Homestead Revisited
–J.A. Jance
A windswept house on barren lava flow
Surveys the desert floor for miles around.
To this unlikely spot whose beauty none but we
Could well discern, we brought our new-made vows
And love.
We were each other’s all in all.
It was enough, at least at first.
Then small erosions came
To sweep us from our perch.
The house still stands. Only we
Are gone.
I won’t be the poet of a decrepit world.
Nor will I sing the world of the future.
I’m bound to life, and I look at my companions.
They’re taciturn but nourish great hopes.
In their midst, I consider capacious reality.
The present is so large, let’s not stray far.
Let’s stay together and go hand in hand.
I won’t be the singer of some woman, some tale,
I won’t evoke the sights at dusk, the scene outside the window,
I won’t distribute drugs or suicide letters,
I won’t flee to the islands or be carried off by seraphim.
Time is my matter, present time, present people,
the present life.
Translation
Mãos dadas
Não serei o poeta de um mundo caduco
Também não cantarei o mundo futuro
Estou preso à vida e olho meus companheiros
Estão taciturnos mas nutrem grandes esperanças
Entre eles, considero a enorme realidade
O presente é tão grande, não nos afastemos
Não nos afastemos muito, vamos de mãos dadas
Não serei o cantor de uma mulher, de uma história
Não direi os suspiros ao anoitecer, a paisagem vista da janela
Não distribuirei entorpecentes ou cartas de suicida
Não fugirei para as ilhas nem serei raptado por serafins
O tempo é a minha matéria, o tempo presente, os homens presentes
A vida presente
I am beginning to learn
that life-altering news
is often like a premature birth: ill-timed, catching someone unaware,
emotionally unprepared
& often where they shouldn’t be:
I’m the uncrowned king of the insomniacs Who still fights his ghosts with a sword, A student of ceilings and closed doors, Making bets two plus two is not always four. A merry old soul playing the accordion On the graveyard shift in the morgue. A fly escaped from a head of a madman, Taking a rest on the wall next to his head. Descendant of village priests and blacksmiths: A grudging stage assistant of two Renowned and invisible master illusionists, One called God, the other Devil, assuming, of course, I’m the person I represent myself to be.
