The fall month of October, in upper Algarve,
is still warm but with cooling evenings and
sunlight begins to fade earlier every day.
The sky is still blue, if paler than yesterday’s
and has white strands of clouds near its
horizon. Windless is this day but birds on
the roof, have left their nests flown south,
Africa I think, for a few month. They will be
back in March have their chicks and make
a lot of noise. The man from the forest has
delivered winter wood, wrote him a check,
gave him a whisky; so I’m ready for winter
but secretly wish these peaceful days will
stretch well into November.
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and tries
trough me to play his latest masterpiece.
I wonder why a quiet evening isn’t enough, the thinking
will not stop slow down and make sense; calming effect
the wine has but it’s always too much; ideas drown,
must catch them while they make sense, the night is
deep and silent while I wait for something to articulate.
Art speaks, but I have to nail down the words, they are
always inadequate and paler than those in my mind,
I have giving birth to ugly ducklings once again, but they
are mine, I will not send them into abyss’s of delete hell
just yet, but wait to see if they can learn to walk alone.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
late night poems