MOON OF UXMAL
PHILIP CONOVER
MOON OF UXMAL
This collection contains an interesting assertion in the Poem, “A White Rose”. It says: “I will write what I please…be them wolf- words or small flowers, lilies of delicate white petals…” This could be interpreted as obtaining a license for free verse. More likely it was a desire on my part, at the time, of declaring my independence from the literary world; of having to please someone or anyone…Not that Poets who are worth their salt usually go about pleasing anyone, unless they have been commissioned a piece for the christening of the crown prince, or the Queen’s birthday. Here I have touched a theme which is the fundamental loneliness of a poet who works in silence by himself at a distance from the world. Perhaps this mood is best exemplified by the poem, “A window opens…”, where I was sitting at a restaurant in Campeche drinking beer, contemplating the view of the Sea from my table, alone and yet surrounded by friendly Campechanos. The act of writing a poem separates one from the community of men and yet one writes very much for our fellow humans, not for a specific public but for Humanity; as someone like Salvatore Quasimodo might have done, or Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa did, even though these two Sicilian gentlemen might have at one time thought themselves isolated from the World, living in Sicily. The best works of Art are never commissioned. No one told Lampedusa to write “Il Gatopardo”, he loved Stendhal and the history of his family and of the kingdom of Naples and Sicily and he loved poetry and was challenged by the structure of the Novel, so he decided to write a novel. No one instructed Salvatore Quasimodo how he should write or taught him the mechanics of poetry. And yet these inspired men did it for themselves and for Humanity, no doubt. In a more modest vein I want to say that I feel great pleasure in sharing my poems with anyone who cares to read them. I am grateful, anticipating like a secret sharer, any smile of delight that my poetry might provoke in any of my readers. And this is how I wish to present my “Moon of Uxmal”. San Angel, April 2014
CONTENTS By Title or by first line
This half Druid… &Casida of the Lion and the Su Uxmal & Oh! Most recondite niche… & A white Rose & Elvira Madigan & Where shall we go… & To recapture Time The gypsy of Cluny
&
&
& Fortunata & Circle & Sing me praises… & I chose this womb & Bazaar Sábado & Data control in futurology Rand Corporation INC. & Las Fuentes de Jericó & Miles de chocomiles &
Que así fuera… & El playador de tarrayas Mexico City, October 26, 1989
CASIDA OF THE LION AND THE SUN
I come from the south. My soul is a parched desert. O, where are your eyes!? I long for the gardens of Cordoba. I do not see your eyes. The girls no longer play In the gardens, Why? I have been away long.
The sea was silver
And blue, When I saw Jebel Tarik My thoughts were of you. My heart came alive Like the water In the fountain of Al-Hambra, Flooded with light; The four lions of stone Innocent as dawn, The sun, And Cordoba beyond.
I fought The Beni-Merin
For Al-Hakem Al-Tawba But my soul Was longing for you. My love, my wife, Did you think Of me too?
Ali Ibraim Al-Qiyama
764-827
This half Druid half Roman tongue, we should not forget; or let pass to fresher mind undone. Endeavour, then, to cultivate it; to preserve its song‌ The freedom that it warms, In freedom burst it.
1976.
UXMAL
Because they were, because the are, Uxmal glitters under the sun.
A great artist lives for joy alone. Joy is the quadrangle at Uxmal the eye never tires of perfection, of beauty.
Human perfection is a happy encounter with the Eternal,
this we call------Unity.
There is Unity everywhere at Uxmal Eloquence and Unity Speech and art.
‘Over there’, pointed the hand, ‘We shall place a pyramid over there...’ and there it is And a courtyard and a quadrangle and a columned temple and the most beautiful frontispiece in the world. Over there at Uxmal. Uxmal. For the beauty of Uxmal lingers long,
dear friend. Surrounded as it is by an expanse of green, a sea of immense peace. Where the imagination was filled and found the forms ___ The Golden Measure of dimension and perspective, harmony, (parallax and astral geometry, knowledge of the Self;) thousands upon thousands of small eternities, white stones fitted for Eternity as archetypes to be brought. (From this world we take graven images alone.)
From the center of the courtyard emerged The Princess of Uxmal, a Quetzal. A mouth so warm, the smile, the land. During the day the sun shines over her;
a temple, a cloud, a dress of white linen revealing elegance, symmetry, sacral unity. During the night she is another star. Her bright dark eyes astral, mysterious moon-woman, Uxmal. Uxmal.
