Mumbling Jack

Midwinter

January soon.
An orange flame of larches
burns on the treeline
while the charcoal wings of crows
smudge the evening sky.

His Lowered Head

What do I remember of spring
besides the roar of the red Massey
sowing barley beyond the fence
and milk tasting slightly grassy
with the Holsteins back at pasture
after another winter of musty
hay for their cud, with scarce grain scooped
into the troughs from the dusty
grinding shed in the barnyard?
I remember the bull out in his pen
dipping his heavy head with its scarred
ridges left by the cauterizing iron
when he was a calf. And I can see
his lowered head remembering me.

Long Silences

When I die, I will not be
buried beside you
but we’ll whisper
to each other.

I’ll listen for your curious mind
in the restless movement
of frost and stones
under the winter ground,

the way you used to tap
your nails slowly
against your teeth
while you thought.

I’ll hear your dry, happy laugh
in the cold branches
of the cottonwoods
along the frozen creeks.

There will be mild nights
in summer too, when
the worms carry
our kisses under the rain.

And there’ll be long silences
at dawn, while we listen
to the beak of a blue heron
tearing the mist into ribbons.

Luna de noviembre

Una vez pensé
que no había ningún lugar
donde la luz de la luna
no pudiera alcanzarme.

Pensaba que ninguna sombra
ni nube, ninguna oscuridad
podría oponerse a la luz
y ocultarte por completo.

Pero ahora sé
que estaba equivocado
porque te has ido y solo
recuerdo que me tocaste.

A menos que esta lluvia
que noviembre lleva en los bolsillos
como monedas sueltas
para echarnos en la cara
esté hecha de tus últimos destellos.

November Moon

I used to think
there was nowhere
the November moon
couldn’t reach me.

I thought no shadow
or cloud, no darkness,
could stand against your light
and hide you completely.

But now I know I was wrong
because you are gone
and I only remember
you touched me.

Unless this rain
November carries in its pockets
like loose change
to throw in our faces
is made from your last few gleams.

Late October now.
Trees burn all over the earth.
Above tent cities
Humanity’s ashes drift,
A haze of grief and hunger.

Somewhere

Somewhere, I suppose,
there are olive trees unburned
and dust unmixed with blood
on the wind. Somewhere

children’s voices echo
from high, unbroken walls,
their joy softened by
the warm, green leaves of trees.

Somewhere there are no
rockets, gunshots, or hunger,
no screams and groans
and memories in rubble.

Somewhere there must be
humanity, unbandaged bodies
moving fearlessly to music,
love that doesn’t know death daily.

To Che Guevara
(A translation of a Julio Cortázar poem)

We never met
but it didn’t matter.
I had a brother
who went into the hills
while I slept.
I loved him in my way,
I drank his voice
free as water,
and walked, now and then,
close to his shadow.

We never met
but it didn’t matter.
My brother was awake
while I remained asleep,
my brother showing me
in back of the night
the star he chose.

Al Che Guevara

No nos vimos nunca
pero no importaba.
Yo tuve un hermano
que iba por los montes
mientras yo dormía.
Lo quise a mi modo,
le tomé su voz
libre como el agua,
caminé de a ratos
cerca de su sombra.

No nos vimos nunca
pero no importaba,
mi hermano despierto
mientras yo dormía,
mi hermano mostrándome
detrás de la noche
su estrella elegida.

If You Wish to Mourn a Fascist

If you wish to mourn a fascist
Do not mourn his death,
Mourn the life he spent in hatred,

Mourn the gay and transgender lives
He stole hope and happiness from,
Mourn all the children he helped to kill

Amongst shell casings and terror
On the floors of classrooms
Dark and slippery with blood,

Mourn the deaths he rejoiced in,
In Minnesota and Orlando
And in the burning hospitals of Gaza.

Do not mourn the country that made him
For it was never what it claimed,
It was, it is, no land of liberty.

Do not mourn his violent nation
That was birthed in prideful genocide
And the sweat and blood of slaves.

Grieve at how the blight of fascism
Spills from capitalism’s shitheap
To spread cancerous across the world.

If you wish to mourn a fascist
Know the hands you wring in anguish
Will be stained with blood you spill.

