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Poems of Exile II

E. Murray
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DREAM-COME-TRUE
Poetry is O.K. when you are over forty
he said while
gobbling a sandwich
and drinking wine from the vineyards of the lake’s border.
She stared at him from
the other side of the table. She was beautiful.
My sister.
And five or six of my close friends, sitting at
a big table. All of them were there
/ my party.
In the open air
under the big cherry tree looking to the valley
wild flowers.
Meanwhile, he kept speaking about literature
(he was drunk)
and she looked at him directly into his eyes and everyone ate / happy.
I tried to remember something about wordless poetry
about the uselessness of art, its futility. I could
have said something important.
But it was good to be there
drinking wine / under the sun
with my friends. For God sake. It was good.
AND THE HARMONICA REMAINED SILENT TOO
we have to care / they said /
of the citizen ears
and they drowned / every sound
in the / empty / fish tank
they didn’t make noise     walking
on the way to the bus
station / rubber soles
leaving          not even the motorbikes
were heard the clouds                over there
to the west
only one duck was swimming upstream
on the dark river
some gloomy-colored perches
river bed                 looking for
the far plane and the harmonica /
and the young faces / women that
look in silence        directly into the eyes
/ of fear
and they look older than laughs
of gentlemen
dumb / sharp
ravenous hunger teeth and
anguish                  bavarding
deaf in furry tongues
mute songs
whispers      fears
the city in silence
carnivorous animal          that stalks /
ice of a cumbia in the Latin radio station
tortured people screaming         // silence
bloody money in the banks
dreaming with interests              sleeping
silence
9:17pm the bus arrives /
the scheduled time voiceless
in the timetable screen
the harmonica stopped
the duck was gone with the current
the perches mated
in the light
and died in the lake’s bed
and I got into
the bus number ten          thinking
you were right. here silence is empty //
your            silence
deep
palpable and rounded. thank you.
like a fruit.
COME BACK ON TUESDAY
far away from the children
insane their mother
jobless        just
denial letters
no home
money        debt
no letters from friends
oppressive family
a girl has her boyfriend
she just wanted
to get a let from her room during summer
it rains
salad fell over the jeans it smells
like vinegar
sleepiness
the scotch is over
however
I can’t write another poem.
I can’t.
on tuesday. on tuesday. maybe on tuesday.
Translation: E. Murray
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Table of related information
Copyright ©E. Murray, 1998
By the same author RSS
Date of publicationOctober 1998
Collection RSSA Hot January
Permalinkhttp://badosa.com/p026-en
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