Rocinante in your tomb of sunlight  

 

in your tomb of broken glass

 

clear and insolent

 

now that no one bothers

 

to kiss or caress you

 

hours and years have passed by

 

all the fish having escaped

 

through the wide interstices

 

of your old weathered planking

 

 

 

Rocinante in your tomb

 

of somnolent sunlight

 

sea-nymph of passages

 

forgotten in midnight's wake

 

have they abandoned you

 

with an old sheet for a flag

 

and your hushed past

 

on white sandy beaches?

 

with the mist that dampened the vestige

 

of your loyal phantom spouse

 

and the essence of rum Pampero

 

with which they often baptized you

 

your wooden joints no longer contest

 

not for all of life's adventure gone wrong

 

nor the glassy bottle-green waves

 

that break upon the shore.

 

 

 

Rocinante in your tomb

 

of dazzling sunlight

 

you were never Pharaoh

 

of ancient highest Egypt

 

lost, the divine beard

 

of your attractive living image

 

without eyes nor a snake's tongue

 

your sacred cowl proclaims

 

but what does remain

 

of your wooden Sphinx figure

 

still keeps watch

 

over the island of Gran Roque

 

and a collar of flies adorns

 

the stubborn yarn of your defunct tenacity

 

while a delicate feather awaits

 

to measure the worth of your negative confession

 

perhaps that's what touches me most

 

the image of your life as in a photo negative

 

the trousseau of your existence harshly evident

 

strewn out upon the sandy ground.

 

 

 

Rocinante in your tomb

 

of setting sunlight

 

with your crew and catch of pure fantasy

 

your fallen heart and broken machinery

 

carry me now on your rickety deck

 

with its odor of diesel fuel and baited hooks

 

permit me to stick my hand through your bandaged wounds

 

to continue exploring in your interior

 

often violated, profane space

 

atmosphere impregnated with salt and bitter oxide

 

iron motor from which now neither white nor black smoke springs forth

 

impious chamber of wood embalmed with fish blood and faded fish scales

 

a slow space trespassed

 

by an eternity of desperate lives

 

boarding on their next ethereal passages. 

 

 

 

Rocinante, I say farewell to thee

 

there with the axis of your keel pointing east and westward

 

your bow oriented towards the next rising sun

 

without sail and beached ashore forever. 

 

 

Rocinante image/text©will gentieu 2005-2010

 

Views: 35

Tags: Los Roques, Poetry, Rocinante, Venezuela, Will Gentieu

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Comment by Will Gentieu on January 5, 2014 at 11:57pm

Thanks Kris!

Comment by Will Gentieu on January 5, 2014 at 11:51pm

This is a self-translation into English from my original Spanish version. Saludos ~ Will 

Comment by Will Gentieu on December 31, 2013 at 12:48am

Saludos  Howard. ....I wish I was a fisherman...

 

I'm sure you know these guys ~

 

If you're interested in some of the backstory, you can check here:

  http://open.salon.com/blog/inverted_interrobang/2010/12/26/fisherma...

 

Thanks for the comment.

Comment by Howard Fox on December 29, 2013 at 5:36am

Dear Will,

A dreamy restoration project on the Venezuelan coast. Aah... I wish to be there listening to the tossles of the waves on the shore, spending weeks upon weeks getting her ship shape at night !

All the best,

Howard

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