Four Friends Waiting Out a Flood in a Cafe; in Huehue

written as a meditation on the theme of "Free Will" for the Xela poetry Club "Casa Los Altos. This is the English translation of the original I wrote in Spanish

I.

That day, the rain poured down

like the collective sorrow

of three lost generations. We waited

it out- an old visionary, a middle-aged

artist, a young poet. And me, the stranger,

the future lover maybe of one

or more than one, of them.

Today, just hot tea. And a warm fire.

 

We talked of drought, youth, joy

old age, grief, travel, flood. Prison.

Freedom. The new role of Art in so

many lives. Of Gods and demons

and loves and free will. We asked,

can someone change human nature?

we pondered, “what does it take

for that to happen?”

 

and of me, they asked,

“What is it like, to be an Artist

of so many mediums, a sea

Traveler amongst us

land dwellers?”

 

II.

I feel invisible, I said. Unheard, unseen.

Unimportant. For this is a land of

surface waters, and I am an explorer

of the Deep.

 

To those who lack imagination,

grass is green and water is wet.

 

The visionary in me said, “to me, grass

is life. Fire. A recipient of water.

A place to search for nesting birds

and small lizards and butterflies.

A bed to explore a daring lover’s

body by moonlight.

 

The poet in me said, grass is also

the scent of my first true love. The

memory of my hardest summer’s

work. A childhood among cousins.

A whistle held between two thumbs.

A table upon which to write a poem.

 

The Artist in me said grass is gold

and vermillion, and jade, and

emerald. Gray. The perfectly

comfortable seat rom which to paint

the setting sun as it melts

into the landscape.

 

But we not listen to words that are a

challenge to understand. We laugh

at the painter who colors the ground

as the evening sun paints it

in fire.

 

III.

Not everything happens for a reason-

we are beyond arrogant when

we place that condition upon God.

There is never, for example, a

good enough reason to practice

exclusion and cruelty.

 

We call it “Destiny” when things go right

for ourselves; or go wrong for others.

“Reward for Good Living” whenever

someone who looks like us,

thinks like us, has sex like us,

dresses like us- wins a prize. We call

that same prize “Luck” when won

by someone who is different.

 

IV.

The Visionary said, “I think you

can be a citizen of more than one

country, in your heart. Or, perhaps,

like me, none at all.”

 

“Yes,” countered the Artist, “Home,

and what counts, at the end of all

great floods and droughts, is more

where and how you place your love-

not where your parents placed you.”

 

The Poet took this in, and said, “I

am young, and I have not traveled-

but I know the place I was born is

not my home. I think it is more than

what you love; it is facing what

you most fear, too.

 

He asked me, “and what is it that

you most fear?”

 

V.

“I grow older every year,”

I said. “I fear doing so surrounded

only by people who see grass

as green. Who live in a prison

of incuriosity. Unwilling to sit with me

and watch our collective sunsets

galloping on four strong legs towards

us. That nobody will take my hand

in the dark and invite me, Home.

 

I fear I will only ever be the Stranger.

Invisible, forgotten, left for the Other

who is younger, less complex; who

looks more like everyone else. More

Desirable. In every way.

 

 I will create Art that interests nobody.

Write words that go unread.

Dream and love and have those

dreams and loves, disbelieved.

 

That I am not meant to ever be, either:

Anyone’s preselected Destiny;

or what they choose of Free Will.”

 

***

 

 

para WH, JG, y JM, con aprecio por escucharme ese día cuando pensé que íbamos a ahogar en la lluvia

Reviews

[Emily B]

So much beauty and truth here!

I am breathless

[Marie Anzalone]

it was a conversation for the ages. these people are phenomenal.