Shadows of Identity (book of English poems)
Artwork by Cassandra Carrasco
-
Espérame, amor,
donde mis poemas te lleven
que nunca voy a llegar.
Refrain, my love,
that I am else
where you are not.
— August 29, 1987 / New York -
(Variations on the word of Luis Rius)
I.
I am a shadow
a shadow which flees
from itself
and does not;
love enamors her
and she enamors love.
The times she is mostly enamored
the most my shadow is mine
and is not.
II.
Like our spring is springself
you are always yourself;
your truces are the sea's, dismayed
and again, like our sea, you wave.
Like your spring and my sea
you are for no one
but your surrender
is mine and for mankind...
And rather than being mine
spring, my true love,
will ceaselessly die.
III.
He put his rifle to his face;
he shot as he aimed the bullet
with dexterity in his eye.
(He only broke one of two wings.)
Not by the heights he could have flown
nor by the lightness of his wings
nor because of being,
being a bird of lineage,
was he saved from impending Death.
The hunter was skillful:
God's angel collapsed.
IV.
The tiger hunted doves
--between his jaws he brought them--
he thought they were flowers,
food he would never devour.
To the tigeress he gave them
as he arrived to their shelter.
She loved him because of this:
for his most courteous manner.
V.
It is a nostalgia of you
that I treasure in my mind
and deep inside
my thorn-stained heart.
Indeed, it hurts like blood
but its scent shrouds me
as only solitude does.
In my loneliness I recall
the tenuous and simple thought
of a magical illusion
which we together dreamed
and only in dreams arrived.
What I already lived,
forever elapsed;
what I today live,
passes me by;
all else...
shall never arrive.
My life is as useless
as a single line
drawn in the sand
by nobody's hand:
It might be yours,
but it is mine.
Para Luz María
VI.
My lover, only you
shattered my remembrances;
my love, in this desert
anxious for your breast
only the subtle touch
of passion is deserved.
Today is an endless yesterday
and yesterday is your prey.
My glance seeks for you
impassible, in a far distance
not now but away...
for few minutes remain
between our hands
lonesome and dead.
I can not mislead myself
you were meant to be the first
my most precious illusion,
that which would not arrive
and, without arriving,
will not ever pass.
— March 6, 1982 / Mexico City -
OPHELIA:
Would I not come again?
Shall I endlessly return?
I may be dead
but this stage of shadows
is not my deathbed.
I must be patient
though I can not but weep
to think you would lay me
in the cold ground.
Here hung those lips
that I have kissed
I know not how oft...
One last kiss,
my love.
While I have
cause,
will,
gist,
death is yet to exist.
CLEOPATRA:
I have come back again;
I will endlessly return.
I may slay myself
but do not misconceive
of this woman's act
with quiet indignation.
Through us,
the way into the forthright realm
of women forsaken by history,
which we long ago transcended.
Abandon hope forever
if you find yourselves
alien to understanding
that every creature
—male or female—
stands alone
redeemed or trapped
caught in responsible
thought and act,
at birth as well as in death.
Obstinacy is the measure of doom.
How we are fallen
fallen by mistaken rules,
thus being not nature's
but education's
perpetual fools.
Exiled from all improvements of reason
condemned to be dull, predictable, and of futile use...
Should one of us soar near the unfathomable wall
(a conspicuous purpose and sheer ambition in the name of lust)
so ardently the opposing faction reproves
that our illusions turn into ineffable fears...
And we faint
under the burden
of intolerable pain.
DEATH:
Would I not come again?
My exquisite ladies,
a seed might fade
and drift into latency,
deviating from the known and common way,
but it shall evermore rise and compose
—by her own will and cause—
the inimitable rose.
Death is a need of nature.
OPHELIA:
A tragic requirement is such
which compels me to kiss
masks whose lips
are gelid worms.
Fruitlessly
rather than
inexhaustibly
have I striven
for the warmth and shelter
of soothing lips
prone to be tender.