I reverently walked amongst the ruins of Uxmal and heard the echoes: the light footsteps of the princess of Uxmal, the voices of men and saw the profound dark eyes
of a priest-architect, the specter of silence who observed the stars who spoke in quadrangles who was with The Eternal who was who is; through his hand at Uxmal. Uxmal, November 17 , 1978
O! Most recondite niche! O! The innermost heart, Petal of the Rose of Islam, Lotus flower in the pool of Amristar, Sacred heart of Jesus, Sweet, gentle, Jesus, Unfold Thy Graces. Rama, raga, singh___ Fiery red ripple Of the sun In the sacred pool of Amristar. From the silvery floor Of the lake, Dharma extends over the land. Blue is the sky, Sacred the cow‌
Mother, sweet mother, Indra, Sita, Muntaz Mahal, Taj Mahal,
Shah Jahan, King of hearts.
Shure footed, The pilgrims heart leads to Benares. O! Benares! The River flows From the mountain Into the sea. O! River of light
Empty my heart, sitar. Empty your heart, Benares, Into the Sea. River of light, Fire of her eyes And‌ let a host Of warriors plunder the land: Babur Khan, Mountstuart Elphinstone, Clive___ Windworned ravagers Come from the sea‌ Charles Metcalfe, King of Delhi, rest in peace. Give us peace, Mahatama, Karma yogin, Sri Raj.
Oh!Do let Dharma extend over the land. 1974.
A WHITE ROSE
A white rose Bloomed in winter Over the deep. She spread her petals Bulged and laughed And moved no more. I had wanted to make a Present of her Or to make her my own.
Each day I thought About it And tried to remember Beautiful things‌ Until the rose died, Without syllable Or rhyme.
Under the solitary moon The night is blackest, I will write what I please Be them wolf-words Or small flowers Lilies of delicate white petals
Very still and dainty (under the moon)
Like small girls In crinoline dresses Mit yellow tresses Dancing ballet Under the pale silver shadow Of the moon elves and nymphs Will gather flowers Skip and flutter Amongst the dark pines laughter. On the wet moss Sandro Botichelli Is sound asleep, He draws kisses From Aphrodite´s Curved lips In expectation of dawn.
Buonarroti is jealous, Da Vinci is jealous___ Wolf-word jealous. A Nubian princess Bears her breasts
To the moon, Her humming bird nipples Her honey colored skin. Where is her prince? The lonely starry night is her prince.
Fits of jealousy Have the angels Waging war. Prince Lucifer Has seized a galaxy
And declared that henceforth Only beautiful people shall be born. Da Vinci is unrepentant Buonarrotti did recant And is now hurling demons Screaming wildly across the skies. Scores of scientists Have fled their laboratories After fooling with the stuff of life‌ While young girls suffering from acne Are consulting Helena Rubinstein In heaven. Ask The Sphinx If Oedipus is well; If he is besmirching His name and reputation, Ointing mother-of-pearl
Over his face, Shamelessly rouging His face At the carnival of Priapus. Young Electra is in a jitty Over her fathers sudden death, Doctor Freud, grown to manhood, Is discovering the testes of the eel After having read his Greek mythology In careful concentration.
1978.
ELVIRA
MADIGAN
I say, Like Sexton Sparre Said to Elvira Madigan, I am on the side Of women. Braggadocio is braggadocio
And death is death. A pistol is the symbol Of impotence and death, A rifle sights the flight Of an unknown bird, Our life; Because every other life Is our life. A blade of steel Is no blade of grass, It does not bend or sigh. I say: braggadocio is braggadocio And love is life.
1977.
Where shall we go When there are no more Places to visit. What gilded castles Shall we see, Porcelain faces to be resisted, Blue eyes immaculate Like the sea Fade evaporate.
The girls disappear With the years, And we are suddenly left alone Like strangers. Where shall we go When there are no more Places to visit?
The scent of perfume Mingles with your breath In the air, But you are not there. I have bought a new pair of shoes To walk new roads that lead Nowhere. The view from my window Is the same. Recurrent sounds No longer disturb me. The Acropolis is far away So is Plato___ long dead.
I run in the morning, Flex my muscles
In expectation of death___ Final death; Because since your left me, I no longer hope to hope again, All hope having left me.
1978.