Esta comenzó conmigo tratando de divertirme con la diferencia entre si y sí. Como de costumbre, no pude conformarme con un poco de diversión, tenía que quemar el mundo.

●●●

This one started with me trying to be playful with the difference between si and sí, if and yes in Spanish. And, as usual, I couldn’t stop with a little fun but had to burn the world.

Sin acento

Ay mía, cada día
me despierto y miro por la ventana
y me duele el corazón por lo que es afuera.
No puedo contar todas las hojas rotas
como estrellas destrozadas o las botas
que están tristes y amarillas en el suelo seco:
ahí fuera, no oigo un sí,
solo un ¿y si…? ¿y si…? como un eco.

Por supuesto, hoy en día,
todo el mundo estaría
perdiendo la cabeza
si no hubiera aprendido
a una edad muy temprana, como yo,
que si sin acento es si, no sí, ¿no?.

Me parece que cuando voy por ahí,
todo es más si que sí porque
todo, sí, todo lo que
puedo ver a la vez
es solo una cara de las cosas,
y quizás
en la otra cara de cada una para ti,
hay menos opciones, y si es así,
allí usarías más el sí.

Entonces, ¿qué son mentiras? Quizás,
quizás hoy en día las mentiras sean
el deseo de tenerlo todo organizado,
que todo tenga la misma longitud
y esté en sitio, que es el mismo
que en cualquier otro sitio.

La misma longitud, como las olas
a lo largo de la linea larga del horizonte.
¡Pero espera! Mira afuera al amanecer
y al atardecer. ¿No parece como si el mar
hubiera sentido el peso del sol
y se hubiera convertido en un cuenco
del que se evapora la luz del mundo?

Quizás todos los peces se cocinen.
Quizás las hojas queman
o una vieja bota amarilla se moje de nuevo
cuando el vapor se condense como rocío.
Lo único que sé ahora es que
si sin acento es si, no sí.
Si sin acento siempre y solo si, no sí.

Without Stress

Oh dear, every day
I wake up and look out the window
and my heart aches at what is outside.
I can’t count all the broken leaves
like shattered stars or the boots
that lie sad and yellow on the dry ground:
I don’t hear a yes out there,
only a what if…? what if…? like an echo.

Of course, nowadays,
everyone would be
losing their minds
if they hadn’t learned
at a very early age, like me,
that without stress an if is an if, not a yes.

It seems to me that when I go out and about,
everything is more if than yes because
everything, yes, everything that
I can see at once
is only one side of things,
and perhaps
on the other side of each for you,
there are fewer options, and if so,
you would feel more yes there.

So what are lies? Perhaps,
perhaps today lies are
the desire to have it all organized,
to have everything the same length
and in its place, which is the same
as any other place.

The same length, like the waves
along the long line of the horizon.
But wait! Look outside at the sunrise
and the sunset. Doesn’t it seem as if the sea
has felt the weight of the sun
and become a bowl
the light of the world boils away from?

Perhaps all the fish will cook.
Perhaps the leaves will burn,
or an old yellow boot will get wet again
when the steam condenses like dew.
The only thing I know now is that
a yes without stress is an if, not a yes.
An unstressed yes is always and only if.

He aquí una revisión de uno de los primeros poemas que intenté escribir en español hace unos años. Hoy hace suficiente calor como para arreglarlo y publicarlo de nuevo.

Por favor, viejo sol

Hace demasiado calor
para escribir. Viejo sol,
¿por qué me haces sudar?

Viejo Sol, por favor,
¿por qué te no apagas
tu luz y duermes?

Entonces caminaré
en las más frías y
hermosas sombras.

No sólo demasiado calor
para escribir, también hace demasiado calor
para creer que la noche pueda llegar.

Viejo sol, estoy esperando, por favor,
a que te oscurezcas y mueras.


Here is a revision of one of the first poems I tried to write in Spanish a few years ago. It’s hot enough today to fix it up and post it again.


Please, Old Sun


It’s too hot to write.
Old sun, why
do you make me sweat?

Old sun, please,
why don’t you shut off
your light and sleep?

Then I’ll walk
in the coldest and most
beautiful shadows.

It’s not only too hot
to write, but also too hot
to believe that night could ever be.

Old sun, I’m waiting, please,
for you to darken and die.