Comfort me, sweet madness--
though I pray for thy word:
thou shalt not speak
of inconstant reason!
CLEOPATRA:
Does Death deserve forgiveness,
unjustly wronged reason?
Wherefore art thou?
Who or what has deprived all beings
of noble and most sovereign reason?
OPHELIA:
Whose fault is life?
Death must know!
DEATH:
Within but also beyond words
lie our most precious ambitions...
Women and lovers—
each incomplete,
both credulous of completion.
Love is our wait
for the freedom
which it takes.
CLEOPATRA:
Arrogant fiend,
you know no love
only evil resolutions.
Face me, Death
like the woman I am;
I fear thee not
for I am air and fire
that shall not be
adhered to the ground,
nor to the tyranny
of indomitable expectation.
OPHELIA:
If I and nature
can so gently part,
condole me not
for living through
what I have seen;
now I understand
that love was not this
which I have so oft kissed.CLEOPATRA:
Come, Death,
take the last warmth
of my being;
thy stroke ends
love's beguilements...OPHELIA:
...It hurts
but is nonetheless
coveted
and craved...CLEOPATRA:
...I am not conquered
by the power of death;
from this day on,
you will be my fate's urn;
and we...DEATH:
We shall endlessly return.
— February 1986 / Mexico City -
For Sami
in whom I believe
as believing I wanted not
until you taught me
to value and love
this in which I believe.
To Darío Córdoba: Clay turned to ashes…
Life aches in your absence;
wherever you are gone
from that damned solitude
unworthy of your presence
your space reveals the consciousness
of the teacher and friend
as expression and art
of your genuine yet unknown quintessence.
I.
Why solely alone
--in spite of the night--
do I recognize within myself
this silent woman
who shares with your absence
the ineffable nostalgia
of when amidst your lips
I would feel so lonely?
II.
Why solely alone
do I recall this mirror
which haunts my memory
echoes tenderness
and keeps me from the thirst
that satiates its cynicism
reflected before the void
of the baleful spectator
which floods the numb lament
with guilt that does not weep?
III.
Why solely alone
do I seek in your touch
songs to contradict my senses
suspending to reason
the identity of your back
eroticized labyrinth
without reluctance to the surrender
into which I fall back with each verse
so as not to perceive my Death
as the skin of a rotten shadow
who in its illusion of romance
craves to fall in love with another one
and ceases being loved
while it evokes in its unconsciousness
the temporary hollowness of our bodies.
IV.
Why solely alone
am I fatigued by the cadence
of truths sheared
by the lascivious yawning
with which I am judged captive
by the acrid voice of time
while it determines
whether to have time or not
to finish me or be silent
if it grows old or can not
fall in love once more
with a death that humiliates
the caresses in truce
with a slumber of treason
overbearing and dissimulated
by the nausea imposed upon me
through its agonizing births
of truths buried
desolate and crippled
that even though being allies
do not understand
my sincere lies
which the more they forget me
the more mutilated and lonely
solely alone
do I run away from
the time of death.
— October 2, 1986 / Mexico City, Mexico -
All that through
or without which
reality remains
the way it is.
— August 1987 / New York -
for thee
lest thou
be not he
ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT A YOUNG AMERICAN,
BUT FROM THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Crooked expectations
o v e r f l o w n
with contradictions
naught
beyond
zero.
I miss
the thee
thou deny
thyself.
Should or
not you
ever
yield
go back
to him.
No need
to be
unlike
when he
could be
you(nique).
See you
in Hades
bearing
libations.
I mean you
not those
other
timeless
Timless
Tims.
— September 5, 1987 / New York -
To Dalak Ovmi
HER GLARE IN A SHADE
When the time for words
comes to her glare,
time turns words into
a deep-rooted emotion,
for only thus we acknowledge
a woman for whom love's
science equals life
in knowledge worth sharing;
an artist for whom passion is work,
and friendship, the quest for a shade.
