It's raining, now.
No, not that kind of rain!
The one that spills shadows from the sky;
the one that pours slivers of steel into our hearts
and slices deep, deep, until we faint from hurt.
It's raining that rain that drops images images of you
cut against the vague, deserted buildings;
the one that makes the sloshing cars,
crawling up my street, ghosts coming and going,
possibilities of you...
It's raining the rain of an infinite sadness,
pain that obfuscates your smile and breathes despair
down my neck, my body and my soul.
It's that kind of rain that conceals lovers,
desires unfulfilled because your absence
is remedy for cure, where cure is unattainable.
It's raining hard, heavy, streets flood,
church towers grieve, and I stand in the rain
catching drops in my mouth,
hoping that one of them is you...
July 30/1AM/Jose Valduar
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
WAITING FOR WORDS
It seems appealing that we write for fun
whatever comes to mind--
the masturbated life of a virgin nun,
strange, indeed, but not one of a kind,
the stunning sunset, but still only a sun,
or the debts and riches of blue-collar grind.
But words and commas show little appeal
if they appeal at all,
like jokes of chirping birds on a window-sill,
or children stumping, screeching, chasing balls.
Perhaps the reason why I stand so still,
and in this stillness wait for the committed call
of reason - should reason find my thrill
of writing about something that is whole.
Make no mistake, for I'm alert and crave
new metaphors and dreams;
what greater bravery than not being brave
and, thus, rejoice the still and quiet beams
of sunsets past? lest not we save
the latest words for last, which shall redeem
the wait, and say them when it's grave.
JV
whatever comes to mind--
the masturbated life of a virgin nun,
strange, indeed, but not one of a kind,
the stunning sunset, but still only a sun,
or the debts and riches of blue-collar grind.
But words and commas show little appeal
if they appeal at all,
like jokes of chirping birds on a window-sill,
or children stumping, screeching, chasing balls.
Perhaps the reason why I stand so still,
and in this stillness wait for the committed call
of reason - should reason find my thrill
of writing about something that is whole.
Make no mistake, for I'm alert and crave
new metaphors and dreams;
what greater bravery than not being brave
and, thus, rejoice the still and quiet beams
of sunsets past? lest not we save
the latest words for last, which shall redeem
the wait, and say them when it's grave.
JV
OCTOPUS
You came here to tell me who you fucked,
who's your man, now...
wise ass sitting on my stoop,
licking your wounds and grinning.
But it's you, still, drawing circles
on flat pages
without depth,
spinning around to fall where you began.
Move on, now. EVOLVE!
It won't be long
before the seasons change
and there is nothing left but the bare ground.
I can't help it but smile
at the idea of having loved you.
Had I known you were coming,
I would have asked for my octopus...
JV
who's your man, now...
wise ass sitting on my stoop,
licking your wounds and grinning.
But it's you, still, drawing circles
on flat pages
without depth,
spinning around to fall where you began.
Move on, now. EVOLVE!
It won't be long
before the seasons change
and there is nothing left but the bare ground.
I can't help it but smile
at the idea of having loved you.
Had I known you were coming,
I would have asked for my octopus...
JV
THIS NIGHT IS YOURS (MARCH 9, 2001)
I want this night to be your starry sky,
You universe of hope, your promised land.
I want to write your wishes in the sand,
And let your monsoon wave faint like a sigh,
In the arms of a lover and a friend.
I want your eyes to beg, your heart to fly,
The flame in you to dare to laugh and cry,
As if this shy beginning had no end.
I want to be for you the missing touch
That keeps your pilgrim heart from finding peace,
And your imprisoned lust from asking much.
I want to be the passion that you miss,
The burning fire that you hide and crush,
The letter to yourself, sealed with my kiss.
JV
You universe of hope, your promised land.
I want to write your wishes in the sand,
And let your monsoon wave faint like a sigh,
In the arms of a lover and a friend.
I want your eyes to beg, your heart to fly,
The flame in you to dare to laugh and cry,
As if this shy beginning had no end.
