"irae" poems
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
1.7k
Manuel del Río, natural
de España, ha fallecido el sábado
11 de mayo, a consecuencia
de un accidente. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
a las 9,30 en St. Francis.
Es una historia que comienza
con sol y piedra, y que termina
sobre una mesa, en D'Agostino,
con flores y cirios eléctricos.
Es una historia que comienza
en una orilla del Atlántico.
Continúa en un camarote
de tercera, sobre las olas
-sobre las nubes- de las tierras
sumergidas ante Poseidón.
Halla en América su término
con una grúa y una clínica,
con una esquela y una misa
cantada, en la iglesia de St. Francis.
Al fin y al cabo, cualquier sitio
da lo mismo para morir:
el que se aroma de romero,
el tallado en piedra o en nieve,
el empapado de petróleo.
Da lo mismo que un cuerpo se haga
piedra, petróleo, nieve, aroma.
Lo doloroso no es morir
acá o allá...
Requiem æternam,
Manuel del Río. Sobre el mármol
en D'Agostino, pastan toros
de España, Manuel, y las flores
(funeral de segunda, caja
que huele a abetos del invierno)
cuarenta dólares. Y han puesto
unas flores artificiales
entre las otras que arrancaron
al jardín... Libera me domine
de morte æterna...
Cuando mueran
James o Jacob verán las flores
que pagaron Giulio o Manuel...
Ahora descienden a tus cumbres
garras de águila. Dies irae.
Lo doloroso no es morir
Dies illa acá o allá;
sino sin gloria...
Tus abuelos
fecundaron la tierra toda,
la empaparon de la aventura.
Cuando caía un español
se mutilaba el Universo.
Los velaban no en D'Agostino
Funeral Home, sino entre hogueras,
entre caballos y armas. Héroes
para siempre. Estatuas de rostro
borrado. Vestidos aún
sus colores de papagayo,
de poder y de fantasía.
Él no ha caído así. No ha muerto
por ninguna locura hermosa.
(Hace mucho que el español
muere de anónimo y cordura,
o en locuras desgarradoras
entre hermanos: cuando acuchilla
pellejos de vino derrama
sangre fraterna). Vino un día
porque su tierra es pobre. El Mundo,
Liberanos Domine, es patria.
Y ha muerto. No fundó ciudades.
No dio su nombre a un mar. No hizo
más que morir por diecisiete
dólares (él los pensaría
en pesetas). Requiem æternam.
Y en D'Agostino lo visitan
los polacos, los irlandeses,
los españoles, los que mueren
en el week-end.
Requiem æternam.
Definitivamente todo
ha terminado. Su cadáver
está tendido en D'Agostino
Funeral Home. Haskell. New Jersey.
Se dirá una misa cantada
por su alma.
Me he limitado
a reflejar aquí una esquela
de un periódico de New York.
Objetivamente. Sin vuelo
en el verso. Objetivamente.
Un español como millones
de españoles. No he dicho a nadie
que estuve a punto de llorar.
1.7k
The intimate mountain--
Weekends in a mercury supermarket--
And the nearly vindictive lilt in
Your voice when you drop the
Last 'T' in restaurant!
Perhaps for just a few months
We might dispense with the honorifics,
Because we each know perfectly
Well your finger-ring has a smile
For no one but me.
The first autumn was always impossible for me
(or at least it will be).
Winds winding like a clarinet--
A boulangerie cover of
Dies Irae.
Now where have I misplaced my
Sensory glands? Charles
Walks an intricately awkward emphasis
In ungodly,
Strangely comfortable stilettos.
The emcee has no frigging
Idea what the people want to hear anymore.
His serape and his wine--
Not to mention his women,
Although I have just now.
Poor little frog.
It looses owners off its skin
Like tadpole-seeds, over
A game of backgammon
That never really cheats anybody.
The abandoned LiveJournal account.
The forgotten Myspace passwords.
The iPod that hasn't been updated in years.
The body slumped on a threadbare sofa.
The broken earbuds and busted eardrums.
Start spreading the news:
I've already left.
Go and empty the pews;
My mother bereft.
And the Chamber of Commerce wants to blame the ****** on me.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
Trapeses strung on Shakespare lines;
vivid like the richest wines.
The arts unite and intertwine
in stunts of cruel dimensions.
Trembling hands in steady hold,
tears behind a mask so bold.
Go for silver, go for gold;
the thirty piece temptation.
Hazard games in clairvoyants’ house,
a faceless crowd he can’t arouse.
-Another jester, another Faust
or another fallen angel?
Unimpressed, the shroud of frost
between him and his viewing host
blurres his polished contraposte
to an unknown, misplaced stranger.
“A twist and spin performed so well
from a drape-framed prison-cell
a droplet from an empty well
to myriads of eyes.
A face so wet with silver tears
behind the smiling mask he wears,
like gems behind a dragon’s lair,
drop diamonds where he cries.”
