“In my heart I used to have the thorn of a passion;
one day I ripped it out; I no longer feel my heart”
Antonio Machado
i
In cool passiflorine groves
the poet intones against silence
his heart shredded by the shroud
she wore for the sake of purity
ii
In a sacred wood his crown
bore fruit along the thorny tree
we sojourned there then wandered off
since hearts will stop at nothing
iii
In matters of a cheating heart
we should not lie together
guilt comes with a sadistic prickle
a burr beneath broken vows
iv
In your hand a thorn
throbbed in time to a heartbeat
so slight yet robust enough
to wound wayward flesh
v
In my heart a passion burns
branded by spittle, scorn and fire
it is the cryptic sign of null.
I can no longer feel the thorn
A poem for Open link night @dVerse where anything goes and this was inspired by a translation I read of Machado’s poetry – for their passion, the Spanish poets are amongst my favourite but also perhaps because something is lost in translation which gives the reading a stilted but annunciating tone I’ve tried to emulate here
PoetryPix 