Caos/Cascade

Come back tomorrow for a better draft--why do 
the mistakes only stick out when you think you're done.

¡No sirvo para nada...! ¿Senor, por que me creaste?
En vano, entre tus obras, inquiero la mision
que a mis ociosas manos, que a mis errentes pasos,
tu eterna providencia secreta encomendo...

¿Es un juego mi vida? !es tan solo un sainete? 
una simple apariencia, una vana ficcion?
a simple appearance, a vain fiction?

A que obedece, entonces mi imperativo anhelo
To what do you yield, then, my imperitive angel.

¿De hacer algo perenne...? es solo presuncion?

Que huelgue o que trabaje, que goce o que me apene
parece que a tus planes resulta todo igual...

¿Senor? ¿por que no me hablas? ¿por que, tal como a Saulo,
no me hieres los ojos con un lampo fatal...?

Tal vez si hasta la abeja, tal vez si hasta la hormiga,
almacenando briznas o elaborando miel
se sientan mas concientes de su eficaz rutina;
se sepan mas precisas de lo que yo me se...

Si hubiese yo nacido privada de tu gracia,
¡jamas pretenderia ser util ni feliz...!
Pero mi fuiste prodigo...I al punto de que, acaso,
trastorna tu largueza, Senor, mi porvenir...

Pues todos tus favores, en mi, se nuetralizan:
Soi demasiado artista para execrar el mal...
I demasiado honrada para burlar la vida,
i demasiado altiva para poderla amar...

¡Senor, quiero una norma! ¡Senor, quiero una ruta!
Enfrename que, a oscuras, me siento tambalear...
Aclarame tus leyes, que apenas deletreo...
¡Enciendeme una estrella para leer i andar...!

Caos/Cascade

I am good for nothing, Senor, why did you create me?
Vainly, among your creatura, I ask, what is my mission...?
What use for idle hands, staggering steps, 
An Eternal Secret this, entrusted by Providence...

Mi vida, is it only a game? A Vapid farce?
A mere apparition, perhaps an empty tale?
To what do you yeild, my imperitive angel? 

That which rests or works, evokes delight or pain
Obeys the compulsion to accomplish? 
Seeking something perennial? more than presumption?

Resting, working, savouring, grieving, 
Your plan is so monotonous... Senor, speak! 
Why not, like Saul, blind me with incandescence, 
an illuminating flash of light?

Perhaps the Bee making honey, Perhaps 
the Ant storing crumbs are more conscious 
of an effective, useful routine; of your will,
your intention for them, than I...of my purpose.
It seems your plan is the same for all ...

If born fouled by Providence, I would 
never make pretence of usefulness, 
or joy...! You were prodigal with me... 
Destiny disrupted your generosity. 

Senor, what of future things....? 
Your favors are cancelled out in me:
I'm too much of an artist to curse evil...
too honorable to mock life, too haughty 
to love it...Lord, please, just a normal life! 

Lord, a purpose, a way, a path! 
If bridled in the dark, there I'll totter. . .
Explicate laws I can scarcely spell ...
Find a guiding star, so I can read and walk...!

Translator's Note--I am using cascade 
in the medical sense, where it refers to protein 
cascade. They use this term in my friends 
Hematology class at the University of Florida 
at Pensacola. When she was there we'd be 
talking and she said "let me run down to the 
car and get my notes. she used Protein Cascade 
to refer to a breakdown of all the systems 
of the body from various causes. It probably 
was not have been used in Rosa's time. 
It is a kind of entropic process now linked 
to pathogens rather than say small demons.

(Defoe, The Journal of the Plague Year.)

I think this is what RMR meant by Chaos, 
something like everything in the body 
going wrong simultaneously, not mere
mental chaos. Why do poets write so much
about not being able to write.

Paisajes de Ocaso/Sunset Landscape,

A la luz oblicua de un sol en derrota,

los tallos de cana madura i cortada

parecen casquillos de cobre.

 Las tierras son un devastado campo de batalla.  

Dispersos fragmentos de viejos calderos

una artilleria deshecha simulan,

tras la barricada compacta que fingen

dos filas contiguas de sacos de azucar.  

La acequia en declive, de lodosas aguas,

en un chorro hirviente un fundido plomo,

i hasta los guijarros en su cauce ruedan

belicosamente. I es humeante el polvo...  

Pero hacia el oriente, surge otro paisajeque

de opuesto modo la vista impresiona.

como frente a frente, miranse en la vida,

elmunda que lucha que el munda que goza . . .

En ambiente sano depona i depura,

los canaverales son verdes i frescos:

parvulos que juegan, trenzandos sus

hojas. bahos a azulada del pupila cielo.  

Peridicamente, un soplo de brisa,

cuando por las tremulas se filtra,

produco un murmull o murdoso y

burlesco, como si estalleran clandestinas risas.  

I hasta luz juega, con el vapor de aqua,

pintando dos nubes redondas de especes,

que son dos borronesde rosada tiza,

sobre la pizzara de la cordillera.    

Paisajes de Ocaso/Sunset Landscape  

Sloping rays of sun depress overripe

sugar canes,pretence of copper helmets,

the entire campo simulates marshall

devastation. Scattered chunks of old

Boilers imitate rusted bomb shells,

compact behind casks, two solid,

parallel lines of sugar bags.

Flashing fluid, depresses death,

spurting roiling molten iron,

pebbles roll dry, dust precedes

the flash-flood down the wide ravine...  

The dust is at war while something else is to the East:

There, La Vida is impressive, La Vida face to face,

the world of battle faces the Earth's rollicking, joy...  

In a sane world that makes muchof itself and makes clean,

the cane fields are green and fresh. The little ones gambol

and link limbs, under the lavender blue sky.

Intermittent zephyrs, play among the innocents,

Whispering as when at night they explode in laughter. 

The light gambols with the mist, painting two fat clouds

which  become two smears of rose chalk

over the twin black bird mountains

of rose chalk, over the blackbird mountains.  

All rights Reserved. Kathleen Matheson Weber