Arrows

excerpt

We followed the river until it converged with the same river
Guaire which ran the length of the valley.
We were one mile from our destination.
We crossed the Guaire from south to north, following the path of
those who had survived one of the two previous expeditions that
had made it this far. The Guaire was not deep, but, having lived all
my life near rivers, I knew how mighty it could become with the
proper amount of rain.
Soon after, we crossed a creek called Catuche, along which
soursop trees grew by the hundreds, hence the creek’s name, which
in Carib meant soursop. Tamanoa brought me one of its fruits and
ripped it open beforemyeyes. It was white, succulent and aromatic.
As the sun descended, the deep green of the cordillera mingled
now with soft blues and yellows. We had turned north and were
ascending the slope of the piedmont when Losada’s voice
resoundingly gave the order to stop. We had finally reached a
destination: the charred remains of what had been the settlement of
San Francisco, half-buried in the vegetation.
Francisco Fajardo had fled the settlement five years ago when he
knew the reinforcements he had pleaded for had been wiped out by
the Arbaco Indians of Terepaima. After painful losses, Fajardo had
divided his forces into two and fled in canoes and pirogues.
It was eerie being in that deserted place. The air smelled strongly
of rain, damp earth and plants. The howling monkeys, chachalacas,
parrots—they were all quiet. That night, as a full moon shone
through thick clouds, the ubiquitous night-song of frogs and
crickets was overridden by the deafening buzz of cicadas.
Losada paced nearly beyond range of the firelight, five strides to
the right, five to the left, hand combing his beard and moustache,
eyes fixed on the ground before him, his grizzled hair reflecting the
silvery moonlight. He anxiously awaited the return of the troupe led
by Diego de Paradas, who finally arrived after midnight, looking
seriously bedraggled.
“What happened?” asked Losada.
Diego de Paradas was wounded. Pánfilo spoke for him.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Antony Fostieris – Selected Poems

Loneliness of Time
Now that the world is holed
and time drips out of its wound.
If I love you, I love you in your pain.
If I hate you, it’s because my pain blinds me
my desperation
springs out of its darkness in the night
and squirms sounding like a serpent
in the room
primeval house monster
that comes out of my belly
and gets an epileptic fit
writhes on the floor
my desperation
screams with a fine voice
you you you you
you
you
and the loneliness of time.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763653

Troglodytes

II
As shadows elongate bringing
inspiration to the poet’s stanzas
and the nimble movement of
the sparrow marks a feather
the pair marches to the decapitated
oak’s tallest branch.
With their sacred offering
life repents for a sinful deed.
The frozen north wind,
fearsome and forever lonely,
never unjustifiably angry,
groans as a colossal iceberg
and cracks a faint smile
all his thirty-two teeth agree
and shine in the gleaming
moonlit evening as he
pleasurably accepts
the sacred offering.
All the wind stands still and
in attention when they are
advised to dutifully go back
to their perennial task.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186583