Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

199/365


Moments ago turned on the radio for background classical music—and Bolero fell out with its insistent rhythm: dum deda-ditty de, dada dum, dada da—So of course when I start working on the "Learning Spanish" project, the poem collides with the persistent beat as I recite the lines out loud seeking a balance between the stanzas.

And R.'s parents walk into the poem unexpectedly, making their lunch and coffee in their home on the island—I see them singing to each other in a casual manner, not as a fifties musical with sudden troupe of dancing couples waltzing in the room— but a more subtle reality— a connection built between language, ocean, phonetics:
...the same manner your parents
move about their narrow kitchen, a casual salsa,
following rituals and patterns
of making cafe con leche, then

simmer pink beans
with chunks of stewed gourd,
while a stalk of green plantains arches,
leans forward to a ripeness,
leans forward to listen

to your parents humming
with the radio, an unrecognizable lyric,
a washed-out blue tune,
the same color of the streets in the capital-city
which run as streams of faded beryl tones...
Now what remains is to shift the scene back to the original theme...

Patterns of blackbirds
lift up, rising overhead.
What does this resolve?

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