(The Cove)
(English Translation Follows)
This poem was born out of an assignment for Spanish Lit class, on a gray Saturday afternoon. Most weekends find me at beach with my homework, rain or shine.
"The Cove" in Seaside has been my "special place" as long as I've lived here. When I've needed to clear my head, needed to think, needed to find some peace and quiet from my hectic life, even at 3 a.m., that is where you'd find me. (And that is where friends and family go looking for me when they can't find me. And now, I go there looking for my son!) I've spent many long hours watching the gulls, the surfers, the moon on the waves.... It holds my heart.
The Cove on a gray day
Tarde del sábado. Las nubes negras obscurecen mi humor.
La lluvia lanza la ventana. ¿Por qué me moví aquí?
El perro dame una mirada pesaroso sin levanta su cabeza del piso
Como si yo podría hacer algo sobre esta lluvia.
Deseo que podría. ¿Por qué me permanecía aquí?
Pongo la tarea en el coche; el perro detrás, yo al la rueda.
El coche sigue el camino – lo sabe la vía.
Siete minutos a un mundo nuevo.
Árboles centinelas en el cabo, los chillidos de las gaviotas, el desplome de las olas,
Los surferos – manchas negras en el mar gris – cada competiendo para aquel paseo perfecto.
A los miro por las parabrisas lluviosas. Neruda me hace
señas; el trabajo a mí se parece más fácil ahora.
Echo un vistazo y miro tres surferos cogen un enrollado perfecto. Leo Neruda una vez más.
Las nubes de mi alma se parten para el sol. Las cristales centellan sobre el azul. Escribo.
Las olas desplomen encima de los rocas. Un niño que tenga
una estrella de mar sube la orilla.
Esta es por qué moví aquí.
Esta es por qué permanezco.
El sábado, 5 de Mayo 2007
The Cove
Saturday afternoon. The black clouds darken my mood.
The rain pelts the window. Why did I move here?
The dog gives me a mournful look without lifting his head
from the floor
As though I could do something about this rain.
I wish that I could. Why do I stay here?
I pack my homework into the car; the dog in the back and I behind the wheel.
The car follows the road – it knows the way.
Seven minutes to a new world.
Sentinel trees on the headland, the shrieks of the gulls, the crash of the waves,
Surfers – black specks on the gray sea – each vying for that perfect ride.
I watch them through the wet windshield. Neruda beckons
me; the work seems easier now.
I glance up and watch three surfers catch a perfect curl. I read Neruda one more time.
The clouds of my soul part for the sun; crystals sparkle upon the blue.
I write. Waves crash on the rocks. A child runs up the bank with a starfish.
This is why I moved here.
This is why I stay.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
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This guy had been sitting on the hood of my car, watching through the windshield as I ate lunch. He was apparently camera shy though.