april
is not a poet's month
what we thought we'd mastered
april is a time of the hand not the mind
a time to do and not to rhyme
daughters dress in brighter colors
shoulders and navels go uncovered
the farmer's market and roadside stand
amish girls sit on the running boards
beardless bows drive the buggies home
a crocus is the sweepstakes winner
first to pass the test of winter
the trees grow green; i lose my feeling
for philosophical reflection and poetics
poorly read and poorly measured
my verse stands out apathetic
competing with the apple blossom,
flowering pear, and weeping cherry
offside, offset, and out of rhythm
my sleepy words profound only
in their contemptible lack of meaning
as commerce lifts front porch voices
we scratch the bark to see who's living
vines begin to cover stockade fences
dogs extend their masters' leashes
behind old walls spinsters whisper
and plot new troubles for the neighbors
a poet needs a frosty morning
not walk barefoot in the clover
perhaps i'll spend some time at the beach
before the tourists take their leases
read sartre on the bay at havre de grace
the sunrise crimson on the chesapeake
no, i'll buy flowers, abandon verses
oxydol clean my dirty vases
buy my wife a dozen roses
mow the grass, fertilize bushes
wait for the return of the muses
did they fly north or remain down south?
or perhaps they sought a water-spout
to summer home their afternoons
and loon their evenings in dreary song
it must have been the weather, no doubt,
that confused their navigator's whereabouts
i can hear the wind but i can’t describe it
my feel for things i cannot see
have somehow turned to real life things
a poet needs a frosty morning
not daffodils and nesting robins
they are all quite distracting,
debilitating, and irritating
perhaps they are best for novelists
whose words portray settings missed
the green hue blushes blur my eyes
as if too sleepy to sleep the hour wise
april is not a poet's month
young girls throw kisses and poets die
old lovers cross and feign surprise
someone giggles and we realize
that all we have ever really wanted hides
behind the leaves until we can find it.
abril es la estacíon más cruel
los árboles se vuelven verdes,
pierdo mi anhelo
en medio de mis ruinas construidas
compro flores, abandono versos
cortar el césped, arbustos fertilizar
esperar a que el retorno de las musas
puedo ver el viento, pero no puedo describirlo
su propia melodía ya tiene su mismo autor
es por eso que abril es la más cruel tiempo
por qué el amor nace y el poeta muero
what we thought we'd mastered
we
find we've lost
april
is a time to plow and seed
a
time of water, mud, and bees
a
time for baseball players to dream
a
Koufax or Gibson perfect season
april is a time of the hand not the mind
a time to do and not to rhyme
daughters dress in brighter colors
shoulders and navels go uncovered
the farmer's market and roadside stand
amish girls sit on the running boards
beardless bows drive the buggies home
a crocus is the sweepstakes winner
first to pass the test of winter
the trees grow green; i lose my feeling
for philosophical reflection and poetics
poorly read and poorly measured
my verse stands out apathetic
competing with the apple blossom,
flowering pear, and weeping cherry
offside, offset, and out of rhythm
my sleepy words profound only
in their contemptible lack of meaning
as commerce lifts front porch voices
we scratch the bark to see who's living
vines begin to cover stockade fences
dogs extend their masters' leashes
behind old walls spinsters whisper
and plot new troubles for the neighbors
a poet needs a frosty morning
not walk barefoot in the clover
perhaps i'll spend some time at the beach
before the tourists take their leases
read sartre on the bay at havre de grace
the sunrise crimson on the chesapeake
no, i'll buy flowers, abandon verses
oxydol clean my dirty vases
buy my wife a dozen roses
mow the grass, fertilize bushes
wait for the return of the muses
did they fly north or remain down south?
or perhaps they sought a water-spout
to summer home their afternoons
and loon their evenings in dreary song
it must have been the weather, no doubt,
that confused their navigator's whereabouts
i can hear the wind but i can’t describe it
my feel for things i cannot see
have somehow turned to real life things
a poet needs a frosty morning
not daffodils and nesting robins
they are all quite distracting,
debilitating, and irritating
perhaps they are best for novelists
whose words portray settings missed
the green hue blushes blur my eyes
as if too sleepy to sleep the hour wise
april is not a poet's month
young girls throw kisses and poets die
old lovers cross and feign surprise
someone giggles and we realize
that all we have ever really wanted hides
behind the leaves until we can find it.
________________
los árboles se vuelven verdes,
pierdo mi anhelo
en medio de mis ruinas construidas
compro flores, abandono versos
cortar el césped, arbustos fertilizar
esperar a que el retorno de las musas
puedo ver el viento, pero no puedo describirlo
su propia melodía ya tiene su mismo autor
la maravilla no sobrevivirá
el rubor color verde que confundir mis ojos
el rubor color verde que confundir mis ojos
es por eso que abril es la más cruel tiempo
por qué el amor nace y el poeta muero
todo lo que siempre hemos querido
se esconde atras de las hojas
y en las paginas blancas
hasta que lo encontramos la mano
que provee los colores.
que provee los colores.
