On writing a poem

in the early morning

I heard an inner voice

whispering a phrase

again and again

till the next one 

and the next one

followed

people ask

what inspires you

to write

everything and nothing

actually

at times

a few words reach me

quietly 

discretly

suggesting

sometimes 

odd  words

words I did not remember

or knew I knew

that lay waiting

to come forth

somewhere 

in a labile layer

of the mind

Time and time again

Time and time again                                                      To Frank Rodick

memory takes me back                                                  celebrating his work 

to memories that                                                             Familiar Strangers

happened or not                                                              Family Portraits in Life and Death

as I remember them

which does not mean

they are hybrid

or meaningless

perception

is not necessarily

bound to data

it is a net

that gathers from a wide

spectrum  beyond our ken

we dabble in layers 

of perception

layers of comprehension

understanding

and missunderstanding

of knowing

and not knowing.

Me pierdo en el sentido de un sentir

Me pierdo en el sentido de un sentir

que va más allá del pensamiento

me pierdo en sensaciones añejas

de la infancia y de la adolescencia

cuando las palabras

prometían todo.

If I could back in time

If I could go back in time

to fetch you

back in time

knowing what I know now

I would not lose you

we would be careful                    

and careless

careful for we would know

what is at stake

careless for we would enjoy

who we are

On time

Time may be 

elusive

redundant

quiet

explosive

it may be 

a dark tunnel 

we have trouble

going through

or a blinding light

over the sea

over green pastures

it  is the very essence

of creation

the origin of matter

we are its children

in all its capabilities

like Orlando

we may move

back and forth

within it.

On believing

                                   To Trixie and Daniela

                                    my favourite believers

Faith is a gift

not a choice

we may believe

in an abstract life

beyond our own

and yet

we may not conform

to a religion

learning is not believing

there are layers

of understanding

and misunderstanding

of knowing

and not knowing

there may be believing

in disbelieving

and disbelieving 

in believing

Memory

I have complied with her

not having known beforehand

I had to

she lurks in the recesses

of the mind

a labile creature

turning up unexpectedly

to claim  my attention

distracting the mind

from the immediate

shadowing it 

pulling me back relentlessly.

The rift

                                                                                                     

                                                                                                   
                                                                                                       In memoriam
                                                                                                       Pablo Molinari
                                                                                                    


There was this rift in the family
when two of the dearest died
eight years apart

then another one died
dearest and closest
a beacon of light
lost in his suffering
and his efforts to interpret life
and his next of kin

tender and brightest he left
creating a dark and awkward hiatus
leaving behind
an area gloomed by questions
unanswered 

five more dearest were born 
into the family
other generations
as beautiful clever and darling 
as their elders

II

life goes on 
taking its toll it
goes on
adding and subtracting

whatever took place
goes on taking place
unawares or conscientiously

people react differently
to loss and bereavement
there are those who turn to God 
others to their next of kin
or friends

or turn into another
a shadow of themselves
inhabited by those
who left

there are no answers
and no solutions
to missing the dead

only a whiff of light
that turns experience
into partial understanding
into meaning or the lack of it

III

how can others grasp
the feeling of despair
of the bereaved
before the tragedies
that could have been
avoided

who will concur
agree accept
with them
other than themselves

nobody dares

there is little
they can do
other than empathize

and people will not
for it is to enter
themselves
into the domain
of gloom

IV

one does not forget
the dearest dead
those closest to ourselves
siblings and offsprings

for were they not
other versions 
of ourselves

were they not ourselves
who partly died with them
and live the terms
of our separation
as an ongoing experience

their absence as a presence
a reminder
that we in ourselves
are not complete

that there are
depths of meaning
layers of understanding
and misunderstandings
unresolved

V   

one does not weep
out loud
as when they had 
barely departed

there is the lingering
feeling of absence
of being torn apart
from those who should
be growing older with us

sharing discussing
planning quarrelling
making up
trying to come to terms
with differences

one has lost worlds
of compatibility
worlds of caring
and be cared for

VI

their absence is still
relevant
discouraging
poignant
meaningful

their past and 
their unachieved present
reel on 
a film in process
every day 
of every week
of every month
of every year

through different
moods and perceptions
rewinding in real time
or fast forward 

it reels on.

On thinking

to think thinking *

is knowing

what one thinks

may be a misconception

it may might

be knowing

or not knowing

to surmise wonder stall

is thinking

not leading to knowing

necessarily

for doesn’t everybody

think

and yet can we say

everybody knows

concrete thoughts

vapid and disperse

mental processes

may be or may not be

creative

shall we assume

we are thinkers

who dabble

in useless perusals

some of us do

some of us don’t

so what is

and what is not

who knows

there are those

who think they know

and ignore

many and most

so be it

a few may

know

and not know

they know.  

* from The rift and other poems, Sifipublishing, Cornwall, 2016.

The rift and other poems

My latest book at Walrus Books  in San Telmo - 

Estados Unidos 617

with an Epilogue by Luis Chitarroni that covers

 Autobiogardens and other poems 

and Born and bred in Buenos Aires as well.

On words and dreams

         does one choose the language to think in and dream in

         does one choose the words one thinks in or dreams in

         who does for us

         how does it happen that we wonder ponder articulate thoughts

         in one language rather than in another

         that our mother tongue is not necessarily the medium

         becoming a parent once removed     

        

         who watches within us discretely

         without breaking in into our deepest consciousness

         allowing a foreign tongue to take over.

too many words

So many words

too many words

          in the early morning

          reading the news

         too many and too idle

         they deny  the beauty

                   the texture 

                                  the innate sense

                             of language used lovingly

they repeat themselves idly

perfunctorily

discussing over and over

the same events.

Margarita’s tea party

Margarita advised her friends

and Judy’s

to be available for tea

on May 17

it was she said

Judy’s birthday

and so it went

quite a few women

met in Pueblo Eden

for a dancing class

and tea at a long table

covered with delightful pastry

provided by the hostess

and by her guests

teapots with tea leaves

rather than tea bags

no small issue

the celebration went deeper

beyond the table

when asked what present

was appropriate for Judy

Margarita had suggested a towel

and so it went

Judy was asked to sit down

in the living room

to receive her presents

a towel from each woman

different colours

elegantly wrapped

after the fourth towel

Judy smiled roguishly

realizing the gifts

posed an enigma

they did

the towels were meant

for Judy to donate

to a home to be opened

in San Carlos

for women who suffer

domestic violence

Judy was delighted

so were we all

twenty and some guests

it was once more Margarita

planning ahead for others.