— February 25, 1988 / New York -
To Gregory Lipton,
a painter of life present
in dreams future
THE DREAD OF MAN'S LOCKED SKULLS
Bare souls faced in oil,
fixed eyes burnt
by a striking fate;
open the hollow gate.
Your brush swallows
the echoing holocaust
of a starry night;
mind the inner ear.
Time for color to
breathe and be not
a matter of waste;
(time turns words
to words no end).
Your moving skulls bestow
the stillness of a moment
with disturbing harmony;
learn the broken chords.
Visions blend with soundless reason
into a shriek of light
solved by the hand;
trace the forms of mist.
Your landscapes dwell displaced
proudly among the vibrant
edges of the flesh;
tune the tearless eye.
Is aging hope
a raging dose
or that subtle glow
which makes your skull's
life worth painting?
We are alone
in sharing
the haunting solo
of a lasting presence.
— February 1988 / New York -
For the Word
in the hope
of seeing
your voice
take place
in this world
CAST OUT
I.
God’s Marble
Nothing before I mean
my words for a Word
molding in shades
love’s will to unveil
just a slight, suspended
verse beyond rest
for the sae of man
in the end that light
piece of beast
who sculpts his fears
and bleeds unheard
making God
a Wordless
marble
word.
II.
Man’s Marvel
Why should we then
conceive of man as
God’s marble on
earth he can not
work being but one
and lonely, betrayed
unholy chisel made
out
cast
from the Word
spelled by our own
immortal yet
worthless
mortal
breath.
— October 2, 1987 / New York -
You will always be my thirst
a most deserving delusion,
that which longs to rely
and by lying survives
where the dead
nevermore rise.
— December 1980 / Mexico City -
To your defiant eyes
the fears of both of us
TORTURED WALL (A Much Needed Relationship)
A nightless moon under a storm
calls for a frightened sun.
(A solitary wound is their link.)
A mythical poet
unfolds the barren landscape
from words ripened in blood;
an obsessed poem is born.
Expectancy...
Wherever God hides,
he stares through her eyes.
She feels the texture of the rock
emanating a sense of touch.
An endless return
of tortured release
leads him into her lie.
Within her fears,
the rock has found shelter
inside a hopeless wall.
The tears that tear more
yield from our need
to love others and be
selflessly loved.
What do we fall for?
The nightless moon
waits for the rise
of the frightened sun.
— August 1987 / New York -
I am trapped within myself,
an everlasting prison
whose quest leads nowhere.
THE BEST OF LYING
What's in a lie
that smells so sweet
but as time goes by
it begins to reek?
I have noticed lately
that he lies
we have always lied.
Nothing changes
a wasted voice
rooted in lies.
Will I remember you
when I lie about us
seeking myself
inside of you?
When lovers speak truth
a child's head is smashed
anyway, everywhere
all the time.
Lie to me,
let me know
that an experienced fate
hurts others than yourself.
I promise to write
and forgive my pen
for our bitter lies.
How can I write
about Death
when I have not yet
tasted its breath?
— August 1987 / New York -
he would be
another
soft dream
which I am
not
[in a way]
I would lack
all reasons
to reason
within you
this hour
--the nights--
he intrudes
in your sleep
and I find
myself
lost
[in a way]
by the name
lessness
of your haste
to die
our death
so dead
since the time
less night
we met.
Still
beyond
you, he or me
they go as deep
as you may
be linked
to our present
less past
when in case
(hate forbid)
we awake
the taste
of your dream
be missed
[in a way]
by one
who last night
forgot
to dream
for he was
aware of
your need
to be free
from me,
an "I"
so yours
[in a way]
that I yearn
your dream
to be mine
for all
the few
he knows
of me
when it comes
to you
is that I lie
even
by your side
he being I
this hour
--the nights--
a soft dream
can touch
your inside.