I want to be for you the missing touch
That keeps your pilgrim heart from finding peace,
And your imprisoned lust from asking much.
I want to be the passion that you miss,
The burning fire that you hide and crush,
The letter to yourself, sealed with my kiss.
JV
EACH SPRING
Each Spring
hope whispers and hovers
over us; the aspiration of life,
the mid-wife of new, of fresh,
the renovation of flesh in green
dress, freedom of the oppressed,
now, blasting buds.
The cold is gone, and nature has a way
to sway its gown, to frown
at what is left of winter's rage.
Only the sage, the dreamer
and the clown notice the change.
How can we re-arrange persons
to follow nature, to flow
from winter into hope,
to rise again after they cope
with rage?
But hope
is for the clown, the dreamer and the sage.
JV
hope whispers and hovers
over us; the aspiration of life,
the mid-wife of new, of fresh,
the renovation of flesh in green
dress, freedom of the oppressed,
now, blasting buds.
The cold is gone, and nature has a way
to sway its gown, to frown
at what is left of winter's rage.
Only the sage, the dreamer
and the clown notice the change.
How can we re-arrange persons
to follow nature, to flow
from winter into hope,
to rise again after they cope
with rage?
But hope
is for the clown, the dreamer and the sage.
JV
INTERPRETATION
The things I dare not say I said
once, in daze immersed,
things about my life, dispersed
like wind-blown leaves around my head.
I'm told that strangeness breeds my tongue,
the rhythm's wrong, improper pause,
- the fine print woven in each clause
is silent notes, and silence in my song.
Your thoughts are not my thoughts, for I
struggle for sense in dreams
- struggle for dreams in life, it seems
-and end it with a sigh...
once, in daze immersed,
things about my life, dispersed
like wind-blown leaves around my head.
I'm told that strangeness breeds my tongue,
the rhythm's wrong, improper pause,
- the fine print woven in each clause
is silent notes, and silence in my song.
Your thoughts are not my thoughts, for I
struggle for sense in dreams
- struggle for dreams in life, it seems
-and end it with a sigh...
Monday, July 27, 2009
The First
The first woman you love
is the last woman you love....
the first woman you love
is the only woman you love...
Whores walk up my street and I say no
Divorced women walk up my street
and I say no
Gay men walk up my street
and I say no
Tired widows walk up my street and
I say no
Young betrayed girls
walk up my street
and I say no
and I'm tired of explaining
and saying no
while love fucking lingers in me
like cancer
like love
like cancer,
like something
worth dying for...
The first woman you love
is the last woman you love...
and I said no!
is the last woman you love....
the first woman you love
is the only woman you love...
Whores walk up my street and I say no
Divorced women walk up my street
and I say no
Gay men walk up my street
and I say no
Tired widows walk up my street and
I say no
Young betrayed girls
walk up my street
and I say no
and I'm tired of explaining
and saying no
while love fucking lingers in me
like cancer
like love
like cancer,
like something
worth dying for...
The first woman you love
is the last woman you love...
and I said no!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
UNFOLDING MEMORIES
I left flowers in your garden.
I'll return every year,
each Spring,
splash color on your life,
and slowly fade away...
Jose Valduar
I'll return every year,
each Spring,
splash color on your life,
and slowly fade away...
Jose Valduar
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Break-ups and needles
I crushed some pine needles between my thumb and index and the scent lingered for hours. Relationship break-ups are just that: needles crushed between one's fingers, a scent that lingers... until one washes one's hands.
Monday, July 20, 2009
OF WHY I CHOSE THE WORD "RANTING" TO HEADLINE MY BLOG
A former girlfriend accused me, with some frequency, of "ranting" and"talking from a soapbox." The presumed insult never had the intended effect. In more than one way, I was and still am proud of my "rants" and "soapbox speeches." The alternative is what most people do these days: becoming indoctrinated, mechanically repeating what they are told to say, reading from scripts, often without knowledge of facts or context to back their scripted statements. This pervasive form of speech, structured to serve ambitious agendas and self-proclaimed leaders, is not alien to my upbringing (before I rose to the soapbox).
