Category Archives: Poetry

Mi Alma Mi Vida

Wherever I walk without you

I keep an open space beside me

that is yours

                                                                                              Para mi Auxisita, by BW Powe

    “Universal Andalucía” B.W. Powe (Upcoming Publication)

Auxi y Bruce. Mazagón Junio 2013

Auxi y Bruce. Mazagón Junio 2013

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(Cellphone Call—to the hospital in the evening) by B.W. Powe

(Cellphone Call—to the hospital in the evening)     

What were you doing mom
I was eating dinner
what did you have
I don’t remember
was it edible
it must have been because I ate it
that was my mother—quickly here—mensa-like—
I laughed and said goodnight mom
goodnight son she said and goodnight moon
goodnight room goodnight air and goodnight noises
everywhere
I smiled again—recalling the nursery rhyme too—
and said love you
the same she said the same

“Invisible Streams” B.W. Powe (Upcoming Publication)

Dream-catching

   Dream-catching

   Now I’ll tell you the story the Ojibwa shaman
        told me when she was dreaming her vision quest

Art by Cristina Miranda

Art by Cristina Miranda de Almeida

I slept with a brown bear in a cave of flowers
under blueberries and a will-o-the-wisp ball
and there were stones to ground and smooth
her shudders and my hunger and my soul shaking

I made love to the bear in a warm cave and through
our embraces I felt the pangs of roots
the taboo words charging into seething sap
all the immortal mysteries of my tribe

I rose in the morning mist with the bear
her child now I was layered in green leaves
and dark petals born of secrets and sighs
I’d fallen with my lover into the primeval other

carrying my ancient mother on a new skin
on a heart made of branches and berries
partly human over spelt-bread and cedar tea
I nuzzle at night into her musky lettered fur

                                “Invisible Streams” B.W. Powe (Upcoming Publication)

Angel

            Angel

Photograph by Cristina Miranda de Almeida

Photograph by Cristina Miranda de Almeida

I saw her struggle on the street
in the traffic and the sleet
she said fields are burning
the searchlights are yearning

for what’s greater than hope or duty
she called for stars flesh love and beauty
but I was rushing on my way—
to what and why I couldn’t say

“Invisible Streams” B.W. Powe (Upcoming Publication)

THE WOUNDED HANDS

THE WOUNDED HANDS

Yo no quiero más que una mano,
una mano herida, si es posible.

 …a Spanish princess, who, when she grew oldand wizened,
allowed the court painter,
the official artist of the realm, to capture on canvas
only her hands, which had remained tender, unblistered,
unblemished – the reminder and sign of her
original personality…

I
When will I see your hands? she asked her mother.
Not now, not yet.
I’ve worn these gloves
since the fire that widowed me

singed them, almost consumed them.
I don’t know if you could stand
the sight,
the terrible scarring from the flames.

Her daughter still entreated her,
Let me see your secret hands.
No one she knew
had ever seen them.

Always her mother replied,
Not now, not yet.
But when, her daugther asked,
when will I be ready?

When you are inflamed by love,
someday,
then I’ll show you,
but not until you love truly.

II
The girl grew, until
she met a man,
after many boys,
who sparked wonders in her.

They made each other new
every day, discovering
the taste and touch
beyond society.

I’m ready to see
your hands.
I’m ready
because of love.

Her mother, pale, wrinkled,
tired, thin,
sighed to see the ache
in her daughter’s face.

Prepare yourself,
she said.
Sit
near me.

Slowly her mother removed
one glove, then
the other, and revealed
white immaculate hands.

The two shuddered
at their otherworldly beauty,
the still youthful hands
that could mold generations.

So you see,
she said, turning them
as if they were a fugitive
mirage,

why I can never,
and must never,
show them
to anyone else.

Few could bear
such grace.
Few could bear the tragedy
of such a vision.

“The Unsaid Passing” BW Powe (Guernica) 2005

Machado Variations

Art by Cristina Miranda de Almeida

Art by Cristina Miranda de Almeida

 

       A Canadian who loves Spain (and his magnificent Spanish woman) honours Adolpho Suarez, and the way he changed the face of your country. He helped to initiate the great vital democracy that Spain now manifests. My condolences. Even here in Canada we know that there a great soul has passed.


B.W. Powe, 2014

Machado Variations

Today is open to tomorrow

and our morning to the infinite

citizens and performers in the global theatre

in the global membrane

the past is here

and so is the writing of tomorrow

on

today

B.W. Powe