All Souls Day: lover, cat, mother, son, child
Posted: November 2, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on All Souls Day: lover, cat, mother, son, childAlexander Best
To my Estranged, on the Death of a Cat
Her spirit, yes.
Intensely I loved it; the years flew, and
occasional fur.
And the body that housed her spirit, that little body
– I loved her body, too.
Wake me she would, by
soft-claw botheration of eyelids; she,
guardian of my sleeping eyes.
And if it pleased her to
walk over my face to get to her bowl
– well, she walked over me.
Where are you, vanished lover? Untouchable fact who
even now lies in my bed. Once, you were a tender sprite;
and she was my Bastet *, exact and serene
– both of you my old souls.
That little animal’s death – where were you?
Remember, my barren life when she came to me
from out of the tall grass? You were not there, but
remember still.
Met me at the train station, daintily crossing two sets of tracks;
led me home in a heart-made vehicle borne on gravel paws.
From her I knew patience and living in the moment; that
Beauty kills, then Life is renewed via licks of the tongue – a
miniature slice of sandpaper-ham.
To have known such a creature!
We bury a childhood friend,
We bury a father,
We bury distinctive old ladies,
We bury a cat.
Must we also bury love?
* Bastet – Cat-goddess of ancient Egypt
_____
D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
“Brooding Grief”
A yellow leaf from the darkness
Hops like a frog before me.
Why should I start and stand still?
I was watching the woman that bore me
Stretched in the brindled darkness
Of the sick-room, rigid with will
To die: and the quick leaf tore me
Back to this rainy swill
Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.
_____
An 18th-century Children’s prayer
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.
Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011
Posted: October 10, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English | Tags: Thanksgiving poems Comments Off on Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011.
Alexander Best
GIVE THANKS
.
Green growth in a clay pot, citrus peel,
cat’s paw.
Rakes, staves, a busted clock.
Clackety spinning of rusty wheels.
Nuts and bolts in a bashed-up box,
kicked across the floor.
Hair-raising feelings. A bare ass to the world.
Clear. Early.
Cool air, and straight-back chair.
Cat’s ear. Basket, of rough weave, trumpet-shaped.
Heavy tasks. Leaves, a stump, some stuff.
Unknown Men and Women.
Hammered tray and coffee pot of
brass / wood, looks like a
sputnik with minaret.
Cat’s chin, offered upward.
A pyramid of lemons. A big-wide
cracked maple bowl
(flung as the lover fled, spent winter
face-down in puddle-deep yard).
Cat sleeping, after the hunt…
no longer hot and full of craft.
Cotton, wool, gravel,
soil of several consistencies.
Sandy-shale pumice for ‘seasonal’ foot.
Rain, sun and cloud,
of course. Remorse.
Being human.
All cats, contented and cross.
Agéd treetrunks whose bark suffers loss,
cement and copper, dross.
Stones in groups, free-thinking boulders,
grasses tufted tiny and tall.
Porridge-of-bricks.
And, put to no purpose:
wedges, clods, mud.
Fragrance, the Body.
Cats-as-judges. Purring-song.
Pig and cow, fowl,
Sardines grilled, and memory of
flash-fried scallops.
A meal set down before me.
Snoozes. Solitude.
Ripe hollering, and
Crude.
Kind people.
Passionate ones.
Sad or angry anybodies.
Cat’s nose.
INVISIBLE HOME
.
The cast-iron gate at the top of the fire escape swings open, swings shut. The skinny girl who lives across the way skips down the metal stairs in her hideous, clunking platform shoes.
The ugly, charming bulldog scampers around the flat tar-and-pebble roof; sniffs, snorts, and whines. Its master opens the door a sliver; inside’s a muddle lit by two computer screens. The dog walks itself in a cold dark built of specific small noises; scratches at the door then disappears.
The clunking girl returns; dances, graceless and free, up the fire escape; the gate talks on its hinges.
Voices banter, in burnt or polished tones. Footfalls approach, on ice, mud and trash;
boots crunch over starchy snow. Regular strangers, alley trudgers.
These…the night sounds through a gap in my window.
Is my face neutral – or grim ?
My face shows nothing, as I sink and rise into the hours of sleep.
