Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's Rim
It still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim-Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frameAdjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lampsHanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frameHer footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto itAlone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around herA drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her faceHer figure etched against the wooden frame,She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a birdNow sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopesShe yielded before the sluggish advance of sunsetBlood dripped, with her dying darknessAnd a crimson moon hurled a flame acrossThe shadowy clouds, burning throughout the skyThe tormented sky above her?
Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped itRocky images, highest pointsThrusting herself up boldly from to the ledgeThe painted morning blushed over the rimHer brows and nose, face against the granite stoneMassive injuries was taking form,Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sunIt was too great a task-to die alone?she wished nowShe had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go.Too much for any woman in a lost worldOut of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alasMute and protesting against life's uselessnessA narrow path lay below her slender bodyBetween death and attainment, a careless footThe rocks beneath her weakening, she plungedPlunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valleyThinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled,Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!'When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling.
In SpanishTranslated by Nancy Penaloza
Las memorias del Borde de una Tierra desértica
Todavía estaba iluminado cuando ella pausó en el borde de la tierra desértica-Sobre, el borde descansaba como un bruto durmiente, un marco de madera Adyacente hacia el azul donde estrellas mañaneras colgadas como lámparas de aceite, colgando desde viejos rayos y dando sombra? al marco de madera?Su equilibrio cogiendo los rayos, mientras ella había caído sobre esto
Sola, ella miró la mañana, subiendo hacia ella Una mujer trainera, marcada por la vida, y sueños inclinados Con el aspecto de dolor y el músculo moldeado sobre su cara Su figura inclinada contra el marco de madera, Ella trató de brincar, y perdió el equilibrio, colgando como un pájaro Ahora bebiendo a sorbos la penumbra en la repisa y esperanzas trastornadas
Ella cedió antes del avance inactivo de la puesta del sol La Sangre goteó, con su oscuridad mortal
Y una luna carmesí lanzó una llama a través De las nubes vagas, ardiendo en todas partes del cielo
El cielo atormentado encima de ella?
Cruzando el piso del valle su ojo agarró esto
Imágenes rocosas, lo más altos puntos.Desde donde se empujó ella con audacia hacia la repisa,
La mañana pintada ruborizada sobre el borde Sus frentes y nariz, de cara contra la piedra de granito,
Heridas masivas tomaban la forma, Su silueta flotando tan indolente a través del sol
Esto fue demasiado una gran tarea - para morir sola?que ella deseó ahora
Ella no había brincado?miles de pies abajo, aún ir.
Demasiado para cualquier mujer en un mundo perdido
Fuera de la madera débil su mente tenía paz; Ella sabía que pronto todo esto estaría sobre ¡ay! Muda y protestando contra la inutilidad de la vida
Un camino estrecho descansa debajo de su cuerpo delgado Entre la muerte y el logro, un pie descuidadoLas rocas debajo de su debilitamiento, ella se sumergió Sumergida a su muerte, en las manos de talladura del valle
Pensando en ello, mientras ella se cayó, pensando con una sonrisa, Diciendo, alzando la vista-muerta ante sus ecos: "¡El tiempo es corto, el tiempo es corto?. El tiempo es corto!"
Cuando ellos la encontraron, su cara estaba sin miedo a la caída.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind. The first is that most poetry is overly descriptive, leaving little to the imagination; the second is that the rest of it is abstruse. This presents the non-specialist with a dilemma: either to persevere in the thankless task of attempting to unravel an increasingly unrewarding literary crossword; or to make do with the superficialities of descriptive verse and the resultant ennui. Both projects would presumably confirm any prejudices that these readers entertained about the relevancy of poetry to their lives. In circumstances such as these, I think it would be appropriate to introduce a method of poetic appreciation, which, although unorthodox, would encourage the non-specialist to revise any negative opinion of poetry held.
The Lull of Twilight [Over Mantaro Valley] In English and Spanish
Twilight, was now beginning. As for
Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have started out and what it might have gone through to end up where you found it.
I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English]
Ode to Quetzalcóatl
Feelings, O How Glorious!
Sometimes we feel hard-pressed, Our backs against the wall; Sometimes we feel lightheaded, As if we are going to fall.
The Goat and the Rope [a Poem: in Spanish and English]
The Goat and the Rope
The Valley Of Pain
We were exiled from the Garden of Eden. Its sinless wonders nevermore to regain.So every man on life's toilsome journey,Must enter the valley of pain.
It Was Not Me
It was not me as I am now.It was not me as I was then.It was then when God was truly in me.When God was in me, I was a young man.A young man with hope, will and desire.Desire to give my love and the gift of God to the ones in need. You see, that was me.
Three Love Poems [all wicked]
Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk's poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with 'Lovers'...', and 'Death...' and the 'Loves's Curse';but love can carry with it, luring assets, especially in these three poems, as you will soon see; two of which he calls sonnets. He sings a dim song, but it all seems to fit in the river of bitter waters; or salty waters. Be that as it may, they are worth the adventure in reading them, weary as they may be. For those interested, his new book of poems will be out in weeks, "Spell of the Adnes," it will be a charming book. Rosa Penaloza
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree.There's nothing wrong with my voice,You're just filled with jealousy."
Two Poems Written During Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we've been going through our things as most people must, to prepare for the new location, and in doing so, I found two poems, ones I wrote in 1990, now 15-years old, never published, and so I'd like to publish them today. I was a heavy drinker up to 1984 (some twenty years drinking), when I quite, and so these poems must have something to do with it, a slight reflection perhaps. They were never numbered, as I have done in the past to most of my poems, but I assume they would be around #125 and #126, or so, out of #760. I did not have a name for either of them, so I shall name them accordingly?now:
Testimony to the Night [In English and Spanish]
In the quiet of the arctic night-In its deep northern skies,Dim are the lights, in its cold
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Discussion of How Do I Love Thee?
"How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning was written in 1845 while she was being courted by the English poet, Robert Browning. The poem is also titled Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets From the Portuguese.
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings
Biography of Charlotte Bronte
Charlotte Bronte (1816 ?1855) Novelist and Poet.
Lifes Too Short
Time goes by to quicklyto hold your feelings insideEspecially when their so strongeven if they don't abide...
Learn About Love From Poet Rumi
Learn about love by reading poetry by a long dead poet named Rumi. No need to look for ancient texts hidden in caves...Search the Net.
Tale of the: Old Hunter and the Golden Hare [In SPANISH and English now]
There once lived an old man and his goodwifeOn the edge of the thick of the woods;They lived in an old run-down shackFor forty-years and some.The old man hunted for his living,And his wife sewed on her lap.
How wonderfully sweet to be a dwellerdwelling on the road of goodbye.Bittersweet tears fall as I thinkof all the places I'll never see,all the faces I'll never know,all the joys I'll never share,as I head for the unknown.I have lived life as best I could,met challenges head on,drawing strength from an unseen source.You cannot come with me on this journeyyou can only stand and watch,sometimes the more difficult task.I know what I must doand I will give myself a voicedrawn from the inward depths of my being. For KenJune 1, 2003copyright Fran Watson
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