Thanks.

This first one is called "Popotlå"
A bit of info on Popotlå... Popotlå is passing Rosarito beach. It is a cove that one must descend cliffs in order to get to the beach. This place is where friends and I went to bodyboard when I was living in Mexico. There is a perfect wave that breaks to the right, atleast to myself it seems perfect.

Popotlå

Alguna vez haz sentido el mar de noche?
las olas se estrellan en la playa,
la espuma salada es la extraña evidencia
que dejan de su escencia,
la brisa es una vela humeda y fresca
que abraza tu cuerpo.

Alguna vez haz contemplado el mar de noche?
La luna y las estrellas forran el cielo
como una covija adornada con diamantes,
el mar no ronca de noche,
nomas se refresca,
despierto,
listo para otro dia naciente,
en el dia,
el mar ruge.

----------------------------------------

Popotlå

Have you ever felt the sea at night?
The waves crash on the beach,
the seafoam is the strange evidence
they leave of their esence,
the breeze is a fresh humid veil
that hugs your body.

Have you ever contemplated the sea at night?
The moon and stars cover the sky
like a blanket adorned with diamonds,
the sea does not snore at night,
it only renews itself,
awake,
ready for a nascent day,
in the daytime,
the sea roars.

Well to get back at what I was saying, the desert in Baja is very wonderful. I was thinking of writing something about it. Before all of its images leave my head. I'll post it up when I think it is done.

The Riverbed

Es una hermosa noche de verano.
Tienen las altas casas
abiertos los balcones
del viejo pueblo a la anchurosa plaza.
En el amplio rectángulo desierto,
bancos de piedra, evónimos y acacias
simétricos dibujan
sus negras sombras en la arena blanca.
En el cénit, la luna, y en la torre,
la esfera del reloj iluminada.
Yo en este viejo pueblo paseando
solo, como un fantasma.

It's one of the few poems that puts me in my imagination in the scene, because, when you're out late, walking though the deserted town and all the shadows and calm surround you, this is the feeling it evokes - peacefulness and solitude.

I'll do my best to translate; naturally it loses a lot:

It's a beautiful summer's night
The tall houses have
Their balconies opened
In the old town with the wide square.
In the wide abandoned square
stone benches, evonimus(es) and symmetrical acacia trees
throw their dark shadows onto the white sand.
At it's peak, the moon; and on the clocktower,
the face all lit up.
Me walking through this old town,
alone, I'm like a ghost.

Hey ME,
That was a great piece... It took me to those days where I had to walk from my cousins house to my house in Mex. while a bit inebriated. This would be in the middle of the night, the moon beaming on me as a spotlight, no cars around... just as if one where a ghost. Come to think of it, being drunk probably comes close to it.

Huellas

El mar lava nuestras huellas de la playa,
pero no puede esfumar nuestras memorias.

La brisa nos besa tiernamente,
pero aun no nos abraza.

Las olas agitan nuestros cuerpos,
pero no nos lastiman.

El mar siempre es identico
mientras nosotros envejecemos y morimos.

Y lo unico que dejamos,
son huellas en la playa.

_______________________________

Huellas (Footprints) this can also mean fingerprints.

The ocean washes our footprints from the beach,
but it cannot blur our memories.

The breeze kisses us tenderly,
but it does not embrace us.

The waves agitate our bodies,
but they do not hurt us.

The ocean is always identical
while we grow old and die.

No title on this one.

Hoy tome una caminata junto al mar.
La arena fresca corria entre
los dedos de mis pies.
El sol calentaba suavemente mi faz.
Y pense, aqui en esta playa,
donde se deslizan gaviotas
en esta brisa salada.
Aqui en esta misma playa,
donde delfines se entretienen
en las olas.
Aqui en esta misma playa
te tuve abrazada.

_____________________________________

I took a long walk on the beach today.
The fresh sand ran between my toes.
The sun heated my face softly,
And I though, on this beach,
where seagulls slide
on this salty breeze.
On this very same beach,
where dolphins entertain themselves
in the waves.
On this very same beach,
I held you once.

