Showing posts with label Poetic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetic. Show all posts

Thursday, 15 October 2015

Apolitical Intellectuals: a poem by Otto Rene Castillo

Apolitical Intellectuals



"One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.

They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.

No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.

They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.

They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total lie.

On that day
the simple men will come.

Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:

"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"

Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.

A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.

Your own misery
will pick at your soul.

And you will be mute in your shame."


By: Otto Rene Castillo (April 25, 1936- March 23, 1967)

Tuesday, 14 July 2015

I am now but a conduit

Vivid the memories when I first promised you this.

I could have written this sooner, but I would have forfeited the reservoir of moments I now draw from. I am now but a conduit of a life I call to memory at the thought of you. I will write about you. How the only sin you ever had is loving me dearly. I could have written this sooner, but to what end? Then the reader would have been one. Now she is many but still none.
              
I would have written to a hope had i written this sooner, but now I write recalling the past that I see besides me. I am lost of love words. I do not owe you those. Had I written this sooner, you would be reading that. It seems that there is more to the heart than love words and tears. Its seemingly startling to me, seeing you have rendered both to me and i to you.

The heart speaks more.

How good is a cliché when it perfectly encapsulates the entirety of an impression? Empty idioms are for idiots, but a cliché mirroring the very character of your sensation can be just what the gods have ordered. Vivid the memories of an empty body lying next to you. Who could have told you what to a whisper to a god feeling purposeless? Your only sin was loving me dearly.

How you waited upon the months to wisp me about with hope to a better me. His body wasn’t cold, but the stares weren’t the warmest were they? I could have written this sooner, but would I have been fortunate to recall the sleepless nights when I dreamt of unloving? I saw no hurt. I felt no pain. Vivid the memories where I longed to be swallowed up in eternity. Where the clock ticked no further, neither a change for better or worse.

The cradle of the heart’s desire needs no visitor when it has found a solitary keeper. No nostalgia or longing. How content were you till you escaped your Escape? Your only fault was loving me so dearly. I rested in the confines of your autonomy. I knew no better for me and hoped you knew what’s best for you.

We were different and knitted in our differences.

We will be the same tomorrow, lost without each other.

Vivid the memories I have of you.

i will write.