Uhh... hi?

I'm terrible with starting things in the beginning. I write my poems backwards, write my intro paragraphs last, and hate hate hate coming up with titles. If you ever wanna see the nexus of my poems, read the last two lines.

Except this one. This one just started at the beginning and kept going. This is about a month's worth of poemlessness in my system fighting its way out in this pretty cynical piece. Anyway, as per usual I've been writing about the weather and the landscape, and how I cannot stand Minnesota summers. For me, they're just a humid incubus and do nothing more than make me sick and feel perpetually overheated. I also dislike it because many days in the summer are just endlessly the same. Winter can have surprises, good or bad, and it is a much more divisive season. People love it or hate it, deal with the snow or relish it. Most people uniformly think "yeah, summer's nice."

What an introduction. Here's the poem.

Rotten August

The trees are just an imprint
Fading in the humid light
At the end of August. The birds,
They look at migration as a glint
Of hope, of salvation through flight.
And what do I feel? I cannot say.
The summer exhales, and her words
Crumble in the flooded grass, decay.
Is this what the end of creation looked like?
Is this what the creation of our end conveys?
I cannot be sad or admire these matted days,
Not when death hasn’t made a strike.

Poem dos

This poem was inspired by a snippit of information I heard at a lecture I attended about Norwegian history. Apparently during the Black Death it was commonly believed that the waves of people who died were caused by a powerful witch. When she used her rake, most died but some survived. When she used her broom, no one survived. Thought it was a very interesting image. Enjoy!

Moral: Death is arbitrary.

She uses her rake on us,
To sweep
Our mortality in a rustle
In one
Motion, with the grime.

The broom goes thus:
All souls go to sleep,
No light, no muscle.
She spares none,
Some of the time.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre

A POST WHAAATT?!?!

So... Ironically since I've been on this one post a week schedule, I've been writing a lot of poetry. I've written two poems in the past two days, and I actually wrote two poems last week but only published the latter. With this I'm going to tentatively reinstate the twice a week posts and see if I can keep it up again. Anyways, here is a poem I wrote in Spanish on Sunday night, after reading some Neruda. I haven't written a poem in Spanish in at least three years. Yay, Neruda. Yay, Spanish. I'll post a translation too.

Por cuanto soy la ciega, ¿en cuantos idiomas
Tendría que decirte que yo no veo bien?
¿En cuantos mal momentos harían palomas
Que vuelen por nada, y en nada estén?

Por cuanto soy la sorda, ¿con cuáles movimientos
Te mostraría los huecos que sin razón
Me han tratado malo? ¡Tantas son los sentimientos
Que chupan a la vida de mi corazón!

Por cuanto soy la muda, que solo pueda caer,
No tengo nada a decir a ti.
No tengo nada que podría traer,
No tengo nada por que quedarme aquí.

Translation:
Because I'm the blind one, in how many languages
Would I have to say to you that I don't see well?
In how many bad moments would there be doves
That fly for nothing, and are in nothing?

Because I'm the deaf one, with which movements
Would I show the holes that for no reason
Have treated me badly? Many are the sentiments
That suck away the life of my heart!

Because I'm the mute one, that only can fall,
I have nothing to say to you.
I have nothing that I could've brought.
I have nothing to stay here for.

Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre