The Cold River

Let me tell you what is unique about the following poem.  First of all, I wrote it.  No, that doesn’t make it unique.  It is because I am madly in love with metrical poetry, and I tossed metrics to the wind for this one.  Secondly, I wrote it several years, originally in Spanish.  This is the English translation.  If I can find the original Spanish, I’ll post it some other day.  You see, I have a lot of missing work due to moving files from my old laptop to my netbook.

The river follows the night
through little reason,
washing stones
with broken laughter.

It follows the night,
a smooth, grey tongue
that tastes the bank
with a click and drum.


It flows in shallow straits,
until the sounds
from stretched notes,
moans of an accordion


catch the waves in their
wake, and dream that
the bank awaits music
with her body.


Her pressed folds
and long sighs
reach out to the lights
where colors meet.


The river follows the night,
taunting, taunting
its sounds and lights
that reach, but never meet.

Let me tell you something else.  I am in one of those moods that agitates me to the point that I don’t know whether I’m desperately in love with life and the world around me, or too tired and sad to feel that way.  A good night’s sleep should solve my dilemma.  Tomorrow I might know and maybe even understand the difference.

(photo taken from WTTC San Antonio)

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5 comments

  1. Beautiful poem! Thanks so much for sharing–it reminds of Le Pont Mirabeu πŸ™‚ one of my favorite French poems!

  2. Thank you, April and Rowenna.

    April-I need to open up my dusty old laptop!

    Rowenna-I'll have to look up Le Pont Mirabeu. I was actually attempting to copy Lorca for an assignment in a creative writing class.

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