To recapture time One most be alone With one´s self For a while. Where I am it is fine. When I am alone With you I want to touch Your elbows too… Your lovely shoulder blades. I shall not recant, unrepentant. ‘Recline on my big Broad chest…´ Rest. Close your eyes. Whenever I wish Whenever I want
Whenever I am in the mood For a song, I sing for myself alone‌ Come.
The windows are open, They give to the sea
And the sea gives to the heart. The white frames Are very rectangular And that pleases me As much as the sea.
There is a band of orange Across the deep range of the sky. It is evening. I drink beer. In front of me an open window Gives to the sea; and the sea Murmuring among the rocks‌ I think of parted friends, Of a long ferry-bridge Leading to nowhere.
There is a certain whiteness About the window frames. There is a certain darkness In the sky.
I am smoking a cigarette someone gave me. I drink beer. I have been talking with friends. It is good. Campeche, November 1978.
T H E G Y P S Y O F C LUNY At the rue Cluny The old gypsy Makes his bear Walk up a ladder. Descartes looks on Intently As he has always done. The phantoms of Cluny Mingle with the crowd Of students___ indifferent. Only Descartes is aware Of the bear and the gypsy: ´Tu sais, RenÊ, Dentre tous les chemins De la sagese, Le cinquieme est la tendrese.
1978.
FORTU NATA ( You deal, Fortuna)
If I went dawn To the sea again And saw two naked bodies, I would not want to know And would not say But that I had been To the sea again.
The purple silk scarf Briefly fluttered, The spray of salt And sea, The smell of sea weed
And of moisture Mixes in the air.
The large tongue Reaches out towards The parched sand, The dry land,
Porcelain tide, Porcelain thighs, Frozen horizons Blue upon blue And then white, With the sun shinning
On it Brilliantly, Transparently, Lucidly.
1979.
CIRCLE
Radiant is the sun bathed grass Cool are the shaded walls, The transparent water Is a pale mirror in my memory.
How the embers of desire Are still alive Like they were then On that grassy knoll in Normandy Sunbathing with my friends Among the trees of a forest.
Listen to the water falling; To the leaves turning in the air,
Turn and fall to the earth.
Turning and falling, Leaves, water, Turn and fall with Earth And The Earth turns and falls through space.
1973.
Sing me praises Of untamed lands, The hand Beating the drum On a far distant shore And the sea responding with a thump And the drum resounding with a thump And the heart beating to itself In lonely silence Within a cell In an urban jungle.
The more educated we become The less will we be able to sustain This conversation, Miss Prokuriakoff. Do not look for any strength Within me, (to rob),
It has all been ravished By the savages‌your friends. No, I do not often go to parties. This is not a party at all, It is an illusion, Miss Prokuriakoff.
1977.
I choose this womb.
Your lips are a kiss And the memory of a kiss. My hands are the memory of Your body; My empty hands Are the memory of your body, And my memory Is an empty body.
I choose this death.
Then, All of a sudden, A green branch
Becomes a tangerine, Structured radially, Each segment with its allotment of seeds, Two parts Hydrogen, one part Oxygen Scented with the teardrops of a lover. Another more fantastic world Where the fruit Is the secret of the tree And its silent life, in the womb, unawares Grows with organic symmetry
Planned by some other tree In another seed, Inside some other tangerine‌ Tangerine Tree.
I choose this birth.
1974
. BAZAAR SABADO
Thrice blessed, illuminated, courageous, successful The American pasha Walks lithely From his car. He has the sprint of a Princeton runner, The bounce of a Harvard quarterback, The gait of a Yale rookie. It is not raw power That keeps his mind astir, He is bestirred by the American dream. Sheathed he is In precious fineries from J. Press, The elegant symbol of success. Mirth, frankincense and pearls
And a fifty carat smile On his face: HE HAS MADE IT. No caravans has he raided; Pillages and robberies Of a shrewder kind has he aided. For many year he has learnt
To slide the rules in-out: Fair-playing, democratically-understanding, Extracting subterranean sustenance, Geographical photographer, philosopher; Satellite observer, Cataloger,
Choosing items of interest at the Bazaar Sabado With relish.
For Robert Macnamara and The Twenty Strategic Material Required To Wage War.
1976.
DATA CONTROL IN FUTUROLOGY RAND CORPORATION INC.
Pity the lads Of the twenty first century They will not be able to run Away to sea___ because There will be no more sea.
Of all the fish Only the sharks will remain, Bighting big chunks off each other Till death does them part.
The men in the cities Will walk like cockroaches Never looking up towards the sky.
