THOMAS RAIN CROWE [9275]

Thomas Rain Crowe (Chicago, Illinois, EEUU, 1949) Poeta, narrador, traductor, editor y gestor cultural. 

Ha dado a conocer entre otros títulos:   Learning to Dance (1986);  Poems for the Che Guevara’s Dream ( 1990);The Laugharne poems ( 1997) y The Book of Rocks (2007).

Es el fundador de la paradigmática revista Beatitude y el fundador-director del Festival de Poesía de San Francisco, CA., EEUU. En  colaboración con Nan Watkins tradujo 10, 000 Dawns (10 Mil Amaneceres), los poemas de amor de Yvan y Claire Goll.

Después de haber leído a Han-Shan

Cuanto se parecen el hombre sabio

y el borracho!

El hombre sabio ve la luz en la nube,

el que bebe: la nube en la luz.

Cada uno de ellos ve la misma cosa.

Como amo el modo en que Han-Shan ríe cuando habla!

Y, en su risa, el modo en que llora —

Sus sueños son como los míos: plenos

de doncellas vestidas en seda púrpura.

Imaginando hoy que rumbos habrá de tomar

mi vida, el I Ching dice:“Donde se desarrolla

el desorden, las palabras son el primer paso.”

En esta ocasión ninguna palabra respecto del cruce

de las grandes aguas. Sino un mensaje: estarse quieto.

Por lo tanto esta noche me he preparado una taza de té

y me siento con mis amigas: todas las palabras que conozco.

Habiendo dado el primer paso hacia mañana,

hago con mi pluma un decidido, audaz  trazo

que en esta luz mortecina se parece a una de esas doncellas

de la corte que Han-Shan y yo conocemos tan bien.

Me siento por un momento en los vestigios de otro mundo.

Muy lejos de aquí. Pero, al igual esta pequeña cabaña en el bosque,

                   aún mi hogar.

 (versión Esteban Moore)

While on vacation and seeking silence

i end up in the middle of a harley davidson rally

Even in the middle of hell

there is a heaven.

A refuge tucked away

amidst virgin trees and

ancient spring-fed lakes.

Haven for disrupted nature

and the lovers of God.

At night, you can hear the Harleys

racing up and down the streets

that, with the fireworks

exploding against the roar of the ocean surf,

sounds like another greedy war.

"Is this karma, or just some Sufi joke?"

I think as I settle in to my cabin

and my only week away from work each year.

But the peepers and the pond frogs

sing harmonies to the dissonance of 200,000 2-cycle hogs.

The morning roar of the gator

more impressive than the grunt of

engines and exploding light.

Before we leave, my wife and I will

renew our vows of commitment and undying love

without speaking a word.

And some stranger will approach us and say:

"Silence is the only truth. Are you going to the beach?"

It happens every time we are here.

The same as each winter will turn into another spring.

As we drive for the last time from the gate of our silence

and away from this retreat--

from the pristine woods

into a world of obscene gestures and hellish noise

that would love to send us cursing

all the way back home,     we laugh.

All the way to Florence,

past the Pee Dee and Galavant's Queer--

at names of places and the lack of Harley hogs.

Leaving the hell behind.

Taking with us only silence,

the coat of sea-salt on our skin,

and the memory of cool wind blowing over the bridge

on hot evenings in the lagoon

to soothe the heavens and a billion South Carolina stars.

Meyer Center,

May 19

THE SAW-MILL SHACK

- for John Edwards Lane

I have come to this land,

how many years.

Alone, and for many months,

I have built this saw-mill shack.

Stone stacked and mortared on stone,

logs laid and joyned in joints,

rough oak boards nailed to beams and rafters

with 9" spikes.

Eat lunch each day listening to

rushing stream running over rocks,

through rhododendron, off Doubletop Mountain.

Sound of grouse wings drumming in the woods --

With roof on, windows in,

and woodstove sitting in the hearth,

I stand outside gazing at what

these hands have done.

(An old chimney, still standing and covered in vines,

now a place to live.)

Tired from labor and a body

too old for work.

Lay another flat, smooth stone into the outyard wall.

John's Creek

Jackson County, NC

December, 2001

I WASH YOUR DISHES AMERICA

America,

I have spent my life

like a servant,

scrubbing your floors,

taking out your trash...

America,

during time of homeless & unemployed,

when rich get richer, poor stay poorer,

I wash your dishes.

America     I wash your dishes

Bankers and loan sharks     I wash your dishes

Gov't pimps and drug lords     I wash your dishes

Judges     I wash your dishes

Teachers, professors     I wash your dishes

Politicians     I lick your plates

USPD     I scrub your pots

Yuppies     I shine your silver

Editors     I wash your dishes

Publishers     I wash your dishes

Bardomaniacs     I wash your dishes

Owners of every square inch of good land     I wash your dishes

Beautiful Hollywood women on the make     I wash your dishes

Gossipmongers, backbiters     I wash your dishes

Pious pedophile priests     I wash your dishes

Fameseekers, cop-outs     I wash your dishes

I wash your dishes, America,

I scald my hands in boiling water

so that you may eat in style.

I brillo my fingers     raw to the bone

to keep you fat.

I scrape the tasteless belches from the platters of your gluttony.

Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, and

I wash your dishes, America.

But I'm fed up with your garbage,

with your mind that belongs in the garbage,

promises and lies--a different fork for every bite.

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America,

I wash your dishes, America, I shine your shoes.

I plow your fields.

I lay your track.

I pick your grapes.

I build your homes.

I pump your gas.

I dig your coal.

I fix your roof.

I print your books.

and get no thanks, no love.

United States of America, in a united state of ignorance and greed,

I wash your dishes.

Inside, I am crying.

When are you going to wash and dry these tears?