— September 8, 1987 / New York -
To the last
soft dream
POSTMODERN DREAM
Were your dream
but a scene
it would not be
another
soft dream
it is
in a way
would lack
all reasons
to reason
in you
this hour
I intrude
in your sleep
lost
by the name
lessness
of your haste
to die
our death
since the time
less night
we met.
Be linked
to our present
less past
in case
we wake
the taste
of your dream
missed
last night
you forgot
to dream
aware of
their need
to be free
from me,
that I yearn
not your dream
to be mine
when it comes
to you
I lie
even
by your side
this hour
can touch
your inside.
— September 15, 1987 / New York -
Love's long wait
turns
lonelier
near the corner
of your waist.
Love's short sacrifice
has died
its unborn life
whispering
your eyes.
— September 23, 1987 / New York -
You have just begun to recall
love had passed out of mind
buried under fading shrines
--the absence of illusion.
I forgot to remind you that
I forgot the eclipse of our race;
I forgot to leave me to your fate.
I forgot to cry inside of you then
I forgot to become a part of our end;
I forgot to apologize for being myself.
I forgot to ask
who shall care
for these words
when we are both dead.
— October 28, 1987 / New York -
For an African
ladybird;
will I ever...
TO ABIDE BY YOUR PACE
Love is a sad outcry of memories.
You have gone through me
giving myself away.
You reach where I left
dissipating my pain.
Saving rain with worn-out tears,
an eel recoils from the blazing stars.
A peaceful duel of melting cubes,
the story of our rise sleeps in your eyes.
(Nostalgia of what is yet to come.)
— November 15, 1987 / New York -
To whom
ever
you are
not
WHY ME?
Because
without knowing
you are
the fallen leaf
that lays bare
my shadow
between mirrors.
Because
among women
you are
what I hear
when I delve
your inside
and outside
I find
so light.
Because
in silence
you are
as you fade;
here I begin
eroding
for you are to be
come in touch.
— October 30, 1987 / New York -
Simply echo the soundless
phases of withdrawal;
drain me from this frame,
an overexposed self-
portrait effaced
by an involuntary
harvest of selves.
Let darkness be surfaced
face the irreconcilable turns
woven while mistaking time's place.
My brain,
a sharp self-
consuming drug
bound but split
under the agony
of wordily play.
The strokes have languished;
another voice remains
drawn to break
its selves,
and free the shadows
of a wary mind.
— November 13/26, 1987 / New York -
To a close
half-man,
raw artist
with long due
even over
due love
nostalgia
and respect.
LAPSUS LINGUÆ
For what yields a poem but to be someone else
Whose solitudes forge an inalienable symmetry
Where fate gropes unfamiliar tread.
Word were that his silence was in deed reverie
Born by the age of finding himself lured astray
Though as I write I feel dreamless eyes from behind.
--While our time lasts an apology for being myself.
— January 28, 1990 / New York -
To be dead and still
read making sense
of tradition for renewal.
ONLY MARROW REMAINS
Who will wake you up to assert that night is but conforming
Reason as disclosed lies turned once will to unquestioning ears
The way fantasies are sealed by lips in virtue of self-deceit
Provided when weakness leaks we scream a touch of sorrowless guilt.
— January 31, 1990 / New York -
Love's long wait
turns
lonelier
near the corner
of your waist.
Love's short sacrifice
endures
its unborn life
whispering
your eyes.
But wait…
Just feel how quiet the world is
on a desolate night
Like a wounded animal
afraid to be heard.
We prey under the same moon
you on my dreams
And I on the memory
of your every last inch.
We belong
apart
Still grow
together. -
It’s been so long
I miss the depth of
the unknown well
from which we lift
a lasting poem. -
One month today since you left…
Nothing can replace your absence
The river lies empty and bereft
Only what ifs, echoed by silence.August 25, 2022
-
he would be
another
lost dream
which I am
not
would that she
could wake
return
and never lie
to me again
I would gladly
dream us again
but for now
let her fade.
— 9/26/2022
