Poetry Information

Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]

In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops Likened to music from its many streams-land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere?

Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner-; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes? Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early

Maybe he's thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; It's worn-out like him.

The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there's a lot of it. The eighty-three Year old man looks about, on his screened in Porch -fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts In the corners of the house

"Ah!" he says-proud of his life events-I say to Myself (I'm but ten): "No doubt He's already lived this?"

There are many stories he wants to tell, but first he Wants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn Leaves-He, never intended to have lived this long of A life, I believe, the old bear, came from Russia in 1916; He accepted life-adjusted to it

He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintly Soiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of their Bodies- He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to Him, the sun is bouncing off of the ground, he gets bits And pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow, Thaws it out?

He's breathing in, frail like,-like reading Faulkner, slowly Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once, once He arrived back home from WWI (1918), "?no need to," he Says-he's happy? The fields are clean, animals in the barns; in the city, People getting haircuts-everything shutting down. Winter is now-it came last night, a Minnesota winter Is like no other. He just woke up, his bones chilled. The Wind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.

"There are only a few left like me," he murmurs. The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, a Smoke from a pipe or cigar. Black branches that were Green a few months ago-: it's 10-below zero.

He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here and There-It makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at its Finest!...

For Kathy [#800 8/14/05]

In Spanish Translated by: Nancy Penaloza

Respirando en, Minnesota [un poema]

Al comienzo del Otoño, en Minnesota, la lluvia cae, cae, En cubos, cubos Y más cubos-: gotas Comparadas con la música de sus muchos arroyuelos de Diez mil lagos; grava humedecida, grava por todas partes?

El abuelo se sienta sobre el pórtico, soñando despierto, de Algo, quizás el invierno rondando la esquina-; mientras las moscas desaparecen, con los mosquitos?Las hojas pronto desaparecerán, las sombras vendrán temprano

Tal vez él esta pensando en el verano: millas y millas y millas y millas de maizales; Su niñez ahora, hace mucho tiempo ida, él tararea un himno, una canción; mirando

La valla metálica-entubada, que él hizo, con tres postes, sobre el Terraplén, Conduciendo los pasos hacia el pórtico; Esto esta desgastado como él.

Los vientos en Minnesota huelen fresco, fresco por todo el follaje, hay Mucho de ello. El anciano de ochenta y tres años mira alrededor, sobre su protección En el Pórtico - trayendo su pipa, encendiéndolo, aspiran una Rastra, eliminando el humo: esto va a la deriva y llega las esquinas de la casa

¡" Ah!" Él dice - orgulloso de los acontecimientos de su vida- me digo a mi mismo (pero yo sólo de diez): Sin duda "¿Él ya vivió esto?"

Hay muchas historias que él quiere contar, pero primero, él quiere oler el aire fresco, la combustión de Hojas de otoño - Él, nunca tuvo la intención de haber vivido esto a lo largo de una vida, Yo creo, el viejo oso, vino de Rusia en 1916; Él aceptó la vida- adaptado a ello.

Él oye los gorriones, su batir de plumas, plumas apenas Manchadas, batir, cubriendo cada pulgada de sus Cuerpos - Él nota la helada sobre el árbol cercano. Le parece, el sol esta saltando en el campo, él consigue añicos y pedazos de ello sobre su cara, esto calienta, de algún modo, Lo deshiela hacia fuera?

Él esta respirando, frágil como, - como leyendo Faulkner, despacio hace esto, un tintineo difícil. Él nunca dejó Minnesota alguna vez, una vez que Él llegó a casa de WWI (1918), "?ninguna necesidad", él dice - que el es feliz?. los campos son limpios, los animales en los graneros; en la ciudad, la gente que consigue cortes de pelo - todo cerrando abajo. El invierno esta ahora - llegó anoche, un invierno del Minnesota no Se parece a ningún otro. Justo cuando el se despertó, sus huesos enfriados. El Viento sopla, ahora esto silba, ningún follaje para parar sus ecos.

"Hay sólo unos pocos dejados como yo " murmura él. El Sabor del invierno le gusta; bizcochos calientes, café caliente, fumar de una pipa o cigarro. Las ramas negras que eran Verdes hace unos meses-: esto es 10 bajo cero.

Él ve la belleza de Minnesota en un vistazo aquí y Allí - Esto hace a su cerebro nadar con la vida; ¡esto es la naturaleza en su fineza!...

Para Kathy [*800 8/14/05]

You can see Dennis Siluk's many books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.amazon.com

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