Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

Anachronism

Rome was already dead.

It was her ghost which emerged from the barbarian raids
To witness the moment the Tawantinsuyo awoke to its own splendor
Just moments before discovering that the seeds of its destiny
Had always been germinating there among those Seven Hills.

And as the mountain kingdom lay bleeding,
With one final, desperate gasp before her altar,
A deathbed convert, but all too tragically late,
The prostrate Inca warrior poured his libation of virgin tears
Over the marble belly of Venus–
Whose alabaster robes had buried
The quena
That opened those last decisive battles on the páramo–
And an empire built on granite
Fell to dust at the feet of a fading Classical apparition.

When the most bitter of Andean chills
Mangled the Mediterranean olives on their branch,
Two great empires
Reigning out of time

Clashed in anguish.  Fused.
And fell
Right there

On our bed.


* ~ Ñoqa Chuquiagomarkamanta Pichopaq ~
Quena =
type of Andean flute, held vertically at the lips

February 10, 2008 Posted by | Poetry, Writing | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ch’aski

“Déjame mirarte por esa ventana que por las mañanas yo veo en tus ojos — el brillo de tu alma, ¡color solitario!  Déjame decirte que en mis pensamientos, yo llevo tus sueños y tus sentimientos — y mi alma siente morirse pequeña….”  Kjarkas–“La ventana”

A million miles, my footsteps pounding
Across the invisible stretch of sky,
Lighted by stars,
Dodging the cries of babies,
The slamming of car doors,
The music of neighbors,
And the sound of searing silence.
Every night, running, sprinting
Through time, through space, to your side
With my feet nailed to the floor
And the moon’s gaze turning each tear to liquid silver.
My heart racing,
I see you,
Lonelier than you know,
In an embrace you never felt.
Every night, I chased the stars—so close—
Up there
To touch,
Running with my peasant’s bag of magical whispers
To bring you a song
And go back again to my hell
Where I could burn the feelings out of myself with the same melodies.
I took flight into the night
Once I allowed myself to break the chains,
Carried safely back into a morning
That didn’t dawn over you.
For you, who traversed time, traversed space
With your child’s bouquet of magical promises
To bring me a kiss
Never met me where the stars meet the ground.

*Ch’aski, in the Quechua language, means “messenger” or “courier.”

December 10, 2007 Posted by | Poetry, Solitude, Travel, Uncategorized, Writing | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment