BLU-SELECTIONS FROM MAKING IT WITHOUT WINGS
Blu’s selections from ”Making It Without Wings”
Selected Journals of E. Thomas Sterns, a.k.a. Azul 1985 -2001
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Meditations on Being, Conception and Knowing
Being conceived and knowing it.
Feeling the thrust
And counter-thrust,
The thrashing and bashing,
The coition of a couple
A woman and her mate.
Groping and fumbling
In the darkness of Becoming,
Grasping the sides
Of the womb for life.
Gasping at the violence,
Basking in the privilege of
Being conceived and knowing it.
“O the womb, the womb,
So warm so warm and awash
With seeds of creation
And the sod of generations
And generations to come.”
Reaching out
With trembling fingers,
Fingers that trembled
From touching his lips and toes
Touching his eyes
Touching his nose
Reaching into his chest
Touching his heart
Feeling it throb
Touching the bumps
Between his legs
Touching the lumps
On his throat
Feeling the humps
On his back and crying out—
“O my wings, my wings
Where are my wings?
Why was I chosen
To be thrown down
And bound to the tomb
By a cord?”
*****************************************
In memory of the dead of Hiroshima.*
—For all the leaders of nations with nuclear potential.
“Words lead to deed. . . they prepare the soul,
make it ready, and move it to tenderness.”
Mother Teresa
Never Again
The dead children of Hiroshima
Turn in their graves
Anytime a weapon is fired
Turn in their small graves
Anytime man slaps man,
Turn in their tiny-little graves
Sitting up in their deaths
When-ever war is declared.
The dead children of Hiroshima know
There’s no purpose only profit, know
There’s no privilege only despair
When-ever war is declared.
ii
The dead children of Hiroshima
Scream out
With the agonies they died with
Still in their throats.
Scream out
With the pain and suffering
Still burning their tiny little bodies
Scream out in their rage
Rising up from their unmarked tombs
Still clenching their tiny-little fists
Scream out
Never again!
Never again. . . let it never
Happen again.
iii
The dead children of Hiroshima
Walk with me, walk with you
And you and you…
Walk with the fathers who have sons
Who have sons of their own
Walk with mothers who have daughters
Who have daughters of their own
Walking and sitting
In the flange of their ears whispering
Never again.
Never again – let it never happen again.
iv
The dead mothers of Hiroshima
Will lie in their moldy graves
In violet dusts and gold-gold ash
Clutching their wombs through-out
Eternity,
Moaning and mourning
Their tiny dead children.
Have you ever heard them? I have.
Have you ever heard them
In the winds of a storm?
In the silence of sleep? I have.
I have heard them, voices
Crying in the dead of the night
At the edge of the sea, voices
Wailing out of the wilderness of death,
Heard gnashing of teeth, felt flesh burning
And voices crying out – never again!
Never again!
Let it never happen again.
v
Even after fifty-seven years
The dead fathers of Hiroshima
Cannot lie down in rest, for
Even now they roam the jungles
And deserts of the world
Dragging their dead-dead families
Behind them like legacies,
Sitting in the flange of the ears
of the living
Screaming at the top of their deaths-
Again! You’re letting it happen again!
It’s happening again!
*commissioned and presented at the Third Annual Hiroshima Reading, August 6th, 1989, Bisbee, Arizona.
*************************************************
O What Small Wonders We Are
With our little wings
We beat against the sky
But still can’t escape the butcher’s knife.
What small wonders we are you and I.
With our little wings prone
On the chopping block
The sky a grey murder
We watch the preparations
For our own coming sacrifice
But will not sing out.
O what small wonders we are you and I.
Bound together hand and hoof
We wince as a match is struck
On the fangs of the white wolf
Chained to the meatcutters ankle
We groan hearing the oils boil,
Squirm as the blade is drawn across
Our tongues, still we don’t resist,
Don’t sing out, offering up our throats.
O what small wonders we are you and i.
ii
With our little wings trembling
We sense the grip on the knife
Draw ourselves closer together
Visualizing the coming climax
And beg the cleaver
To make the slaughter last. Relentlessly
He tears out our tongues and swallows them,
Gouges out our eyes and feeds them to
The beast strapped to his side
Then snickers at our tiny wings
Breaking them off—
Falling they explode
And shatter like porcelain music.
O what small wonders we are you and I.
iii
Still alive we drink each other’s blood
And fornicate. Sip each other’s sweat
And masturbate in celebration,
As the butcher smirks in awe.
