Two Poems
By Force of Mourning
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
—T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday
Anguished and blown astray
In the endless maze of the everyday,
Riding the wind for a horse
With a handkerchief’s force
Do I need to overwhelm you with my credentials?
Do I need to charm you with my expertise?
Tell me, do I need combustibles like these
To burn you in the river of my debris?
If words were to breathe
The sea that hugs the sand
Extend
The touch of a hand
I would hardly say anything
But perpend the sheer force of nothing
The Scene of History
From the meadows of my memory
Emerge the hills, the river, and the olive trees
Out there, towards the twilight
The rams, the ewes, and the cows
Grazing
The shepherds of childhood
Roaming about, scattered among the meadows
Among the hills, the river and the olive trees
Tending
To the rams, the ewes and the cows
Grazing
Nothing can be heard
Not the ney, not the lute, not the cane flute
Not the silence of the hills, of the river, or of the olive trees
Not the shepherds tending to the rams, to the ewes, and to the cows
As history passes by