I think you would like the Dao de jing, because that's quite poetic, and yet it's a philosophy. I mention this because the first poem contains the thought that everything is changing, which is the cornerstone of daoism, buddhism and dialectical materialism.

Here's a similar passage, similar sentiment (translator Legge):

".....Heaven is long-enduring and earth continues long. The reason
why heaven and earth are able to endure and continue thus long is
because they do not live of, or for, themselves. This is how they are
able to continue and endure.

Therefore the sage puts his own person last, and yet it is found in
the foremost place; he treats his person as if it were foreign to him,
and yet that person is preserved. Is it not because he has no
personal and private ends, that therefore such ends are realised?

8
The highest excellence is like (that of) water. The excellence
of water appears in its benefiting all things, and in its occupying,
without striving (to the contrary), the low place which all men
dislike. Hence (its way) is near to (that of) the Tao.

The excellence of a residence is in (the suitability of) the place;
that of the mind is in abysmal stillness; that of associations is in
their being with the virtuous; that of government is in its securing
good order; that of (the conduct of) affairs is in its ability; and
that of (the initiation of) any movement is in its timeliness.

And when (one with the highest excellence) does not wrangle (about
his low position), no one finds fault with him.

9
It is better to leave a vessel unfilled, than to attempt to
carry it when it is full. If you keep feeling a point that has been
sharpened, the point cannot long preserve its sharpness.

When gold and jade fill the hall, their possessor cannot keep them
safe. When wealth and honours lead to arrogancy, this brings its evil
on itself. When the work is done, and one's name is becoming
distinguished, to withdraw into obscurity is the way of Heaven....."

"Knowing oneself"
The pursuit of the knowledge of the self appears in many variations throughout the Tao Te Ching. One example in chapter 33:

Knowing others is wisdom;
Knowing the self is enlightenment.
Mastering others requires force;
Mastering the self requires strength;
He who knows he has enough is rich.
Perseverance is a sign of will power.
He who stays where he is endures.
To die but not to perish is to be eternally present.
Chapter 33 tr. Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English

Wenn einst dies geschlecht sich gereinigt von schande
Vom nacken geschleudert die fessel des fröners
Nur spürt im geweide den hunger nach ehre:
Dann wird auf der walstatt voll endloser gräber
Aufzucken der blutschein.. dann jagen auf wolken
Lautdröhnende heere dann braust durchs gefilde
Der schrecklichste schrecken der dritte der stürme:
Der toten zurückkunft!
Wenn je dieses volk sich aus feigem erschlaffen
Sein selber erinnert der kür und der sende:
Wird sich ihm eröffnen die göttliche deutung
Unsagbaren grauens.. dann heben sich hände
Und münder ertönen zum preise der würde
Dann flattert im frühwind mit wahrhaftem zeichen
Die königsstandarte und grüsst sich verneigend
Die Hehren - die Helden!

(Stefan George, 1928)

I´m afraid this is untranslatable. Never mind, you wouldn´t like it anyway. It´s an invocation of the Dead of WWI from the time when "the iron dice of strategy" (A. Wildgans) gained consciousness. Very cold and hard - and formalistic.

Sadly, I must hold back since I just sent some recent stuff out, and printing it here is the equivalent of publication in the journal world. However, much of the other stuff I can stand to show is already on the site in the Writing section.

When the rejection letters start coming, I'll put them here!

--
Collect Call

Tonight, the universe is telling me something.
Hiss, crackle, pop, will I take the call?
The direct line opens, comes in crystal clear:
sit back a minute and pay attention.

Hear it?

It is the voice of creation, urging me to make;
the howl of compassion, begging me to give;
the whisper of a withering loneliness, telling me, barely,
that it is okay for me to love.

"As if I ever needed your permission!" I say.

But the voice won't ever hear me.
Its lesson dispensed, it dims to a whimper,
leaving behind the hum of the cosmic dial tone.

Life's static creeps back and keeps me waiting,
fearing that the next chance at a direct connection
won't come soon enough.

But of course, it does.
--