Out of Time/ Fuera del Tiempo

Out of Time

 

I did not want to write this

for you,

not this way

I wanted to write

about your amazing journey back

against all the odds;

but a beating heart knows its beats are limited

and so is our capacity to stand

in that glaring sun

of the wasted desert

of our own minds-

 

We are all migrants

to a new unfolding world;

not all of us were given a compass

at birth

nor taught how to use it

by kind and patient hands.

 

One day, everyone we love will get that call,

and work ceases for a day

while you place

a wet face in cold hands

and sit like that for a while, side by side

with the inevitable, always asking

what could have changed?

what did I not say when we were 12?

why did we not make more time?

 

We all have something we love more

than we should, something

that binds us to living roots

when the whispers are too much,

too much; we cling like vines

to the illusion of time standing still

while we breathe.

 

Sometimes those things are stronger

than us.

Sometimes they lie to us-

about who or what is in control

of the sun and the way it slants

its way across entire planets

only to be blocked at the last moment

by the space your own body

occupies upon the earth.

 

I looked for you

but you did not want to be found,

I found 49 strands of your hair,

I saw water flowing back up into

the tap, I saw a dandelion head

painted black, I felt a wind

that stirred no leaves,
I heard a clock chime solemnly,

out of time, out of time.

 

I found a nursery door with an ancient

keyhole, and when I peered into it,

I saw a cradle engulfed in flames

and a child staring out a window

that led to a cliff far above the sea.

  

for Tara 2024

Traducción a español: 

Fuera de tiempo

 

Yo no quería escribir esto

para tí

No de esta manera-

quería escribir

sobre tu increíble viaje de regreso

contra viento y marea;

pero un corazón que late sabe que sus latidos son limitados

Y también lo es nuestra capacidad de estar de pie

en ese sol deslumbrante

del desierto desolado

de nuestras propias mentes-

 

Todos somos migrantes

a un nuevo mundo que se despliega

cada día más extraño, tierra desconocida;

No a todos nos dieron una brújula

al nacer

ni se nos enseñó a usarlo

con manos amables y pacientes.

 

Un día, todos los que amamos recibirán esa llamada,

y el trabajo cesa por un día

mientras colocas

una cara mojada sobre las manos frías

y sentarte así por un rato, uno al lado del otro

con lo inevitable, siempre preguntando

¿Qué podría haber cambiado?

¿Qué no dije cuando teníamos 12 años?

¿Por qué no dedicamos más tiempo?

 

Todos tenemos algo que amamos más

de lo que deberíamos, algo

que nos ata a raíces vivas

cuando los susurros son demasiados,

demasiado; nos aferramos como enredaderas

a la ilusión de que el tiempo se detiene

mientras respiramos.

 

A veces esas cosas son más fuertes

que nosotros.

A veces nos mienten-

sobre quién o qué tiene el control

del sol y la forma en que se inclina

en su camino a través de planetas enteros,

solo para ser bloqueado en el último momento

por el espacio tu propio cuerpo

ocupa sobre la tierra.

 

Te busqué

pero no quisiste que te encontraba,

encontré 49 mechones de tu cabello,

vi que el agua fluía hacia arriba

al grifo, vi una cabeza de diente de león

pintado de negro, sentí un viento

que no revolvía las hojas, oí sonar solemnemente un reloj,

fuera de tiempo, fuera de tiempo.

 

Encontré una puerta de guardería con un antiguo

ojo de la cerradura, y cuando yo miré a él,

vi una cuna envuelta en llamas

y una niña mirando por una ventana

que conducía a un acantilado 

muy por encima del mar.

 

para Tara 2024

Author's Note

an old friend lost their life to addiction and depression last week. I wrote this for her.

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

I felt this one deeply Marie. And I recall a poetry reading from Imamu Baraka just weeks before he died, where the moderator asked him to read one of his more famous poems. And although he stood proudly at the rostrum, it was clear that he didn't want to. The poem (I don't remember which one) was from his book "The Dead Lecturer" written in the mid-1960s. He was younger then (we all were), more inflammatory, and admittedly less tolerant, Poems age unlike apples. Apples rot and we are comfortable with the rotting. The unfathomable fades within the boundaries of belief in poems that rattle the sacrament of reason because
"We cling like vines to
the illusion of time
standing still while we
breath".
Damn Marie! To eulogize someone in a poem is both spiritually symbolic and an esoteric rite. You're a bad-a*s as usual/ dana.

[Art Sun]

Que lastima perder un amiga/amigo a addicion, embeces tratamos de ayudar pero cuando no quierren oh la addicion es mas fuerte que la persona sabemos los resultados, mis condolences...

[SkinlessFrank]

I am sorry for your loss. This type of poem is not easy unless it comes truly from the heart. You have made us contemplate our own with deeper introspection.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Frank, for your kind and useful review. I read this aloud at an online memorial session we had for her, and it was well. received and generated a lot of dialogue. The Spanish version will be published in Guatemala's largest national magazine in an upcoming issue.