Irae, the jester of the court,
the one and only of the sort,
knows his tricks are running short,
and whispers; “come what may”;
All comes down to his final jest,
the only unseen joke that’s left;
his very own zoolock-life-theft,
and thus then, dies Irae.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
Would be the day I
finally define who I
am - a winter day.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
If you put the question to, say, one Ben Haramed,
He would, as befits a wily old desert jackal,
Find such notions of faith and fidelity quite amusing--
(*Following stars in search of something ephermal,
With no fixed exchange rate?
Will these specks of light find you shelter
Among throngs of shepherds and sundry fools?
Will your mewling, puking infant provide you succor in that cold city
Where no one makes time for you, save the pickpockets or strumpets,
Each of whom would pawn your drum
For a dram or string of brightly-colored beads?*)
And, indeed, if you happened upon a certain wise and well-off trio
Ensconced comfortably in their lodgings several streets distant
From the temporary residence of the object of their pilgrimage
(*It is only fit that we pay obeisance,
But to actually stay in such a place, well...*)
They would certainly forswear any notion
Of the primacy of the gold piece and the blade
But if you caught them in a more comfortable, unguarded moment
You may able to infer quite correctly that,
While they would express themselves more elegantly
Than some rude wilderness bandit,
You could no more expect them
To exchange their coin of the realm for philosophy
Than you would expect the fold and kine
To keep perfect four-four time.
And yet we believe, in spite of the first-hand knowledge
That the descendants of Balthasar and Melchior can elbow their way
Past whomever they choose, and be greeted, all smiles,
By the bank manager, the lawmaker, the chairman of the board
That our works and our constancy
Shall be recompensed at a sound rate of return
(How could it be otherwise, for didn’t Our Story Teller herself,
Through stiffness of upper lip and fealty
To all things bright and beautiful,
Weather the Blitz as beautiful, as inspirational,
As a cross-Channel Joan of Arc?)
If only we are as steadfast as the chant of the Dies Irae,
As unwavering as the straightforward beat of a single drum
Which follows the procession down the main thoroughfare
As we make our final homecoming.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
Fire adorns the sky while blood stains the gravel
The final horn has been blown
Ships sink, buildings implode, planes nosedive
Darkness walks among us
Death lingers
Sickness kisses my lips
Free falling into a bottomless pit
Fire adorns the sky while blood stains the gravel
The final horn has been blown
Man dies, man goes blind, man commits suicide
Death lingers
Sickness kisses my lips
The dark winged angel caresses my shoulder
Smoke dances in my lungs
Fire adorns the sky while blood stains the gravel
The final horn has been blown
Flowers wither, trees crash, asphalt cracks
Death lingers
Sickness kisses my lips
I dance with the man with hoofed feet
An endless loop
Fire adorns the sky while blood stains the gravel
The final horn has been blown….
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
Tu insegui le mie forme,
segui tu la giustezza del mio corpo
e non mai la bellezza
di cui vado superba.
Sono animale all'infelice coppia
prona su un letto misero d'assalti,
sono la carezzevole rovina
dei fecondi sussulti alle tue mani,
sono il vuoto cresciuto
sino all'altezza esatta del piacere
ma con mille tramonti alle mie spalle:
quante volte, amor mio, tu mi disdegni.
363
¡Oh, las rojas iniciales
que ornáis las salmos triunfales
en breviarios y misales!
¡Oh, casullas que al reflejo
de los cirios, en cortejo
vais mostrando el oro viejo!
¡Oh, vitrales policromos
fileteados de plomos,
que brilláis bajo los domos!
¡Oh, custodias rutilantes,
con topacios y diamantes!
¡Oh, copones rebosantes!
¡Oh, Dies irae tenebroso!
¡Oh, Miserere lloroso!
¡Oh, Tedëum glorïoso!
Me perseguís cuando duermo,
me rodeáis si despierto...
Tenéis mi espíritu yermo,
muy enfermo... muy enfermo...
casi muerto..., casi muerto...
346
McKenzie sat, the feral cat
a ginger tom, a ***** brat,
he’s on the slab, he's at the vet,
he's innocent of the threat;
as scalpel steel –prepares to lop
his precious assets – for the chop.
He smirks and thinks of bowls of cream.
An instrument now stops his dream
while measuring his body’s heat:
a gross insult to his seat
that turns his grin into a pout
as he pushes the probe out.
This wicked cat – who seems serene,
his outward visage looks so clean
external dirt can never stick,
but succumbing to his lick
it passes through that moggy’s gut
and out of an unblemished ****
The player fears the game is up
he sees the proffered poisoned cup,
now he's exposed: the ***** rat.
Dies Irae for that cat –
the stoneless subject of our mirth –
as ball-less he departs the Earth.
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
Quand l'être cher vient d'expirer,
On sent obscurément la perte,
On ne peut pas encor pleurer :
La mort présente déconcerte ;
Et ni le lugubre drap noir,
Ni le Dies irae farouche,
Ne donnent forme au désespoir :
La stupeur clôt l'âme et la bouche.
Incrédule à son propre deuil,
On regarde au fond de la tombe,
Sans rien comprendre à ce cercueil
Sonnant sous la terre qui tombe.
C'est aux premiers regards portés,
En famille, autour de la table,
Sur les sièges plus écartés,
Que se fait l'adieu véritable.
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