Smiling, I am smiling; borne along these sounds of night,
glad to be here, exactly now.
_____
THE VIVID PICTURE
.
Curls of incense, gusts of cold air, meet in a little room.
Means the world to me, this space; and all objects in it
– broken, brassy – are beautiful.
Here, the eye everywhere falls on
Something that soothes the human animal.
And you, my darling, are come to me – at last –
And you came in your own way, taking me by surprise,
Like the tender return of the wanderer-cat; or the
Kind face of the January sun.
And a crow’s voice tells-it-like-it-is this visionary morning.
You’ve let me touch your body…and it’s a
Reaching-Home after long absence; a
Perfect walk in darkness, the jig of a blind man with his sugar cane.
You and I, we can still speak !
Your field-and-forest feet cover mine richly,
and the whole of us is a vigorous stalk.
You laid your head on my thigh,
Remembered my body’s health to me.
And like a great journey in progress,
Being is strong throughout my limbs.
Lying a-bed after pure-ancient Moment, our
Body arrives at the place of the Soul. And
It’s happened together.
Shall we rest ?
Upon a chunk of earth, Heart takes its ease.
Home is invisible, but
Today I caught a glimpse. And
I’m gonna ’scribe it
Before the vivid picture fades.
CAN’T PUT IT IN WORDS BUT I’LL TRY
.
Can’t put IT in words but I’ll try…
Didn’t mind being had, hung out to dry. There
Is food in mouldbread, good’s come of bad, I’ve no
Beefs / bitter gripes. And besides:
’T’were a suspect load I dragged.
We’re grown now…berry’s bit, dice sown, and how.
Are green and grey; in places, brown.
My chores ( + questionable deeds ) are done.
Was clever as a knife…carved a jigsaw life.
Spat nails in righteousness, squandered hate
(wrong, delicious) down to the
Last hot penny, glad it’s spent.
Cried a great cry, very late in the day,
And dipped a biscuit in water.
And something worthwhile, many-hued-and-fine,
Came clean via palm-packed cakes of
Sand, peppered-pinecones, ashes and fat.
Crush my spirit, there’s more of us yet, and
Whisk the thick-and-thin mix.
Will not keep telling lies. There’s a mouthful.
Crows: be commas, colons, punctual dots.
Underscore me, and lend me your sceptical weight.
Some plans won’t fly.
Dearly beloved / abandoned, we are
Scattered here today…
Can’t put IT in words but
I’ll try.
.
(2002-2003)
Alexander Best: Five Poems Inspired by John Clare
Posted: September 30, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on Alexander Best: Five Poems Inspired by John ClareAlexander Best
FIVE POEMS
INSPIRED BY JOHN CLARE
(2002)
.
THE BEGGAR
.
The beggar keeps his coarse hair in a braid:
A bell-rope length of several colours made.
and grey or sunburnt are his torso’s hues,
and lady’s sandals make the soundest shoes.
In season’s heat he trails around a coat
Of winter’s weight; he’s pungent as a goat.
His voice is dumb, his body fairly hums;
He’s like a monk, avoids the other bums.
His fingers tabulate a host of fears;
He quivers with the ringing in his ears.
The patient few observe him after dark
and see he takes old cig’rette butts apart;
and twists them up into a grimy page
and sucks upon the thing a pleasant age.
Beggar he is, though never asks a penny.
About his life are strange opinions many.
. . .
THE DRAGONFLIES
.
As summer’s end progresses, so do they:
The Great-Lakes Dragonflies at duty play.
By hundreds in tall grass they mate and sun
and shimmer in the sex act till it’s done.
and some are luminescent, slim as pins;
Enamel drops of life poise at their ends.
and male and female grip — the shape’s a heart;
As if to silk the frankness of this earth.
Though Love in Nature’s not one minor role
— it’s breadth: orchestral movement of the whole.
and in the list’ning heat they do their thing;
They reproduce their kind, to grasses cling.
and mower’s blade ne’er touched this place all year;
T’was man’s neglect brought gorgeous insects here.
THE ADDICT
.
He lives for life’s caprice and easy mood,
Constructing selves that seem of solid good.
and when he lands a job, works hard enough,
and loves the toiling group, the hearty laugh.
