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 Jodey Bateman translates poem by Gabriel Mistral
Motherbird proclaims Dandelion de LaRue the winner of The Poet, in the year 2010 Dreaming Back the World The talking heads who Would destroy the magic Lived inside my mind Too long They sneered at paper tigers Other charms I had To ward off evil demons While I slept. And all the dragons Turned back into windmills. There Was no writing On my paper sword. The dragons took their fire When they went away. It’s hard to love or hate The cold bleak structures Littering the landscape In their place. We paint the colors In ourselves. And King Tut’s throne I saw Was really just the carcass Of a long forgotten tree With paint And shelf life that would Make a Twinkie proud. And I myself became A case, a vote, consumer Human resource Number on a census page, And paid my taxes Right on time Stuck in limbo Squashed between Some other lonesome robots. But now, I want to see The iridescent spirits Play among the leaves And weeds of summer. I want to see the Snail trails sparkle On the morning grass And think they’re beautiful. I want to feel again some scorching heats and Passions, exiles Banished long ago By common sense and logic. I want those trolls To get back under bridges. I want to be A person once again And climb the beanstalks Rage at giants And believe that Dog spit makes it better. I must pack up Those dreary demons Logic, and his Henchman Fact Stick them back into Their books and close Their closets, two locks, Maybe three And only I Possess the key. And now, from down Another road I see the Tiger Beckons me, and Elves smile welcome As I peek around that Ancient corner in my mind. I know I can reenter Once again The magic wondrous place That knows no chemistry Where I can think and dream the world. This Puzzle Piece of Mine This puzzle piece of mine,
shape-shifting, amorphous creature hazy outlines gliding smoothly through the dust amoeboid, relaxed until I try to squeeze it into some enchanting spot. This one looks right I say, a stopping place to stay awhile but soon I find a tiny edge, a corner out of sync it doesn't fit at all I must move on. So am I not a puzzle piece? Nor nut nor bolt nor nail to hold and work the mechanisms of this world? Am I a fly avoiding happy ointments, a dragonfly perhaps skimming surfaces but never diving in. The other day I saw the looming Buddhas far above, unmoving, serious and thought that they are cold too cold. I do not care to go there nor the places of the saints, their clouds or kingdoms in the sky away from warmth, vitality. I do not envy them nor those who yearn to be there too. We travelers and other tourists to this realm walking watching looking into other people's windows, those who have a spot to look out from. I wonder what its like, sometimes to see from inside out. Ask me not about my home so long ago. I only saw it from the second balcony. I never understood that place why those people thought those thoughts. I only knew they'd never let me find my way. I met instead some grinning jester weaving in and out amongst the crowds, whispering "what if? what if?" He hinted at the endless possibilities his laughter and his rubber face daring me to look offstage to find another road. "Gurus only tell you someone else's journey someone else's quest," the jester said his eyes alight. "They cannot know what's there for you. It's time for open eyes to see what props and characters appear, what visions emanate. Your way begins in every place, in every time." and so I left so long ago before my glue had set. I see the jester now and then and other wandering souls. We smile and nod and talk awhile and go on down the road. Dandelion's chap book listed here:   roses in the snow - imagine that! |
  
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