There will be no more love, No romance___ Pharmacology Will take care of all that.
A new species of Pterodactyl Will be discovered: The Aeropiteryx alive.
Two billion fans will watch Parts or all of the World Cup___ A new record.
… New concubines… New Conglomerate combines…
He prefers a cold lunch in his office. She the quiet purr of an electronic vibrator Soothing, enhancing her personality, at home.
Captain Cook is planting bread trees. Galileo is making a new lens. Little Isaac Newton is recovering from birth. Progress Progressing Towards progress ( Do not ask me where ) The Mediterranean is dead.
1978.
L A S F U E N T E S D E J E RI C O
El profeta Elías Limpio las fuentes de Jericó: Sal, miel, Sangre menstrual Y orina de mujer.
Si me haces esperar Me moriré de sed. Lleno de dolor Y miedo
El amor pierde La memoria, No sĂŠ si te quiero.
Dame agua de beber.
1978.
MILES DE CHOCOMILES
‘… and a young girl threading An invisible needle with invisible silk…’ Jonathan Swift “Gulliver’s Travels”
La niña del chocomilk
Se saca diez en la escuela. La niña del chocomil… Tiene unos pliegues hermosos Entre los labios rojos De su vagina color mamey. La niña del chocomil Tiene una voz primorosa Que sabe a sandía y a miel. La niña del chocomil Tiene una piel preciosa Dorada por el sol. La niña del chocomil Nació color chocomil.
La niña del chocomil Se sienta en un banquito A pedir su chocomil,
Tiene sus senos en flor Y no se sabe hermosa. Le dan vergüenza sus senos Porque su mamá le ha dicho Que ya es una vieja Chichona. La niña del chocomil Se toma su chocomil Bajo los rayos del sol Sentada en un banquito En el puesto de Chavela Frente al malecón. La niña del chocomil Acaba de salir de la escuela Y como a ella le gusta el chocomil
Se fue con Chavela. 1978.
Que así fuera: Suave el sentimiento Punzante la herida Como en el mundo misterio De la naturaleza, De noche cuando duermen Las flores. Así, Eso es.
Que suave compañía Nos deparó el Creador Al compartir Los misterios del amor Con las mujeres.
Los misterios de las mujeres,
La vida, el universo Y la muerte Son una sonrisa, La de Mona Lisa‌ Y luego un suspiro de amor Dura tan poco, Es una bella visión
La convergencia De dos haces de luz En el fondo De un cenote. Tus ojos son Ese cenote.
Que cante el Ticul
De tu tierra Yucateca. Que se habrรก un espacio En el cielo Para iluminar Esa gran verdad Que es El Amor.
Campeche, Abril 10 de 1987.
EL PLAYADOR DE TARRAYAS
Quién da la medida Quién la hiel Quién la vida. El playador de tarrayas Se acerca al mar Y no lo ve fructuoso, Bondadoso, Es un ladrón.
Yo te doy, dice el mar, Pescados de tarraya; Playador, tira tu red al mar, Recógela en la madrugada. Corre pargo, corvina y canané
Al filo del agua van Rayando la alborada.
La luna asoma inocencia, Y resplandores de plata, Tarraya de hilos de plata, Red de estrellas, Via Lactea iluminada. Ya se asoma el playador, ( Se dirige a la playa ). La planta sobre la arena, Huella de frĂa porcelana, Su camino es lateral Como cangrejo playero; Va midiendo la distancia Temeroso de la sombra
Y la sombra huye tras él Para playar la distancia. Se oculta tras una roca, La roca inmóvil. La sangre no le responde, Se le hecho arena en la panza.
Mano de cangrejo moro Estira sobre la tarraya. La tiene asida, Tenaza y tira. Se fuga codicioso Como crustáceo Sobre la redondez de la playa.
¡Ay playador de tarrayas, Cangrejo de madrugada!
Mira playador, Fueron tres que me salvaron la vida De cuando el mar ya me la tenía. Y otro que me dio agua Cuando yo no la había; Que sobre aquel azul se mueve El que nos inspira.
A los pescadores de Puerto Morelos, Quintana Roo,
Que estando mi velero a la deriva fuera del cabezo Y más allá del arrecife, fueron a salvarnos las vidas, La mía y la de mi hijo Carlos. Y al Doctor Raúl, “Artos chakchis”, Aguayo Que nos dio su amistad y su hospitalidad.Puerto Morelos, Quintana Roo, Abril de 1987.