas
but they got me creepin' out the sides of their cheeks
hookin' these delicate stems
leaving thin perforations all along their sheets
gratin and sharpenin they's teeth--
used to think i was the sun
real pretty and smooth like them stones
you find down near the river
or leaves just 'bout to fall, clingin
to low hangin' branches
just askin to be plucked or swept away
but i'm not any of those things
just a girl
lord, the awful truth
just a girl.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 12:38 AM UTC