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    Menagerie
    Menagerie
    Menagerie
    Ebook170 pages56 minutes

    Menagerie

    By Werner Hinojosa

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The bulk of these poems were written while the author was in college in 1969 and 1970, shortly before he became an amateur bicycle racer and narrowly surviving a life-altering accident. If these little poems can inspire one young person to not waste him or herself, the author would consider this a success.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPage Publishing, Inc.
    Release dateOct 6, 2020
    ISBN9781645845331
    Menagerie

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      Book preview

      Menagerie - Werner Hinojosa

      Apparition

      When philosophical problems

      Evoke on air of gloom

      Remember this

      New being whose

      Entrance on a cycle

      Rolls gladly into your room

      A poem written by Susan King (Scripps College, 1970) in a letter, August 6, 1970

      Dream

      In the dream conjured by the Elf,

      The moon raced across the sky,

      The cloud raced across the moon,

      The wind raced across the ground,

      While I raced to my destiny,

      But why,

      So soon

      In the mound

      Did I see—

      Myself?

      One Abyss

      Crossing a swayingly fragile bridge

      Of bound rope and twisted hemp,

      Oozing with stained blood and cold sweat,

      Coarse to the touch of even a calloused hand,

      Dangling between two distant primeval rock walls:

      Outer limits of the formless watery chasm within,

      Inner limits of the formless profusion of jungle without,

      And in a mist of heavy drops of water,

      Amidst the constant and penetrating roar

      Of a sea sucked into the earth, of an ocean which falls,

      Hidden from the sun, austerely serenely lighting the heavens,

      By the abysmal fog, mockingly emulating the sky itself,

      There tottered and stumbled a solitary wretched figure,

      Vomiting compulsively in a drunken stupor,

      Careening sideways in a state of kief,

      Clutching, grasping, groping frantically for a hand-hold

      For every slimy and uncertain weak-kneed step,

      With eyes open and glazed, blindly seeing the bridge and

      Beyond it the consistently cold black and empty whiteness.

      Until We Meet Again

      The summer sun, coming and going again,

      Melting snow on bald mountain tops

      Which itself returns once more,

      Gives seedlings the power to come back

      But eventually dies with the stars defeated.

      Death comes, though no one knows when…

      Some think he’s a woodcutter who chops

      Trees in their prime, expanding the forest floor,

      For reincarnation, death do we lack;

      I’ll love you, my love, when this cycle’s completed.

      Trestle

      After crossing a wild river on an iron trestle,

      Awareness came. Ahead was a path

      Meandering into the west;

      Behind stood the key to the destination

      But undermined, eroded it collapsed—wrath

      And futility. The sunset beckoned. Rest

      Gave way to movement; the ends and means wrestle

      Constellations shifted, with Orion came the snow

      Blizzards in times of prosperity and crystalline flakes

      Like delicate stones, in poverty. The freshness of the start

      Became weariness of the middle; the hope at the end

      And illusion. Before dangerous rivers were joyous lakes

      But all rivers flow to the sea, all meanings to the heart

      Hidden beneath the head; in darkness even words will glow.

      Boulders strewn about beside the way

      By light of night were markers of the dead.

      By even the pale weak winter sun

      The boulders took on life. All sizes shapes and forms

      All colors kinds and types to interest the head

      But on the way was one, alive it was, one

      Which radiated warmth and thus it begged a stay.

      Roundabout, it nourished many plants,

      Herbs and flowers. Protected from the winds of winter

      Was a small eave, abandoned, big enough for curling

      Up in; warm and dry inside with a pine needle carpet.

      But from a corner was a sign of water;

      Beginning, bubbling, sparkling, flowing: aspiring.

      Occupied now for rest there was a chance.

      Midnight Merry-Go-Round

      In a moving bus

      They met, and sat, and talked

      Of many things,

      And I overheard…

      Tiring at last,

      I fell asleep and walked

      Heavy-headed

      Through dreams with no word.

      I awoke, surprised,

      At the end, alone;

      Puzzling

      The note on my arm:

      "In search of a mate;

      Even if you’re the one,

      I’d be satisfied

      With things as they are."

      Zarte Gerueche

      Never could any wire

      Or net, however elaborate,

      Hope to have caught or held

      Or even lured it to rest from flight.

      How freely it came from above

      To light on my hand. No wish

      No will of my own could have sent

      It, singing of life, to me.

      Before I knew what it was,

      It was there. Impetuous

      Images drove my clutching hand,

      With fear, to keep its song, and…

      In my most fervent desire

      To hold the sparrow of love,

      I crushed it (and futilely sought

      To revive it with tears of anguish).

      Luftspiegelung

      Zwischen alten Bildern, leeren Flaschen

      Und halbvollen Pfeifenkoepfen liegt nur die dicke Luft.

      Ich moechte gerne etwas suesses naschen

      Aber ich kann noch nicht finden wo der Duft

      Herkommt. Mann kann zarte Geruche nicht haschen

      Und doch nicht wenn Man so fuehlt wie ein Schuft.

      Anstatt eines Blickes auf hoffendliche Ordnung, wie in Maschen,

      Da sehen meine Augen nur die tiefe Kluft

      Woraus das Vampir nach mir Kriechen wird. "Ich denke

      Ich Habe es zu oft gestoert und auf geweckt.

      Und wenn es Kommt, es bringt mir Geschenke

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