Then shirks his people, culprits “buddy”, vents;
and frigs off, scores, and does whate’er he wants.
Is slow to answer mother overwrought
and quick to anger, should the lover doubt.
Invents some fine excuse — a reg’lar fiend;
Can always trust the trusting, stupid friend.
He squanders all his gifts; the wallet takes;
Then shrills his hurt when later brung to task.
Discov’ry of his stealth’s a stunning sting,
Oh, loveliness and charm — his very being.
The tether’s end he’ll reach — a noose, ere long?
and lies and cheats and still he carries on…
. . .
THE CROWS
.
I always fear they’re vanquished till I hear them…
Then, halting in my tracks, I know I love them.
For several frozen months their voice is silent
— it’s tough, you see, for they’re my psychic pilot.
In winter’s final days they start their talking
And by their dialogues is summer’s clocking.
At first their “caw” is bluntest proclamation:
We are the overseers of tarnation.
Come warm spring afternoons and much of summer,
They speak like castanets and make me slumber.
With comic delicacy they “clippety-clack”
And always keep their distance, handsome-black.
If crows came close, would people in pursuit…
With rocks and pellet-guns and steel-toe boot.
What is it ’bout this bird inspires hate?
The proud and practised crows, black-handsome, great,
Stand highest up of buildings, stroll and call
Then something puts them silent in the Fall.
. . .
ENCLOSURE
.
There’s solace in the knowledge: I am here;
This open-air “enclosure” gives me scare.
Who hacked these limbs, who hid the foot-shaped paths?
I crane my neck, I scratch and spit; swear oaths.
A satchel’s on the ground, inside’s a blade;
My Heart is wild, a poison’s in the blood.
I’ve clutched at straws and thatch, fistfuls of grass;
Will weeds apply to choke the gap and gush.
And slow my ’motions, feelings hot run cold.
( I hardened all my hopes as best I could. )
And sorrow is the marrow of my being;
Tomorrow is a narrow road I’m steering.
My love’s a Way that now is lost to me;
At last, the poet swallowed by his theme…
. . . . .
Author’s note:
In these poems I have tried to look upon Man and Nature
in 21st-century urban life with the same keen eye and
sensitivity as John Clare’s poems of rural life did in the 1830s
and ’40s.
“Enclosure”, while here representing the confusing state of
doomed or hopeless love, is also a reference to the fencing-in
of common pastures (The Enclosures), the removal of
ancient paths and the felling of old tree-groves – upheavals in
England’s countryside during The Industrial Revolution –
traumatic for Clare, who felt a deep communion with the land.
¡ Xoloitzcuintle soy !
Posted: September 16, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English, Náhuatl Comments Off on ¡ Xoloitzcuintle soy !_____
¡ Xoloitzcuintle soy !
Xoloitzcuintle am I !
The Original Dog of The Americas
and
The Royal Dog of the Aztecs !
I am famed for my smooth skin, my energy,
a playful mind and affectionate nature.
I have lasted to this day…
*
No other animal has stood – sunburnt –
atop the temple of Teotihuacán.
I have quivered beside immense, reclining Chac-Mool,
when his belly-bowl was full of fresh blood.
I have splashed in Xochimilco with royal maidens;
I have floated in salty Zumpango with wrinkled old priests.
*
I have tried to snatch the gold pellets tossed by my Master
when He plays patolli; I have leapt for the ball
when it bounces off the buttocks of nobles engaged in
games of tlachtli.
*
I have licked the copal-xocotl from His divine ankles,
when Moctezuma emerged from His temazcal;
I have nuzzled His armpits inside His bed-chamber,
wearing my collar of quetzal plumes.
*
I have pricked my paws on metl thorns,
trying to sniff out chinicuiles to eat; singed them
while stealing tlaxcalli off the comal.
I have lapped up pulque from my Master’s cup
– wobbled then fell down; been bitten by nimble Coyote.
*
I have suckled pups at my own teats;
and my seed has reached the womb of
The Royal Bitch (La Perra Real).
*
¡ Soy Xoloitzcuintle !
For centuries I throve at the pinnacle.
