Stretching the Allegories

Juliao Sarmento, "Stretching the Allegories"

enxoval.weblog.com.pt

Nightfall

Rolling from the ground like a herd of buffalo
kicking up deep purple cloud dust
against the faint yellow sky of a winter sunset.

"Mama," the child pleaded, "vas a estar en casa esta noche?"
Lipstick, perfume, hairspray all tucked into her clutch.
"Una besa mas," she bids her daughter farewell.

Clack clack clack on the cobblestone street.
As she takes her place on the roadside,
the last of the herd of clouds rumbles into the night sky.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

 This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The tree of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring their humility.

Fumy, spirituous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky - 

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes life after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness -

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this, She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

-Sylvia Plath

The Break of Day

Flying in the clean, crisp air, do you think they even notice?
Hundreds of feet above the commotion -
     the everyday talk of laity and clergy - 
Do they even notice what's going on below?

An old man steps onto a balcony, greeting a crowd
     larger than the country in which he lives.
Thousands pile in for a glimpse of the white haired man
     with hopes that their faith with be validated.

As they soar through the cloud dusting in the sky,
    do the countries' borders matter to them?
Do they stand out to others, or can they distinguish
   others from themselves?

What is it like to be a Vatican City pigeon?