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TO SEE HER AGAIN,
After a Gabriela Mistral's Love Poem*
And never, never more to see her form,
Not even a glimpse of her,
Not in the nights filled with trembling
stars,
Or at noon when bright light
Feeds and graces every living thing,
How do I believe that I may never see
her again?
Never, never, again, to witness her
walking
Upon the kicked up dirt of the bridle
path,
Along the river, underneath the shadow
of trees,
Never, her body, her feet, leaping up,
then to trod
The white-washed stones of the
causeway?
I wonder if she remembers the bridge,
the one
Topping the low-rise concrete dam there
at New Hope?
I told her as we looked to the river
below
That nothing had sufficient strength,
That no material exists to control the
overflow,
Is there nothing to contain my flood of
feelings for her?
How else might I relate my mood?
Ask the pertinent question?
Never, never, again, to eye her fleshly
presence,
Entangled, standing in the tresses of
the forest,
Or stooped, gathering strawberries,
picking them
One by one from the plants, her, the
image of her,
Out between the raised earth rows
And the troughs in the truck-farm
field,
No
more to have such vision, not once more,
How am I ever to conclude so terrible a
destiny?
And here at home I forget I walk
big-city sidewalks,
Yet while the night, the late hours
envelop me,
My cries echo, repeat my anguish.
Through the empty parking lots and off
the brick walls,
Against building after building,
My voice carries, yet seemingly I am
not heard,
Though occasionally some one person may
look,
Shake a head from side to side at my
sorry spectacle,
Most people walk past, eyes down, as if
I do not exist, yet
Over and over, I hear myself implore
her to return to me;
Should I not, and is it not better to
forget her?
Oh, no! To see her again,
Not important, makes no difference,
where,
It does not matter when
-- My, my I beseech Mercy to grant my
wish! --
If today I should have glimpse of her
in the heavens,
I divert my eyes and glance up,
Her face set against a deep, blue patch
of sky,
Or perhaps tomorrow in the vortex,
Within the swirling ocean power,
The whirlpool force which carries all
kinds of debris,
When a ship and all its glory sinks,
Down, down into the Sailors’ Locker,
Would it be possible that image of her
still surfaces,
That I have sight of her, though all
else disappears,
Yet sun has set,
And moon light is the scene's sole
illuminate?
Oh, no! To see her again, and to view
her in the moment
When the volcano opens
And I am there before the lurid, red
hell-mouth,
And witness its demons’ roaring spew
of steam and ash,
Yet even such terrific instant be
granted me,
I do not flinch, I am steadfast,
I have no fear of misadventure.
I look into the conflagration.
I do not plug my ears, I listen,
And from within earth’s deep,
far-away core,
Amidst the Hurley burly of all the
explosions,
Within the lightning claps and clamor,
The mad noise of boulders being thrown
I hear it! I hear her name, Etta,
Etta!
I see her face and lovely shape,
She, she dances above the fires!
Yes, I admit her deviltry besets me.
And to be with her in all the spring
times,
And in all the winters,
Entwined in paroxysm of mighty-muscle
clench,
While I suck up the blood from her
neck,
And spot her flesh all over,
Make it black and blue with the power
of my caresses,
Should I ever hold her in my arms,
Might Hope let me see her again.
*The Chilean and Noble Prize for
Literature, poet, Gabriela Mistral had entitled her poem Volverlo a
Ver, To See Him Again. I address my poem to a woman. I know some
Spanish but do not hope to translate her great poem. Yet hers was the
inspiration for my own verse. Here and there I adopted some of her
imagery, words and phrases, though the overall sense and sensibility
of Mistral's poem, I believe. is different from my own.
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