Poetry
Poetry Collections
Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear
using a celestial method long discovered
by astronomers who registered astral details
as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the scriptorium.
Those days were sacred, when a robin
sitting on the window sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’ attention and they
lifted their heads from smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery stands silent,
stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door cracked by sun.
Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear
using a celestial method long discovered
by astronomers who registered astral details
as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the scriptorium.
Those days were sacred, when a robin
sitting on the window sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’ attention and they
lifted their heads from smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery stands silent,
stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door cracked by sun.
El silencio
Me puedo imaginar fácilmente al universo
justo antes de la explosión del Big Bang
cuando aún no existían poetas, ni poemas
y cuando la lengua, calladita e inmóvil
dentro de la boca, no emitía sonido alguno,
o cuando las míticas historias de los Cherokees
aguardaban a sus chamanes para recitarlas.
En aquel entonces amantes no suspiraban
requiebros en el oído de sus enamorados,
ángeles no batían frenéticamente las alas
para no escurrirse en la tierra cabeza abajo.
Platón todavía no pensaba en voz alta como
presentar la obra de su maestro, un condenado
a muerte después de todo, a miembros de la Academia.
Recién nacidos no estrenaban sus pulmones llorando
y por las tardes los patos de La Albufera, esos de
iridiscentes plumas no picoteaban insectos volando.
El universo no había comenzado la marcha,
y el volumen del OM védico registraba cero.
El agua no clamaba bajando por las cataratas
del Iguazú con verdísimas salpicaduras y
Shakespeare no se sentaba a un escritorio cojo
de roble agrietado remendando, como el zapatero
de Vila Barberá, antiguas leyendas europeas
para sus estrenos en El Globo londinense.
Ni siquiera Cervantes se podía imaginar
las aventuras del cautivo de Orán devuelto
hambriento y maltrecho en las playas de Denia.
Y tú a través de este océano inexistente
que nos separa, no hubieras podido escuchar
mi voz susurrando a gritos cuanto te quiero.
Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear
using a celestial method long discovered
by astronomers who registered astral details
as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the scriptorium.
Those days were sacred, when a robin
sitting on the window sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’ attention and they
lifted their heads from smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery stands silent,
stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door cracked by sun.
Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear
using a celestial method long discovered
by astronomers who registered astral details
as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the scriptorium.
Those days were sacred, when a robin
sitting on the window sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’ attention and they
lifted their heads from smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery stands silent,
stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door cracked by sun.
Remembering the Monastery
Between the damaged roof and the walnut tree
slightly to the right, I watched Venus appear
using a celestial method long discovered
by astronomers who registered astral details
as we, scribes, illuminated manuscripts
in the dim light of the scriptorium.
Those days were sacred, when a robin
sitting on the window sill to preen its tail
caught the brothers’ attention and they
lifted their heads from smooth parchment,
interrupted grinding lapis for a minute
to smile at birds’ ease to reach heaven.
Today the empty monastery stands silent,
stone walls crumbled, beehives destroyed,
all bees dying in clusters from pesticides,
its orchard burned years ago, the pigsty
covered with ivy, only a single walnut tree
stands by the wooden door cracked by sun.
Light lands
over the space between pines
and playing children
squatting over a wounded lizard
moving tail cut-off who knows how.
The younger freckled one picks up
a couple of gilt leaves, tears a sliver
of sun between her fingers
stained with red geraniums
and lizard’s blood.
I sit next to the child now crying
with discontent learning about
the 6th Commandment
for the first time.
THE STORY BEHIND ‘THE BEGINNER’
I wrote this poem as I set out on a new creative adventure in 2020. My painting teacher, Nicholas Wilton of Art2Life, encouraged those of us who were beginners to enjoy the experience of beginning. Rather than comparing ourselves to those more experienced, or wishing we were further along, he reminded us that we only get to be a beginner once and to soak the experience up.
This poem bubbled up in response to Nick’s words, and carries the energy of new beginnings, and all the tentative, hopeful and determined moments that involves!
I hope this print provides you with a gentle reminder of what a gift it is to stand at the beginning of a new path, yet again. I keep a copy close in my studio, reminding me to enjoy (rather than rue) the wobbly beginning phase of each new adventure.