In my younger years, I flirted with the ideals of left-wing parties, some of which, more than thirty years ago, saw "violent revolution" as the only pathway to social change. Thirty years later, examples of such attempts are discouraging. Thirty years later, I understand that the "R" placed in front of evolution does not justify the shedding of blood, most often the blood of the innocent - as the self-proclaimed leaders avoid the frontlines and, in the long-run, re-emerge with new slogans and new scripts. In fact, no revolution is worth one single human life.
I am also not given to the complacency of observing the world around me with passive indifference. More importantly, false prophets and false defenders of the poor and under-privileged must be denounced. Most organizations and individuals that proclaim to be the defenders of the poor mob have never engaged the poor and under-privileged in their own defense. They use the poor and the under-privileged to push through agendas of their own, to create career opportunities for themselves, doing very little or nothing to remedy the systemic causes of poverty and under-privilege.
I did not abandon my leftist ideals. Quite the contrary: they are, now, more solid than they have ever been. There is good reason for it: an ideal is only as good as the purpose it serves. I realize, for instance, that what today is called "organizing the grassroots" is little more than a group of political hacks making phone calls to target-audiences. It matters little whether the caller knows who s/he is calling, as long as some sort of support (financial or other) is the end result. It doesn't matter, for the solicitor, whether the person at the other end is unemployed, or poor, or sick, or has a relative in jail, or is a single mother. The success of this "grassroots" activity is measured by how many respond positively to the phone call, and not by whether they can be helped in any way, as through real door-to-door organizing. Matters are getting worse: soon, texting and "twittering" (read: follow the leader) will be the norm, while millions of faceless people will remain faceless and ignored, courtshipped when it's time to brand another self-proclaimed leader.
Not that this forum is Hyde Park, but I take pride in sharing my desire to rant with such "ranters" as Orwell or Marx. And I, too, stand on my soapbox with the certainty that organized party structures are no less harmful or evil than organized religions, organized armies, or other organized institutions -- ultimately, one has to pay the price; one has to make a choice between one's identity, or the identity that someone else determined one should have. Ranting seems, to me, to be a good alternative. And although my former girlfriend will disagree, here's, yet, another rant. Luckily, this blog will be mostly about poetry, and my "rants" will be few.
JOSE VALDUAR
In my younger years, I flirted with the ideals of left-wing parties, some of which, more than thirty years ago, saw "violent revolution" as the only pathway to social change. Thirty years later, examples of such attempts are discouraging. Thirty years later, I understand that the "R" placed in front of evolution does not justify the shedding of blood, most often the blood of the innocent - as the self-proclaimed leaders avoid the frontlines and, in the long-run, re-emerge with new slogans and new scripts. In fact, no revolution is worth one single human life.
I am also not given to the complacency of observing the world around me with passive indifference. More importantly, false prophets and false defenders of the poor and under-privileged must be denounced. Most organizations and individuals that proclaim to be the defenders of the poor mob have never engaged the poor and under-privileged in their own defense. They use the poor and the under-privileged to push through agendas of their own, to create career opportunities for themselves, doing very little or nothing to remedy the systemic causes of poverty and under-privilege.
I did not abandon my leftist ideals. Quite the contrary: they are, now, more solid than they have ever been. There is good reason for it: an ideal is only as good as the purpose it serves. I realize, for instance, that what today is called "organizing the grassroots" is little more than a group of political hacks making phone calls to target-audiences. It matters little whether the caller knows who s/he is calling, as long as some sort of support (financial or other) is the end result. It doesn't matter, for the solicitor, whether the person at the other end is unemployed, or poor, or sick, or has a relative in jail, or is a single mother. The success of this "grassroots" activity is measured by how many respond positively to the phone call, and not by whether they can be helped in any way, as through real door-to-door organizing. Matters are getting worse: soon, texting and "twittering" (read: follow the leader) will be the norm, while millions of faceless people will remain faceless and ignored, courtshipped when it's time to brand another self-proclaimed leader.
