No Pablo Neruda
Essays on life, work and literatureArchive for May 5, 2009
To Whom Is This Addressed?
It gets a little difficult to see,
At the smallest slight,
Why we labour at the things we do.
*
There should be an exercise in caution
Involved in every censor
To protect the gentle hearts for whom work is a battle too.
*
But can this request be made
When it is my abject belief
That censor is attached to frustration?
*
I feel a little self-preserving
To make this quiet ask
Of the peers constantly cross with consternation.
*
Maybe I will say a little prayer
This heathen soul transgress
And wish for a lightening of the load.
*
Maybe I will know silently,
This criticised soft worker,
The many concerns to which you are devoted.
In a Desert
I wander around in my desert
With bare, burnt soles
Looking for that clear oasis
Where the rush and palm grow.
*
Under the ambivalent sun
I brown then peel and thirst
Clinging to the drops remaining
And buckled to the camel’s purse.
*
We wander amidst sand mountains
Wondering when the next slope
Will recede to a blushing sunset
And west setting sun on Calliope.
*
Without her rhyme, the vastness
Swims in and out of sight
The origins of glowing minarets
Are distant white yellow stars at night.
*
Where is the sanguine pool
Of spring water sapped
From the deep dark earth core
In its glade of sunlight trapped?
*
The milky images are visceral
They near then, quick, withdraw
Sand pours down in reddish flashes
I am alone on this bleak shore.
