Thursday, November 3, 2016

I've written a poem in Spanish about a tragedy at the Mexican-American border.

en la frontera, los inmigrantes desesperados . . .

mujeres y niños llorones,
policía exigiendo documentos, pasaportes--

algunos niños agarran fuertemente los pasaportes americanos--
y las manos de sus madres--

pero las madres no tienen nada,
ningún pasaporte,

ninguna esperanza
para el viaje de vuelta largo a Guatemala,

donde no existe un futuro,
no existe nada.

[on the border, the desperate immigrants / mothers and children weeping / police demanding documents, passports / some children grasp fiercely their American passports and the hands of their mothers / but the mothers have nothing / no passport / no hope / for the long journey back to Guatemala / where there exists no future / where there is nothing]

I wrote this poem in response to a news report I saw two days ago on Univision. Here's a link to the piece:

If that doesn't work click here.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

A Poem for Our Times--by William Butler Yeats ("The Second Coming")

Check out the first stanza, especially the final line.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?