I have been here before. The breathtaking edge, the swifts’ swoops and sprees, the river’s fast lane binge through the gorge. The ravenous light. Hundreds of… Read more “Abseiling”
“The real damage is done by those millions who want to ‘survive.’ The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don’t want… Read more “70 years today, Sophie Scholl was guillotined by the nazis for her resistance work wih the White Rose. She was 22.”
Never had the.
My ungoing blistered in the burn of yet.
What-some had often this close
and the closer was the more other than,
the more not really the, the more not quite.
Each time expected having just
that if, then the. But.
Yes, some, like.
Yes, at times, a while, a certain or.
Still, how season, and inasmuch again,
less mean, less waterfall, less.
Also might a variation of
Not whether, not whether, but how.
Who does, if at all,
if any ever.
Is it truly thus?
Thus really so like?
Is this it?
Should then no more for?
But why then still out to,
Where, when? If.
Published in Domestic Cherry 1, 2011
Rallying the Underloved On behalf of the misloved, I am making this call for us to rally up our secluded grieves under a common tent and have… Read more “Rallying the Underloved”
Retrato de Silverio Franconetti
La densa miel de Italia
con el limón nuestro,
iba en el hondo llanto
Su grito fue terrible.
dicen que se erizaban
y se abría el azogue
de los espejos.
Pasaba por los tonos
Y fue un creador
y un jardinero.
Un creador de glorietas
para el silencio.
Ahora su melodía
duerme con los ecos.
Definitiva y pura.
¡Con los últimos ecos!
Federico García Lorca
Straid Award 2012, published by Templar Poetry http://templarpoetry.com/collections/new-titles/products/cry-wolf-by-cristina-navazo-eguia-newton Thanks are due to the editors of publications where some of the poems first appeared: PN Review, Southword, Assent,… Read more “Cry Wolf”
He had a knife and a clean aspen.
He left out the bleating, the bells, the blades of grass.
He carved the bark: “What a beautiful place to grow old
without my beloved”.
He had the nails at the end of his fingers.
He had himself, the height of the trees, the lambs.
He scratched the bark: “Gypsy, a trap
for wild doves”.
The aspens tapped the soil, grew on, slurred the words.
He drove the herd down to the 1,000 metres.
He cut a fish, a star, body parts, the bark of a dog.
“My only pain is that of a woman…”
He had a tongue no one spoke that side of the sea.
He had a tongue to lap ewe’s milk from a bowl.
He left messages for the odds to come: “All is mine,
all is mine, all is mine”.
All this thick tough grass, this trial of trees, these foreign sheep.
He had them in thousands, someone else’s chagrin.
He had turned into the myth with the golden fleece: “At home
they think that we are heroes”.
“But we are nothing”, read the aspens, and
“This and this and that and my thigh”.
From Cry Wolf, Straid Award, Templar Poetry 2012