Not that this forum is Hyde Park, but I take pride in sharing my desire to rant with such "ranters" as Orwell or Marx. And I, too, stand on my soapbox with the certainty that organized party structures are no less harmful or evil than organized religions, organized armies, or other organized institutions -- ultimately, one has to pay the price; one has to make a choice between one's identity, or the identity that someone else determined one should have. Ranting seems, to me, to be a good alternative. And although my former girlfriend will disagree, here's, yet, another rant. Luckily, this blog will be mostly about poetry, and my "rants" will be few.
JOSE VALDUAR
I'M COMING HOME
"Legend has it that D. Sebastian, King of Portugal and the Algarves in the 16th. Century, killed in battle in Morocco when he was only 19, will come out of the fog and return to rule Portugal in its darkest hour. This legend is, of course, deeply rooted in the 'wandering' Portuguese, who can be found in all parts of the world but, as a true 'saudosista', longs to return home. The poem below builds on an approximation of the popular Portuguese rhyme, typical of the 'cancioneiros', and plays a bit with the equally typical love theme often found in such poetry."
MY KING
'Twas never meant for us to be...
I'm going home to watch the sea
And let the seagulls strip away
The grief of words I dared not say.
Time heals all wounds when one is far
And, soon enough, only a scar
Will line the vastness of my heart.
It's best for all that I depart.
These streets I walk are not my streets;
This air I breathe is not my air;
Of what I were there are but bits,
With different versions of despair.
I'm going home to watch the sea
And dream the dream that lies ahead,
That generations before me
Have tumbled, hopeful, in their head.
My king, my king, I too will roam
And hail the sharpness of your sword.
Perhaps the power of my word
Will cut through fog and bring us home.
It wasn't you, it wasn't me...
It was the longing for the throne
Of dreams and fog in the far sea...
- MY king, my king, I'm coming home...
Jose Valduar
MY KING
'Twas never meant for us to be...
I'm going home to watch the sea
And let the seagulls strip away
The grief of words I dared not say.
Time heals all wounds when one is far
And, soon enough, only a scar
Will line the vastness of my heart.
It's best for all that I depart.
These streets I walk are not my streets;
This air I breathe is not my air;
Of what I were there are but bits,
With different versions of despair.
I'm going home to watch the sea
And dream the dream that lies ahead,
That generations before me
Have tumbled, hopeful, in their head.
My king, my king, I too will roam
And hail the sharpness of your sword.
Perhaps the power of my word
Will cut through fog and bring us home.
It wasn't you, it wasn't me...
It was the longing for the throne
Of dreams and fog in the far sea...
- MY king, my king, I'm coming home...
Jose Valduar
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Soulmates Die
Soulmates die
when feelings are revised.
New souls emerge, like weeds
-from what seeds?
from what sieves of the wise?
A lie is always but a lie.
New mates appear
on wild nights, late.
"Have it your way, fate!"
"Dare, under the moonlit fear!"
Wake-up and sigh...
Mates survive, it seems,
fragile, fleeting souls
- all that is left from holes
dug deep in dreams.
when feelings are revised.
New souls emerge, like weeds
-from what seeds?
from what sieves of the wise?
A lie is always but a lie.
New mates appear
on wild nights, late.
"Have it your way, fate!"
"Dare, under the moonlit fear!"
Wake-up and sigh...
Mates survive, it seems,
fragile, fleeting souls
- all that is left from holes
dug deep in dreams.
"I go among peple: I love people,
action,
thought,
struggle.
Your are one person in my struggle,
I love you."
NAZIM HIKMET
STRUGGLE
We were born with the same metal-clad heart,
that only knows how to feel inside.
When we speak...We don't speak. We part
ways, we rage, and fight, and hide
words from each other.
We don't know (don't bother)
how to get out from inside ourselves without
pain and hurt, and wrong words thrown about.
This time, we reached too far,
we hurt too much, indeed...
And while I drown myself in alcohol and tar,
hope flies away...the seed
that kept us together for so long.
But I was bred in struggle, I play strong,
I breathe deep, I stand up straight,
even when weak inside.
