The world lost a great man recently. Octavio
Paz was that man. Although he is gone, his works
live on. In tribute to Mexico's favorite son, here is a Paz poem, both
in Spanish and English.
?Aguila O Sol?
Comienzo y recomienzo. Y no avanzo. Cuando llego
a las letras fatales, la pluma retrocede: una prohibicion implacable me
cierra el paso. Ayer, investido de plenos poderes, escribia con fluidez
sobre cualquier hoja disponible: un trozo de cielo, un muro (impavido ante
el sol y mis ojos), un prado, otro cuerpo. Todo me servia: la escritura
del viento, la de los pajaros, el agua, la piedra. !Adolescencia, tierra
arada por una idea fija, cuerpa tatuado de imagenes, cicatrices resplandecientes!
El otono pastoreaba grandes rios, acumulaba esplendores en los picos, esculpia
plenitudes en el Valle de Mexico, frases inmortales grabadas por la luz
en puros bloques de asombro.
Hoy lucho a solas con una palabra. La que me pertenece, a la que pertenezco:
?cara o cruz, aguila o sol?
Eagle or Sun?
Eagle or Sun?I begin and begin again. And do not
move forward. When I reach the fatal letters, my pen falls back: an implacable
prohibition blocks the way. Yesterday, in full possession of my powers,
I wrote fluently on some loose page: a bit of sky, a wall (undaunted before
the sun and my eyes), a meadow, another body. I could use anything: the
writing of the wind, of the birds, water, stone. Adolescence, earth ploughed
by a fixed idea, body tatooed with images, gleaming scars! Autumn led great
rivers to pasture, hoarded splendors on the peaks, sculpted riches in the
Valley of Mexico, immortal phrases engraved by the light on pure blocks
of wonder.
Today I fight alone with a word. The word which belongs to me, and to which
I belong: heads or tails? eagle or sun?
submitted by Jeremy V.
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Here's a little-known James Wright
poem that I have always loved because it
struggles through so many "natural" endings into the truth our
imagination
can find, if given time. It's my contribution to our last week of 18th
Mystery.
-Gary Thompson
BLUE TEAL'S MOTHER
How do I know it was a fox?
It might have been nothing
But the late snow.
All I know is
My friend brought home
The five blue babies, caressing their feathers.
One followed after another across
The moulting road, and they
Had no mother, they had
No father, they had only
The humpbacked old Chevrolet
They came home in.
In three days, they were gone.
A weasel got them.
The weasel turns white in the snow,
And becomes an ermine,
That some women wear dead.
Set free the weasel,
Set free the fox,
And the cold groundhog
Outwitting the sun.
Give even the living
A chance.
I, too, live,
Even in my pain.
Why, look here, one night
When I was drunk,
A bulk tree got in my way.
Never mind what I thought when dawn broke.
In the dark, the night before,
I knew perfectly well I could have knocked
The bulk tree down.
Well, cut it up, anyway.
I didn't hurt it.
I gathered it into my arms.
You may not believe this, but
It turned into a slender woman.
Stop nagging me. I know
What I just said.
It turned into a slender woman.
--JAMES WRIGHT
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Here's a little poem from a web site called "A Little
Poem." I decided to present an author, unknown to me, that I found
on the Internet. Afterall, the 18th Mystery is a concoction of unknown
electronic student poets, so it only seems natural.
-Matt Notley
Lemons
I don't have a cleavage.
If I stuff my boobs
in a push-up bra
all I achieve
is a rising dough effect.
My breasts have veined with time.
Shy tendrils have
eased across my flesh
and gravity has created
a bean bag consequence.
I remember reading
of a young girl's breasts,
the writer (a male)
likened them to lemons,
the kind (I guess)
with teated ends.
No doubt he saw them
thrusting, impatient
with poking nipples permanently erect.
All I saw was thick rinded yellow
while my wry mouth filled
with a bitter after taste.
by Joy Reid
Copyright © 1998 Joy Reid
Comments to author: jreid@staggs.schnet.edu.au
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