Two Poems

[silverflurry.livejournal.com]

Guilty
I declare myself guilty of not having
made, with these hands they gave me,
a broom.

Why didn't I make a broom?

Why did they give me hands?

What use have they been
if all I ever did was
watch the stir of the grain,
listen up for the wind
and did not gather straws
still green in the earth
for a broom,
not set the soft stalks to dry
and bind them
in a gold bundle,
and did not lash a wooden stick
to the yellow skirt
till I had a broom for the paths?

So it goes.
How did my life
get by
without seeing, and learning,
and gathering and binding
the basic things?

It's too late to deny
I had the time,
the time,
yet the hands were lacking,
so how could I aim
for greatness
if I was never able
to make
a broom,
not one,
not even one?

The Great Urinator

The great urinator was yellow
and the stream that came down
was bronze-colored rain
on the domes of churches,
on the roofs of cars,
factories and cemeteries,
the populace and their gardens.

Who was it, where was it?

It was a density, thick liquid
falling as from
a horse,
and frightened passersby
with no umbrellas
gazed up skyward,
meanwhile avenues were flooding
and urine inexhaustible flowing
underneath doors,
backing up drains, disintegrating
marble floors, carpets,
balustrades.

Nothing could be detected. Where
was this peril from?
What was going to happen to the world?

From on high the great urinator
was silent and urinated.

I am a pale and artless poet
not here to work out riddles
or recommend special umbrellas.
Hasta la vista! I greet you and go off
to a country where they won't ask me questions.

Pablo Neruda
translated by John Felstiner
The American Poetry Review
Volume 32, Number 4
July/August 2003