STRINDBERG--TRANSLATIONS
AND ESSAYS BY JOE MARTIN
AND ESSAYS BY JOE MARTIN
POEMS: PUBLISHED IN INDIA!
Joe Martin: Works
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TZINTZUNTZAN
The storm broke like a heavy branch
sweeping over the nets of lake Patzcuaro
and blinding the wind with its weight
I'd been wandering fitfully on
the unencumbered tombs and temples
distracted by the occasional flights
of flickering lizards in the stones
The Tarascan women of today
weave strapped to looms bound to tree trunks
The trees at Tzintzuntzan
clasp the rocks of ruins in their roots
How much lies buried in the red earth
How many paths back that only lizards
can follow--How much I want to bind myself
to a trunk with such an anchor
The sweeping rains wiped out the view
But I had seen the women who embrace trees
They make livings here
From THE INSOMNIA SUITE
The storm broke like a heavy branch
sweeping over the nets of lake Patzcuaro
and blinding the wind with its weight
I'd been wandering fitfully on
the unencumbered tombs and temples
distracted by the occasional flights
of flickering lizards in the stones
The Tarascan women of today
weave strapped to looms bound to tree trunks
The trees at Tzintzuntzan
clasp the rocks of ruins in their roots
How much lies buried in the red earth
How many paths back that only lizards
can follow--How much I want to bind myself
to a trunk with such an anchor
The sweeping rains wiped out the view
But I had seen the women who embrace trees
They make livings here
From THE INSOMNIA SUITE
Peter Lang Publishers
Tiger Moon
from FATA MORGANA
Our visions are real
not products of our minds
If there in the horizon
we see at long last
a blue sea reflecting an adriatic sun
or a lake holding up sea birds
on its shimmering light--
these are not hallucinations
but sun art by a nameless painter
How many men through eons
have sought the quenching shores
of the great Fata Morgana?
They died along the way
to the unreachable happy end
while a reflection in sand
fired up their fantasy.
The thirsty search for a destination
shapes the vector on which we rise
roving through time
Our visions are real
not products of our minds
If there in the horizon
we see at long last
a blue sea reflecting an adriatic sun
or a lake holding up sea birds
on its shimmering light--
these are not hallucinations
but sun art by a nameless painter
How many men through eons
have sought the quenching shores
of the great Fata Morgana?
They died along the way
to the unreachable happy end
while a reflection in sand
fired up their fantasy.
The thirsty search for a destination
shapes the vector on which we rise
roving through time
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