Poplar Leaves (Eat the Rich)

August morning. I listen to gulls
contemplating prospects at the harbour.
I was awake all night long
watching the horizon swallow stars.
In the trees around me
the wind flips poplar leaves, old silver coins.
The sun rises, as always,
on a world hungry and thin.

Poem XV, a rough translation of a Pablo Neruda poem

I like you when you’re silent because it’s like you’ve gone—
you hear me from far away and my voice doesn’t touch you.
You look like the light in your eyes has been blown out
and it seems a kiss has closed your mouth.

Since my soul fills all things
you emerge from everything, full of my soul.
Dream-winged butterfly, you seem like my soul,
and so you resemble the word melancholy.

I like you when you’re silent and distant.
When you’re like a butterfly sighing a lullaby.
You hear me in the distance, and my voice doesn’t reach you:
let me be silent with this silence of yours.

Let me speak to you as well with your silence,
spotlight stark, as simple as a ring.
You are like the night, a quiet tracery of stars.
Your silence is like a star, so far away and plain.

I like you when you’re quiet because it’s as if you’re gone.
It’s as distant and painful as if you were dead—
a word then, a smile is enough.
And I’m glad, glad it’s not true.

Poema XV, de Pablo Neruda

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.

Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.

Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.

Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.

Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.

The Splatter of Rain Drops, a rough translation of a poem by Julio Cortázar

I don’t know—look, it’s terrible how it rains. It rains all the time. It’s thick and grey outside here against the balcony with hard, curdled drops that smack and splatter like slaps one after another—so boring! Now a little drop appears on the top of the window frame. It stands trembling against the sky that shatters it into a thousand dull gleams, it grows and wobbles, it’s about to fall and doesn’t fall. It’s clinging with all its nails, it doesn’t want to fall and you can see it clinging with its teeth while its belly grows, it’s already a droplet that hangs majestically and suddenly zoop there it goes, splat, undone, nothing, a viscosity on the marble.

But there are those that commit suicide and give themselves up immediately, they sprout in the frame and throw themselves from there—I seem to see the vibration of the jump, their little legs coming off, hear the scream that has them drunk in that nothingness of falling and self-annihilation. Sad drops, round innocent drops. Goodbye drops. Goodbye.


Aplastamiento de las gotas, de Julio Cortázar

Yo no sé, mira es terrible cómo llueve. Llueve todo el tiempo, afuera tupido y gris, aquí contra el balcón con goterones cuajados y duros, que hacen plaf y se aplastan como bofetadas uno detrás de otro qué hastio. Ahora aparece una gotita en lo alto del marco de la ventana, se queda temblequeando contra el cielo que la triza en mil brillos apagados, va creciendo y se tambalea, ya va a caer y no se cae. Está prendida con todas las uñas, no quiere caerse y se la ve que se agarra con los dientes mientras le crece la barriga, ya es una gotaza quecuelga majestuosa y de pronto zup ahí va, plaf, deshecha, nada, una viscosidad en el mármol.

pero las hay que se suicidan y se entregan ensguida, brotan en el marco y ahí mismo se tiran; me parece ver la vibración del salto, sus piernitas desprendiéndose y el grito que las emborracha en esa nada del caer y aniquilarse. Tristes gotas, redondas inocentes gotas. Adiós gotas. Adiós.

The Lovers, a rough translation of a Julio Cortázar poem

Who sees them walking through the city
if everyone is blind?
They hold hands: something speaks
between their fingers, sweet tongues
lick their sweating palms and run along their fingerbones.
The night is full of eyes above them.

They are lovers, their island adrift
towards grassy deaths, towards harbours
that open between sheets.
Everything is messed up by them,
everything finds its hidden value:
but they never know
while they roll in their bitter sand
that there’s a pause in the work of nothing,
the tiger is a garden at play.

Dawn touches the garbage carts,
the blind begin to come out,
ministries open their doors.
The lovers give in to gazes and touches
once more before scenting the day.

They’re dressed now, already going down the street.
And it’s only then—
when they’re dead, when they’re dressed—
that the hypocrite city takes them back
and imposes the day’s work upon them.


Los amantes, de Julio Cortázar

¿Quién los ve andar por la ciudad
si todos están ciegos?
Ellos se toman de la mano: algo habla
entre sus dedos, lenguas dulces
lamen la húmeda palma, corren por las falanges,
y arriba está la noche llena de ojos.

