the spanish understand - peter bakowski
someone sent me this poem, his favourite for the moment.
i like it.
maybe you will too.
You are
shot through
and sour.
You are
back under the axe
of being alone.
The days in bright dresses have run away
to be with somebody else.
The sun is a broken egg.
It is a rented room
and your mind is
methodically tearing blue postcards.
Your limbs
sulk in your clothes,
shunning daylight and errand.
Your thoughts are
tired birds far from land.
You are waiting
at a bus stop
at a train station
at your kitchen table
by the telephone
behind a cigarette
behind the jail of a curtain
on your knees in a church
on your knees in your mind.
What is it that you're waiting for?
to be loved in this world
to be loved in this world.
If you learn to wait
and learn to wait some more,
and are strong and brave
and bulldog cantankerous enough
to resist
the whiskey, the razorblade
the desperation wedding ring,
she will come,
a girl made from truth and wild horses,
and she will take you,
far from
the schoolyards taunting herd,
far from the iron hammer of all factories,
far from the cosh of false smiles,
far from the private river of your grief,
with the gift,
the gift that is herself:
her tomorrow eyes, her lagoon kisses
her embrace that ploughs the moon.
There are so many dead souls:
hearts eaten by banknotes
pigs in the dust
old shoe voices lying down the wire,
in this war
in this war
that tears at the seams of the world,
where only the vulture will sing.
Yet in your arms,
I am wanded into life,
I am a ship, a hawk, the unknown flames of pluto,
a giggling boy...
a swan man.
In your arms
I find
reindeer and otter.
In your arms
I find
puddles, xylophones
and all my chains
turned into skipping rope.
i like it.
maybe you will too.
You are
shot through
and sour.
You are
back under the axe
of being alone.
The days in bright dresses have run away
to be with somebody else.
The sun is a broken egg.
It is a rented room
and your mind is
methodically tearing blue postcards.
Your limbs
sulk in your clothes,
shunning daylight and errand.
Your thoughts are
tired birds far from land.
You are waiting
at a bus stop
at a train station
at your kitchen table
by the telephone
behind a cigarette
behind the jail of a curtain
on your knees in a church
on your knees in your mind.
What is it that you're waiting for?
to be loved in this world
to be loved in this world.
If you learn to wait
and learn to wait some more,
and are strong and brave
and bulldog cantankerous enough
to resist
the whiskey, the razorblade
the desperation wedding ring,
she will come,
a girl made from truth and wild horses,
and she will take you,
far from
the schoolyards taunting herd,
far from the iron hammer of all factories,
far from the cosh of false smiles,
far from the private river of your grief,
with the gift,
the gift that is herself:
her tomorrow eyes, her lagoon kisses
her embrace that ploughs the moon.
There are so many dead souls:
hearts eaten by banknotes
pigs in the dust
old shoe voices lying down the wire,
in this war
in this war
that tears at the seams of the world,
where only the vulture will sing.
Yet in your arms,
I am wanded into life,
I am a ship, a hawk, the unknown flames of pluto,
a giggling boy...
a swan man.
In your arms
I find
reindeer and otter.
In your arms
I find
puddles, xylophones
and all my chains
turned into skipping rope.