I am the youthful spirit of the ancient world,
and though the centre has shifted,
neither do I dance at the periphery…
Escúchame – whoever you may be –
Let me teach you to live in the modern world…
_____
Glossary:
Italicized words are in the Náhuatl (Aztec) language:
Xoloitzcuintle – lean, hairless dog, native to Mexico
– in Aztec religion, a gift to mankind from the god Xolotl
to guide the dead on the journey to the AfterLife.
“Xolos” were much-loved companion dogs, but
some were raised separately and plumpened
to be served at Aztec banquets.
patolli – board game involving gambling, played by the
Aztecs and the Mayans
tlachtli – skilful ballgame played on a stone court where
players bounce a natural-rubber ball weighing at least
5 lbs. (invention of the Olmec people) off their hips or
rear-ends – it is still played in the 21st century
copal-xocotl – the plant ‘saponaria americana’, the
root of which provided a sudsy soap
temazcal – stone sauna bath, often the size of a small house
quetzal – forest bird of Central America and Mexico, with
iridescent green (or green-gold) feathers
chinicuiles – highly-nutritious edible caterpillars
(still eaten in Mexico) that infest metl plants
tlaxcalli – flat maize bread, a daily staple of the Aztecs and
Mayans, still eaten in Mexico and called by its Spanish
name, ” tortilla ”
metl (maguey or agave) – Mexican plant of the “succulent”
family, used in the making of both pulque and tequila
comal – clay earthenware griddle placed over an open fire
– in use to this day – there is also a cast-iron skillet-like
version for the modern kitchen
pulque – milk-like alcoholic drink derived from fermented
sap of the metl plant – a ritual beverage of the Aztec
nobility and later a popular drink of the Mexican masses
Grito (para México)
Posted: September 16, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English, Spanish Comments Off on Grito (para México)_____
Grito (para México)
Del tingo al tango
ha pasado el tiempo del
trastorno, de la
trácala, de los
tiliches tilingos.
Ay, ay, ay, ay…¡Cantemos, no lloremos!
Ha pasado el tiempo del
miedo enojado, del
enojo temeroso – y del
odio (ese lagartijo guapísimo).
Ha hablado la lengua de las lágrimas
– ¡qué logro, esa lucidez del korazón! –
pero ha terminado también su tiempo.
¡Kantemos, no lloremos!
Saboréen todos los kolores:
del tomate, camote, mazorca de elote;
pulque con chile, canela para chocolate.
Y
Norteños chicharrones,
Indios con pelo pintado de güero,
Bonitas con chongos largos negros,
Chilangos kool,
Mujeres machas,
Bandoleros cachondos,
Gringos de ojos grises :
Los xocoyotes les miran a ustedes…
– entonces, ¡ sean sinceros, todos !
¡Kantemos, no lloremos!
Y pronto
podremos contemplar en nuestra cara,
por fin,
la prueba del tornasol – Esperanza.
A esta Vida digo:
¡ Viva, Viva, Viva !
_____
I Shout
(for México)
From pillar to post
there’s been the time of
disorder – confusion,
fraud – the bullshit artist
– silly junk.
Oh me, oh my…Let us sing – not cry !
There’s been the time of
angry fear,
fearful wrath – and
hate (that most handsome lizard).
The tongue of tears has spoken
– such an achievement, that clarity of heart ! –
but even its time has passed.
Let us sing – not cry !
Savour all the colours:
tomato, sweet potato, cobs of corn;
maguey-liquor with chile, cinnamon for cocoa.
And
sunburnt norteño hicks,
bleached-blond Natives,
pretty girls with long black braids,
hipsters from the Capital,
proud-hard-women,
horny-Heart-stealers,
grey-eyed gringos :
The youngest kids are watching…
– so, all of you be sincere !
Let us sing – not cry !
And soon
we’ll be able to behold on our face,
at last,
the litmus test – that sunflower Hope.
To this Life I say:
Long live you, Long live you, Long may you live !
Ghazal: The Ladder of Night
Posted: August 27, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on Ghazal: The Ladder of Night
Alexander Best
” The Ladder of Night “
.
You threw me down a well, wall’s drawn in dung – I trust you.