With the swiftness of evil
He smashes our passion
With a weapon of bone
Cuts our throats with a knife
of guilt, then laughs
When we beg for more and more.
Bloodied he thinks the slaughter finished,
The murder almost ended—
But our dying is as slow as love’s,
O what small wonders we are you and I.
Jewels
for Anne Brimson
Jewels of amber and jewels of silver
And gold and amethyst and turquoise. Jewels!
Jewels of azurite and jewels of malachite
Rings and chains
Brooches and bracelets worn by slaves
Jewels, jewels, jewels.
She had some jewels.
Moonstones that told stories of the night.
Black black obsidian and green green jade
White quartz crystal arrow points
Still covered with rust-colored blood
From ancient kills or recent slaughters—jewels.
Jewelled silver snakes with ruby eyes she wore
Like handcuffs. Fine chains of platinum draped
Her pale throat like rope and buttons of gold with
hand-carved
Images of gods never heard of. Earrings, hoops
and loops groups of
Bangles that glittered in the sunlight
that glowed in the moonlight
When she’d danced, swirled, twirled and whirled
Around a sparking fire to tambourine and fiddle
Avoiding the licking flames, the reaching fire
She had some jewels. Jewels!
Tiny brass elephants she mounted and raced
In her dreams over dunes of her past, wearing
Tiny bronze bells around her ankles—that
Chimed when she’d walked into mens
Hearts and minds and over their coffins.
Jewels, jewels, jewels, thousands and thousands
And thousands of coloured stones in dusty cases
Under her bed shaped like a womb. Crosses.
Crosses of tin and bone and splinters of mahogany
And cedar and redwood and myrrh
She refused to wear hidden away
In closets with hand-carved doors
Stacked in the attics of her mind packed
In the hallways of her soul and the cellars
Of her self. Jewels, jewels, jewels,
She had some jewels. Jewels!
Jewels she wore with leather and silk and satin.
Jewels worn once before by ghosts
Worn to weddings… jewels she’d wear to seductions
Topaz that smoked, jewels in carved ivory boxes
With ivory buttons and ivory handles that played
Hymns thousands and thousands of years old. Jewels
In teak chests, wrapped in Indian saris jewels
For her navel resembling the faces of her children
Jewels for her crotch that glowed in the dark jewels
Shaped like fish and fowl and fauna and freaks
And angels and serpents swallowing other serpents.
She had chains fashioned into barbed wire that
She wore when she hunted for guilt, jewels that ticked
But never tocked nor ever told her the time to live
Or the time left before she died. Jewels!
That burned when you touched them. Jewels smelling
Of sassafras smelling of jasmine and thyme
And oregano jewels tasting of vanilla and peach
And lime and cinnamon.
And she had jewels that she wore in the corners
Of her eyes that looked like tears that tasted
Like tears felt like tears and fell like tears
From a deamond encrusted heart
That no one two or three had ever seen.
She had some jewels.
**********************************************
Odd wit in a Garden of History *
Dedicated to the Mexican people on the 173rd Anniversary of their Independence.
On a bus
On a bus that
Rattled and shook
With the windows
All closed
Filled with women
With black shiny hair
And old men with eyes
The colour of almonds.
Down unpaved streets
Crowded with dogs
And yards crowded
With old rusted cars.
Up and down streets
Through clouds of dust
Until the last stop
With no one left
But this gringo
With blond-blond hair
Blue blue eyes
With a sack on his back
That asked
What have I come to?
At the Border
At the border
A rooster
On a rope
Black iron gates
And white white-washed walls,
Pastel-painted houses
And dogs that bark
At everyone. Kids
Peeling mangos
And kicking stones.
Children in the streets
In the alleys
In the stores
In the railroad station
Keeping warm
In the bus terminal
Sleeping on the floor.
Little children
Selling fruit
Selling shoestring
Singing sad songs
Dancing, juggling
Standing on corners
Selling tickets to fortunes
Selling dreams and pleasures
All for the price
Of a few hundred pesos. Sonora, 1986
On the Desert
On the desert
Old women selling tacos
Juices and warm Coca-Colas.
Stands filled with pottery
Made with red clay hands
Baked in the sun.
My ears filled with the sounds of the music
Of struggle and existence
The songs of perseverance.
The air was filled
With the stinks of living
Of sweat
Of raw meat
Ripening fruit
Of tanning hides
Bolts of dyed
Cotton cloths. And
Vegetables and cars
And chickens
Dead and hanging
By their feet
Their necks still bleeding.
