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Poems of Exile II

E. Murray

A Hot January

First publication: October 1998

http://badosa.com/p026-en

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