I’ve hung a skull, it yawns to drown the bell – I trust you.
I’m elbowing this dark that swims below…it’s lovely.
I drip with singing, one good lung, till dawn – I trust you.
& tears my ale, I’m falling underground…and dreaming.
Way up’s the grate, mid-day’s a yellow wail – I trust you.
I’m bellowing, I’ve brawn to scale our strife…in octaves.
Await, new skill, my beaded brow is strung – I trust you.
Awake I’m dreaming life, my night’s a ladder…of strong rung.
The well was great, my will is even greater – I trust you.
.
(2003)
_____
Photograph: Fernando Ayuso Palacios: Ceramic tile mosaic, Tehran, Iran
2 “Blues” by Alexander Best
Posted: August 9, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on 2 “Blues” by Alexander Best
Alexander Best
SENTIMENTAL BLUES
.
A friend of mine was funny,
wild like a rubber band.
That friend of mine was funny,
just like a girly-man.
And when he dwindled to a skel’ton,
I sat and held his hand.
.
I had a cat for comp’ny,
forward she made me go;
a wise she-cat to scratch me;
she’s buried in the yard.
And when I need her good advice now,
that’s the lonesome part.
.
I never had a dream life
Until I let you go.
I dream about the old strife
– ain’t these some foolish words !
But when I wake up from this rev’ry
I’m gonna wake up! hard.
.
A friend of mine:
That “friend” was the first childhood friend I made when we moved to Toronto in the late 1960s. Archie was 9 when I first met him in 1969. He died of AIDS – a big man who’d withered away to a mere 100 lbs.– in February of 1993, just after his 33rd birthday.
Archie MacDonald, 1960-1993, pictured here on Baldwin Street in Toronto_early 1980
BEST LITTLE BLUES
.
Took all this time, took all my –
Wasted all this time.
– What I know wouldn’t cover a dime.
My dumb voice kept at me: shush! shush!
Two worlds did brake me: the dead and the rush.
.
…All this time – just to be myself;
the noise and the buzz, and I already was.
Years have flown, and my soul on a shelf.
All this time – only been myself.
Has my heart grown ? Is my head my own ?
Oh — ooo — oh — ooo — ohh — ooooo.
.
(2004)
8 Refreshments
Posted: June 10, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on 8 Refreshments8 Refreshments
by ALEXANDER BEST
Zephyr yolk X wire
Vagrant usher tendon silk
Radish quartz prong ox
Knobby merry lonesome knocking
Just idle healthy guilty
Fickle earnest draughty cleft
Billow addle zap yearn.
Able blunt crass dense
Ember flood gravel hunch
Idol jail kite lung
Marrow nugget octave plank
Quell rot stew tempt
Unguent vault war X
Yoke zoom alter bless.
_
Vacant product precious stirrup
Nestle truncheon human onion
Bridle pithy biscuit bully
Bilk bulge tank rock
Sluggish fluid volley banquet
Spacious silo plasma oath
Dogma cretin copper clasp
Charcoal sinew golden roost
Prowling boiler brainy crop
Chasm wisdom locket tooth
Juice of mechanism, dust.
_____
Grain grease grind Jerome
Randall regent burgeon sting
Clever handle leering Mack
Wolfgang dogged blinding patch
Bigbang twinkling cavern Dot
Kidney urchin beggar Bill
Esther hinge palaver speech
Maud balloon reluctant shell.
_____
Thoughtful magic telephone
Melancholic Magnavox
Carefree threadbare cranium
Kitchen-cupboard knowledgebox
Mystery-killing minivan
Arch triumphant ampersand
Trusted axle tattletale
Fiddle-headed firebrand.
_____
Piñata frenetic sonata potato
Replenish agnostic electric example
Elastic torrential terrific potential
Alannah Sophia Felipe Rodrigo.
_____
Avalanche zealotry badgering yellowing
Clavicle xylophone destiny wintergreen
Elegant violence fisticuffs underbrush
Genuine Tantalus hectoring slavering
Inglenook rodeo jabberer quiver
Keyhole prism lean one
Moot null knot mote
Old loon physics kickstart
Quiet jollity rhapsody industry
Simian honesty telethon garrison
Uppermost fundament vanity entity
Wanderlust drudgery execute cinnamon
Yesterday brilliantine Zanzibar absolute.