Son los amantes, su isla flota a la deriva
hacia muertes de césped, hacia puertos
que se abren entre sábanas.
Todo se desordena a través de ellos,
todo encuentra su cifra escamoteada;
pero ellos ni siquiera saben
que mientras ruedan en su amarga arena
hay una pausa en la obra de la nada,
el tigre es un jardín que juega.

Amanece en los carros de basura,
empiezan a salir los ciegos,
el ministerio abre sus puertas.
Los amantes rendidos se miran y se tocan
una vez más antes de oler el día.

Ya están vestidos, ya se van por la calle.
Y es sólo entonces
cuando están muertos, cuando están vestidos,
que la ciudad los recupera hipócrita
y les impone los deberes cotidianos.

Lindens in Bloom

It’s mid-July now
The air is heavy and sweet
With linden flowers
Their scent returns me to you
In Spring, among plum blossoms

Because he was a gardener
Sprawling with his love deep in the night

Where he raised the autumn hills
Of Andalusia, scented with duende

And pruned the old brownstones
Of New York that kept echoing

Along paths between topiary whales
Under pale, limestone moons

He was often in his gardens
That sprawled deep into night. 

Sunset

In the warming nights of May we start
To sleep with bedroom windows open
Hoping to entice magnolia’s last
Thin wafts to entwine with lilac. Yet

We wake each morning to a world rife
With the lies of civilization
And start the day exhausted because
It wears us out to try to believe.

Listen to how we sigh at sunrise;
As if just by opening our eyes
We’ve already put in a whole day
At the task of bettering ourselves.

Myself, I used to dread that I would
Be struck by early dementia
And lose coherency’s illusion
As plaque spread itself across the brain.

But now? With starvation of children
Pursued so avidly—as if
It were something new? as if all this
Genocide to turn a profit were

Something new?—before I sleep tonight
I will open the window wider
And hope that all we see, all we are
Succumbs finally to senescence.

We should not sigh when sunset begins.
We should watch for it to be over,
Watch its light grow thinner, entangled
With photons of dissipated stars.

Mentes de invierno

No soy un Nabokov que escribe
En una segunda lengua con facilidad.
No, de donde yo vengo
Pocos sabemos
Un idioma relativamente bien.

Aquí, al parecer, la mayoría de la gente
Escriben como si fueran bomberos
O policías o contables. Imagínese,
Un planeta entero, esta Tierra, donde

La mayoría de los poemas que leemos
No están escritos, pero se construyen a partir de
Palabras que caen como la nieve
De números en las manos
De hombres con mentes de invierno.

Minds of Winter

I am no Nabokov who writes
In a second language with ease.
No, where I come from
Few of us know even
One language relatively well.

Here, it seems, most people
Write as if they were firemen
Or policemen or accountants. Imagine,
A whole planet, this Earth, where

Most of the poems we read
Are not written, but are built from
Words that fall like snow
From numbers in the hands
Of men with minds of winter.

In Montreal, now,
the magnolias are in bloom;
I breathe deep—and, yes,
on the west wind I can scent
either their blossoms, or you

A few years ago I was asked to write a poem about a bed of moss. Here’s what came of that.

On the Green Moss

In a forest of old oak
Where the trees never woke
From dreams to contemplate loss,
There was a murmuring stream
Under the leaves of green;
Its bank was a bed of soft moss.

Summer was fading away
Day after hazy day,
But green had not lost its gloss
When a root shuddered with dull
Thumps and flung out a skull
To lie yellowing on the moss.

A young, ravenhaired lady,
With her tresses set free
And garments of silken floss
Diaphanous on her form,
Came wandering that warm
Day and lay down on the cool moss.

She lay restless, her cheeks flushed.
The only sound in the hushed
Wood was her breath as she tossed
Her hair and sighed. Then she slept
While the afternoon crept
Towards evening on the green moss.

Her scent, as she slept, was musk
As the day deepened to dusk;
Slowly it drifted across
The green bank from where she lay,
Its molecules at play,
And permeated the bed of moss.

The ivory skull woke, eye
Sockets dark and fixed on her thighs
White through their thin veils of goss-
Amer—then its jaw unslung
And sent out a warm tongue
To lay in her lap on the moss.