"marias" poems
Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers
and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,
and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a
stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps,
I am Essex-born:
Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel,
the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves,
Roding held my head above water when I thought it was
drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees
stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt,
the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there.
Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower,
Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots
sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong,
Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry,
in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves,
through its trees the ghost of a great house. In
Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the
light of flaring sundown, seven kings
in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings
the place of law
where my birth and marriage are recorded
and the death of my father. Woodford Wells
where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white
statue forlorn in its garden)
saw the meeting and parting of two sisters,
(forgotten? and further away
the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once
but many times?).
All the Ivans dreaming of their villages
all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities,
picking up fragments of New World slowly,
not knowing how to put them together nor how to join
image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map
made long before I was born shows ancient
rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire
for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages
indelibly all over the atlas
, who now in a far country
remembers the first river, the first
field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building,
that new smell, and remembers
the walls of the garden, the first light.
1.5k
No Pictures Taken
I see the pictures sent to me on my Facebook page of places
I have not seen yet in countries I have been to as a ******
who join the sea out of poverty at home and offered
an education no importance and factory pipes spewing smoke
smelling of sardines and cod liver oil
I recall Costa Rica a small town in a bay the jungle appeared
near and lush ready to hide the town should be human activities
stop. And the cockerel crewed as I got up from Maria's trafficked
bed running down a winding road to the docks and on my ship to
the routine work with sleep -walkers who like me and only saw
the beauty of the land in glimpses of dreams a Paradise lost.
Saddening, there were never any lazy days to walk around and
to take pictures we were not tourists.
Part Two:
Alone in a beautiful park and felt like the eternal wandering Jew
hoping to be accepted by the locals. There was never any time to
know anyone; guiltily I found my way back to the bars, the music,
the Marias willing vulvas' oily route; *** coke sleep in a woman’s
arms inhale her scent another Paradise lost before the **** crewed.
I look at the pictures of contentment, actors on a stage of life playing
happy to play the tragic roles they need a bit more experience.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
You showed me your rosary;
it lay in the cup of your palm
like a coiled pink snake.
You explained the prayers
of each bead:
the Pater Nosters, Ave Marias,
some others lost to me
in the frost of time.
I remember that
narrowness of your fingers,
the frailty of thumbs,
your wrists
almost transparent
in their soft whiteness.
You showed me
the crucifix
connected by
rows of beads.
Prayers held here,
you said,
lifting the rosary
for me to hold.
I felt it,
********* the beads,
smooth as snails.
I looked at you
as you stood
watching me.
Your blonde hair;
blue liquidy eyes,
narrowness of frame.
I gave you back
your rosary
loaded with prayers.
It lay in your palm;
I wished I could lay
my hand there
where the rosary lay,
but I looked at you smiling,
but didn't say.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
This is not poetry. They are my words handcuffed and carried away in black Marias by men who play gods with guns. And wearing the official uniforms given to them by those who rule, in order to protect the people. Yet, they choose not to protect the people. Instead, they extort money from them and have them locked up on ******* up charges, written on statements of air.
This is not poetry. It is the rage of wasted years. Of youths, considered useless by a system which murders their visions. And buries them in a graveyard of lost dreams. A system which leaves the youths to wander in the wilderness of uncertainty, unsure of tomorrow. Because for many of them, tomorrow might never come.
This is not poetry. It is the cry of the molested and the ***** The detained, and the sold. And the forgotten faces of those killed in regional genocides, without names and buried in anonymous tombs. Those whose names might never ring a tune. Because they are poor. And the poor are the first to be forgotten in conflicts. Because they have no money and no fame attached to their names.
This is not poetry. It is a memorial. For those murdered at the Gates of Blood. For those who came before us. And those who would come this way again. It is a memorial for all of us. For the living as well as the fallen. It is a collection of all our rage, hopes and fears. It is a memorial of what we are and what we choose not to be.
These are not pretty words. They are the truth. Unadulterated by years of fermented lies and deceit. These are the words whispered in married couples bedrooms. And shouted in bars by men who drown their troubles in bottles of drink. These are the words raised up in protests by those who refuse to be intimidated by bullets. And whose voices cannot be silenced.
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
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Dispatches for the Colonial Office
What Could be More American than
Masked Secret Police in Unmarked Cars?
Perhaps the suggestion has already been made:
ICE’s Black Marias could lead the parade
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 8:32 AM UTC