You are my only love, my gait,
my lover, my companion and my bride,
my sole reason to wish to be alive.
"I love people," but even loving all
cannot be done without the warming thought
that, among all, one special one's on call,
when one's distraught.
You were that special one. The soul
that I relied upon... and, fool,
gave you away...The tool
to crack my armored heart...my whole.
JOSE VALDUAR
action,
thought,
struggle.
Your are one person in my struggle,
I love you."
NAZIM HIKMET
STRUGGLE
We were born with the same metal-clad heart,
that only knows how to feel inside.
When we speak...We don't speak. We part
ways, we rage, and fight, and hide
words from each other.
We don't know (don't bother)
how to get out from inside ourselves without
pain and hurt, and wrong words thrown about.
This time, we reached too far,
we hurt too much, indeed...
And while I drown myself in alcohol and tar,
hope flies away...the seed
that kept us together for so long.
But I was bred in struggle, I play strong,
I breathe deep, I stand up straight,
even when weak inside.
You are my only love, my gait,
my lover, my companion and my bride,
my sole reason to wish to be alive.
"I love people," but even loving all
cannot be done without the warming thought
that, among all, one special one's on call,
when one's distraught.
You were that special one. The soul
that I relied upon... and, fool,
gave you away...The tool
to crack my armored heart...my whole.
JOSE VALDUAR
Saturday, July 18, 2009
After Dylan Tomas (a villannelle)
Close your eyelids and step into the night;
old age should know to accept the close of day
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
All wise men are prepared to take the dark as right,
because their words were heard: no more to say. They
close ther eyelids and step into the night.
Good men, who are accomplished, feel how bright
they made their life and other lives. They fray
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
Wild men, whose dreams were fireworks in flight,
whose hearts were blaze and blast, now change their way,
close their eyelids and step into the night.
Grave men, who suffered and could have had their sight
on happiness, this time, this last chance, will go gay,
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
And you, my father, stil held at the highest height,
take my heart and my love. For you I'll pray.
Close your eyelids and step into the night
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
Jose Valduar
old age should know to accept the close of day
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
All wise men are prepared to take the dark as right,
because their words were heard: no more to say. They
close ther eyelids and step into the night.
Good men, who are accomplished, feel how bright
they made their life and other lives. They fray
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
Wild men, whose dreams were fireworks in flight,
whose hearts were blaze and blast, now change their way,
close their eyelids and step into the night.
Grave men, who suffered and could have had their sight
on happiness, this time, this last chance, will go gay,
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
And you, my father, stil held at the highest height,
take my heart and my love. For you I'll pray.
Close your eyelids and step into the night
with peace, peace, before the dying of the light.
Jose Valduar
SPLIT WHEN IT'S TIME
You never loved me (I knew).
I held your breath
on my lips
and you stood still.
You decided to grow
and measure death
- a cancer on your hips,
a chill.
Before the parting pain,
the pain had been there, steady...
Saying good-bye was vain
- we were both ready.
I held your breath
on my lips
and you stood still.
You decided to grow
and measure death
- a cancer on your hips,
a chill.
Before the parting pain,
the pain had been there, steady...
Saying good-bye was vain
- we were both ready.
Friday, July 17, 2009
South End
We came back from a booze-filled bar,
stopped time & time again to exchange kisses
& feel each other's bodies... We longed
for the kind touch we were offering each other.
We collapsed on my bed and made love...
clumsy, tired, barely real.
It's morning, now, and you feel fear
of what's left: a careless night.
I feel guilty. You? Embarrassed.
I'm not sure if such nights can be explained,
but for the scent of you left behind.
JV
We came back from a booze-filled bar,
stopped time & time again to exchange kisses
& feel each other's bodies... We longed
for the kind touch we were offering each other.
We collapsed on my bed and made love...
clumsy, tired, barely real.
It's morning, now, and you feel fear
of what's left: a careless night.
I feel guilty. You? Embarrassed.
I'm not sure if such nights can be explained,
but for the scent of you left behind.
JV
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