Everything is raw
And alive and moving
With a purpose
The purpose to survive.
In a House
In a house
On a river
With a cracked
Tile roof
And cracked walls
And bamboo curtains
I sat listening for
The coming of pirates.
I had an iguana
Living in my wall.
He slept late
And ate well.
He’d make his way
Across my tile roof
Scratching his way into the sun.
A black and gray
Frightening face
That seemed
So familiar
I wouldn’t look in the mirror
For a week.
By the Sea
By the sea
Sand packed
On the backs of burros
Through
The cobbled streets of
Puerto Vallarta
While picture-takers
Snapped pictures
To take home
Of sweaty brows
And dusty roses
In multicoloured shawls.
And here’s a man
And his tequila
A friend
And his guitar
Singing stories
I could feel.
—————————————-
Plate IX
ii
She was older
Than a mother.
The lines
On her face
Denied the children
Tugging at her skirts.
Never meeting my eye
They held out their hands.
Two young flowers
And an old tree.
iii
Then there was
This purple flower
With long
Braided tresses
Growing right there
In the bus terminal
Feeding her child breast.
iv
And a garden
Was dancing
In a small courtyard
I couldn’t say
If they were roses. . .
I couldn’t see their eyes
But I thought I heard
One of them laughing
Like chimes in the wind.
I never knew
Flowers could sing.
v
She came
Small as a child
Fragile as
A porcelain bird.
Time had shrivelled
Her spine
Bent and curled
Her fingers
Like twigs
Covered with moss.
She murmured
Like moving water
And swayed
Like a proud old tree
Bending in the breeze.
She came.
She came
with a cane
in each hand
half-a-step
at a time.
Her chin was pointed.
Her cheeks sagged
transparent as rice paper
rocking back and forth
from side to side.
She could have been
an old spider up
on hind legs. She
moved up the street
like a silent movie.
————————————————–
Manos*
O México
recordaré
tus manos.
Manos que curan,
manos maternas
que sostienen el niño al pecho.
Manos paternas
que guian esas manitas
a que aprieten el bosal.
Empuja la piedra,k
planta la semilla,
amarra el nudo
y detiene la cuerda.
Las manos de mujeres jovenes
tejiendo soles destellados,k
mesiendose bajo la sombra.
Manos tantas manos.
Manos y pies,
manos y corazones,
manos cansadas y sabias,
manos jovenes que buscan,
manos fuertes y deseosas,
manos que se ofreçan manos
pero no ofrecidas.
del color de tierra,
coloradas y partidas
cortadas y gastadas
de construir y desbaratar.
Manos con historia.
Manos de campesinos, manos de indios,
Maya, Tolteca, Azteca,
manos unidas en un fuego hacia los dioses.
Todas las manos
tirando de la misma cuerda,
arrastrando el mismo corcasan
Lejos del fango del pesado,
jalando de la misma red
y tirarla sobre la rivera
de Historia.
O México
tus manos le han dado
significado a tu existencia—
nunca sea contenta
con la mercia de tus manos.
Mira en tu entorno
y siente las piedras
que tu has levantado.
Manos que construyeron las Iglesias,
construyeron barcas y
construyeron las piramidas.
Sienta la belleza y
el sudoor en las maderas
que tu has tallado,
en las piedras que has labrado.
Siente el tornol.
Siente las paraedes
y siente donde tus manos han estado,
entonces enseñales
a donde deben ir.
Teme a la libertad
que no puede crecer
con las semillas de tu cosecha
y con las manos que no sean
las tuyas— Temele como a
fastasma de tu enemigo.
Manos fuertes que hacen un Gobierno.Gente fuerte que hace una nacion—
Manos que la construyen y
Manos que la desbaratan.
*Recibió una recommendación escrita por la administración de Miguel de la Madrid, 1988.
A limited edition (200), signed, dated and authenticated digital prints, original size,9×12 are being offered until 12/31/2010) for 250 pesos.
This painting celebrates the Mexican Revolution of 1910. The image is of Emanuel Zapata and Still a strong, modern symbol of the Struggle by the disenfranchised and poor.
Payment Can Be at the time of delivery for local residences of Oaxaca and other local and valley areas. Ordering is through Jaguars Speaks, Alan Goodin Speaks. Payment is cash only. Allow two weeks for delivery if necessary. Contact Blue, the artist at blueraven74@hotmail.com. Instructions for mailing … Payment terms and postage added.
Trans: Mario Castro
