People are laughing at me...
...because I'm digging a very big hole in the back yard. There is good reason for the hole, as far as I'm concerned. But, most look past that and only see a very deep hole which has to be filled back up, again. (I'm extracting a tank, and am not going to pay someone else $600 to do what I can do myself, in a few days, for a few dollars.) The thing is, it really feels good! I haven't been so excited to do something so mundane in a long time. I was five feet below my back yard, picking, scraping, and throwing shovel-fulls of dirt over my shoulder, this afternoon, and I couldn't stop smiling. I'm picking out cobble, as I go, to stack under the drip line. That reminded me of something old, which I was also laughed at for. (Well, not really...my Spanish professor gave me an A+, but added the comment, "I trust you had fun creating your little poem." She was gorgeous, by the way, with her little Castillan lisp, huge black eyes, and shiny, chocolate hair...but that's beside the point. She thought the poem was about something else. I guess it's whatever anyone wants it to be...it's not my place to force a specific feeling. But, if I can evoke an emotion, I guess I've done well:)
Yo Cosecho Las Piedras Frescas
Bajo del cielo de mi despertando
y entre los muros de mi saliendo,
yo cosecho las piedras frescas.
Sombrado por la mano sin forma,
cebado por nuestros pisando,
las hacen de los jàrdines en barbecho.
De mi levantando, lleno mi cubo,
y lo llevo a la cumbre de los altos, blancos muros.
Allì, las piedras caen de nuevo
mientras yo sueño o brilllo.
Una media hora, cuando me canse,
la mano caerà, los muros caeràn.
Las piedras no quedaràn.
Me mostraràn el hogar,
me horàn de las suyas.
Incesante paso: me empujaràn al mar.
I Harvest Fresh Stones
an approximate translation
Beneath the sky of my waking
And between the walls of my leaving,
I harvest fresh stones.
Sown by time’s formless hand
And fed by our treading,
They grow in fallow gardens,
Waiting wordlessly while we play.
Upon rising, I fill my pail,
And carry it to the top of tall, white walls.
There, they fall, over, again
While I dream or shine.
One half-hour, when I tire,
The hand will fall, walls will fall:
Stones will not remain.
They will show me their home,
and make me their own.
Constant tread: push me to the sea.
Yo Cosecho Las Piedras Frescas
Bajo del cielo de mi despertando
y entre los muros de mi saliendo,
yo cosecho las piedras frescas.
Sombrado por la mano sin forma,
cebado por nuestros pisando,
las hacen de los jàrdines en barbecho.
De mi levantando, lleno mi cubo,
y lo llevo a la cumbre de los altos, blancos muros.
Allì, las piedras caen de nuevo
mientras yo sueño o brilllo.
Una media hora, cuando me canse,
la mano caerà, los muros caeràn.
Las piedras no quedaràn.
Me mostraràn el hogar,
me horàn de las suyas.
Incesante paso: me empujaràn al mar.
I Harvest Fresh Stones
an approximate translation
Beneath the sky of my waking
And between the walls of my leaving,
I harvest fresh stones.
Sown by time’s formless hand
And fed by our treading,
They grow in fallow gardens,
Waiting wordlessly while we play.
Upon rising, I fill my pail,
And carry it to the top of tall, white walls.
There, they fall, over, again
While I dream or shine.
One half-hour, when I tire,
The hand will fall, walls will fall:
Stones will not remain.
They will show me their home,
and make me their own.
Constant tread: push me to the sea.