PACHECO, José Emilio
Dark god of the deep,
fern, toadstool, hyacinth,
among stones unseen,
there in the abyss,
where at dawn, against the sun’s fire,
night falls to the sea floor and the octopus sips
a dark ink with the suckers of its tentacles.
What nocturnal beauty its splendor if sailing
in the salty half-light of the mother waters,
to it sweet and crystalline.
Yet on the beach overrun by plastic trash
this fleshy jewel of viscous vertigo
looks like a monster. And they’re
/ clubbing / the defenseless castaway to death.
Someone’s hurled a harpoon and the octopus breathes in death
through the wound, a second suffocation.
No blood flows from its lips: night gushes
and the sea mourns and the earth fades away
so very slowly while the octopus dies.
I don’t love my country. Her abstract glory
But (this may sound bad) I would give my life
for ten of her places, for certain people,
ports, pine forests, fortresses,
for a ruined city, gray and monstrous,
for several of her historical figures,
(and three or four rivers).
In Defense of Anonymity
Letter to George B. Moore:
I don't know why we write, dear George.
And at times I wonder why we publish
what we've written later.
I mean, we throw
a bottle into a sea filled
with garbage and bottles full of messages.
We'll never know
to whom the seas will deliver it, or where.
What's most likely
is that it will succumb in the storm and the abyss,
in the sand below that is death
I keep thinking
that poetry is something else:
a form of love that exists only in silence,
in a secret place between two people,
almost always between two strangers