_____
Satchel dismal dispatch signal
Chilly pungent gentle jungle
Bottle leeward gleeful sinner
Tuber robot pedant single
Medal dirty dainty baron
Tea-rose frigid summer bedlam
Gallant lambaste giddy rondo
Nervous ruckus wondrous someone
Antler harlot clanging ginger
Language harvest winsome sterling
Learned randy maelstrom harbour
Sticky mingle selfish larder
Diesel hazard strumming rustic
Humid dorsal finish weapon
Distant weeping rusty hatchet
Perish peephole wretched gung-ho
Churlish holy cudgel satchel.
_____
Anthill banknote cloudburst dustup
Eyetooth figleaf greasepaint hogwash
Inkblot jamjar kinship landsend
Mankind neatfreak oddball packrat
Queenbee ripcord sickbed taproot
Uproar voicebox whirlwind exit
Xerox yesman.
Ashpit bookmark clubfoot debtload
Ebbtide fishcake goatskin hairshirt
Inchworm joyride keepsake larkspur
Meathook nightwatch outlaw placename
Quicksand ropeburn searchlight torchsong
U-turn vicegrip worldview extract
Xiphoid* youngblood.
* xiphoid = “ shaped like a sword ”
The Facts / Los Hechos
Posted: June 7, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Lidia García Garay Comments Off on The Facts / Los Hechos
The Facts
by Alexander Best
.
My body’s made of clay – of iron, wool and gold – and
Mainly of clay.
The body falls apart; is brave; builds itself again – while I
Sleep; while I – crippled – walk.
A body’s made to love, though not to worship. For the
Soul must never be held. Still – I’ll
Take care of my mudcaked ” house “, at least for
This little while.
When your body’s well, I love it; when your body’s sick, too. Because it’s
There I find Us – for a time.
Oh, of all the wishes I might wish, I’d wish for — —
But the facts are enough.
Forever, You and I are
Pure as soil, delicate as dust, magical as ash.
Our body – weary, strong body –
Our body’s made of clay.
. . .
Los Hechos
por Alexander Best
.
Mi cuerpo está hecho de arcilla – y de hierro, lana y oro –
Y más que todo de arcilla.
El cuerpo se desintegra; es valiente, se reconstruye por sí mismo
– mientras duermo; cuando – lisiado – camino.
Un cuerpo está hecho para ser amado, sin embargo no lo idolatres.
Porque el alma no debe ser retenida.
Aun así yo cuido a mi ‘casa’ cubierta de barro endurecido, por lo menos
por un rato.
Cuando tu cuerpo está bien, lo amo, cuando está enfermo también.
Porque es allí donde encontramos a nosotros – por un rato.
Oh, de todos los deseos que yo pudiera desear —
Pero los hechos son suficientes.
Para siempre Tú y Yo somos
Puros como tierra, delicados como polvo, mágicos como la ceniza.
Nuestro cuerpo – cansado, fuerte –
Nuestro cuerpo está hecho de arcilla.
. . .
Traducción al español por Lidia García Garay
El asiento desocupado / The vacant seat
Posted: June 4, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, Spanish Comments Off on El asiento desocupado / The vacant seatEl asiento desocupado
por Alexander Best
.
Hora pico. Subí al tranvía. Estábamos como sardinas en lata.
Y aún hubo un asiento desocupado justo al lado de una mujer anciana y fea
con – en su cara – un bulto colgante que parecía una grande seta Shiitake.
Entonces me senté junto a la vieja mujer.
Y ella me dijó en voz baja y tranquila:
Gracias, buen hombre. Que usted encuentre en esta vida
La Alegría.
_____
The vacant seat
by Alexander Best
.
Rush hour. I boarded the streetcar. We were packed in like sardines.
And yet there was one vacant seat beside an ancient hag with a dangling
growth on her face – like a large Shiitake mushroom.
And so I sat down next to the old lady.
And she said to me in a quiet, peaceful voice:
Thank you, dear. May you find Happiness in this life.
(May 2011)
Translation from Spanish into English: the poet
Zócalo Poets 