LONG LISTED FOR THE 2023 GRIFFIN POETRY AWARDS
8
Therefore, when I kneeled so innocently, they all
thought I was imploring although I simply kneeled
because it was autumn
or how else can I say it: the most deadly sin is not
to love oneself
and one day I couldn’t take it anymore, “do you know
me?” I asked them “no” they told me; thus I took my
revenge and I was never deprived of the distant sounds
but don’t ask me what may be happening to the crazy
people; what else but that they entertain a child who
didn’t want to grow up and
since the dream books are old fashioned, I emigrate
to the other edge of my umbrella, being an alcoholic,
and since it started raining back in the long ago days
the smell of cypresses started coming in through
the windows like music that you guess its end while
the old woman was explaining the Resurrection to me
“he was afraid they could otherwise forget of him”,
she said
though for me, I prefer to hang a watch on my vest
than to hang myself; it would be as if I was trying
to explain too many things
exactly like a man could perhaps play a violin with
one hand when he has to save his life with the other
one
and I was so exhausted that when I observed myself,
passing in front of mirrors, I could only see
the unspoken word
and having nothing better to do I sat and grew rich
(in their absence of course since they had all turned
their backs on me)
however I don’t spend much and I feel content hearing
the distant whistle of the train that makes the dog rise
like a man who places something in the tray
of the beggar
and yes, I know I waste my time and energy and
the pages I write get fogged up from room to room
and they’ll have a different meaning under the lamp
at night and in the morning you will have
to get dressed again only to feel pain again.
Goodbye, then, my good fortitude, I’m going to get
busy with my crazy men or to talk about their shoes,
so uncared as if a hand that knew a lot more put them
on to them
and perhaps if I started whistling everything would
turn out better
or if I wasn’t so prone to these things like the stupid
station master who’s paid not to let me travel or like
the poet who becomes innocent again after
a little sleep.
Libros Libertad 