To the Woodcarvers of Betis
1
if i could feel the cold
hardness of wood,
would i also know
your will, woodcarver,
your will to hew a soul
out of a lifeless slab?
what skill does it take
to craft complete an art,
a promised beauty,
defined and fulfilled?
if i find the wisdom,
then, i should be ready
and be free to decree,
to chuck as nimbly
as you do, woodcarver.
my pen for chisel
and paper for wood;
i shall draft lines into a craft,
and thence complete an art—
pulsating words and ideas–
once slight, as soon infinite.
2
from shapelessness to flesh,
the wood’s hidden heart
now throbs, a soul born anew.
and mine shall be an attempt
just as well to trace the route
of chisels, trace and retrace
the weaves and contours
between wood and being.
i shall attempt to carve
a heart, a life, a soul…
so i will also learn to shape,
reshape, sculpt; to transfigure.
and, in my own space, find words
to fit into a definite art.
To an Old Plowman
Shouldn’t you count the furrows
Of your cold and long sorrows,
Plowman of arid seasons,
Shouldn’t you count the reasons?
Your keen toil, the soil’s spring;
Your meaning, the seed’s siring.
But that multitude of mouths
Do not know your woes and moans.
Plowman of arid seasons,
Shouldn’t you find the reasons
Why hunger stalks your dwelling?
Why danger stalks your dreaming?
Aren’t your heart’s aspirations
Of warm earth bursting with grains?
Soar with the pilgrim herons,
Plowman of arid seasons.
Alas! The birds have left now.
Alas! The birds have known how.
Claim, sir, your proper anger
Against the world of mouths, hear!
Plowman of arid seasons,
You can brave the monsoon rains.
But they can’t save their rotten lives,
For they can’t seed their barren selves.
