Photopoetryblog: Tarde

Poem: "Tarde" by Juan L. Ortiz

Photo: "The Blue" by Me

Tarde

El mundo es un pensamiento

realizado de la luz.

Un pensamiento dichoso.

De la beatitud, el mundo

ha brotado. Ha salido

del éxtasis, de la dicha,

llenos de sí, esta tarde,

infinita, infinita,

con árboles y con pájaros

de infancia ¿de qué infancia?

¿de qué sueño de infancia?

"The Blue"

[crude translation of poem into English:

The world is a thought

had by light.

A joyful thought.

From the beatitude, the world

has sprouted. It has come out

of the ecstasy, from the joy,

full themselves, this afternoon,

infinite, infinite,

with trees and birds

from childhood. From what childhood?

From what dream of childhood?

(my apologies to Juan L. Ortiz for this raw translation)]

Photopoetryblog: Where Lilacs Grow

So here I present a poem that I'm working on with a photograph that I've worked on.

The poem is titled (for now): "Where Lilacs Grow"

The photograph is titled (for now): "Universal Light"

Where Lilacs Grow

Beneath the Autumn morning shadow

I grew head above the wavering cloud,

the clover bringing my toes together.

Hidden past towers and Italian poplars,

a city still below a reservoir drowns.

There where generations of minerals

and photographs mark the muddy grade,

I'll put up holes in walls to frame it,

the origins of my sweet melancholy,

the slow days now glowing.

Not seen now, no, then, a box elder

dies from a childhood's worth of nails

that struck through into its heart while

building up the path to sit and look out

on a good place, a place where lilacs grow.

But beyond the mark of weekly floods

I see something left alone perhaps

yet not by me is it without a touch

of time's repose but now, always now

comprehended by the graying brush.

Universal Light

Photopoetryblog: Traced

Poem: Traces by Robert Frost

Photograph "Coming and gone" by me

These woods have been loved in and wept in.

It is not supposed to be known

That of two that came loving together

But one came weeping alone.

Yet the conifers sigh to the warblers

That lisp in their lofty tops

And their bark sheds tears everlasting

Of silvery rosin drops.