I tend to avoid taking such a pessimistic tone right out
of the gate like this, but it is 4:58PM, and Imogen Heap's
lyrics "it's not even light out" penetrate my seasonal
affective disorder just enough to make me realize this
weather...this darkness...is for Alaskans, or the Inuit
perhaps, but not for me. It is black outside. Black and
cold.
To warm it up in here, I pricked this Becquer poem from
the mid-1800s. I have stood under his statue in Parque
Maria Luisa in Sevilla, and the shadow of his monument
was dancing with the spirits of those who have since
looked to him for a muse or two.
"¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul.
Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú."
What is poetry?, you say as you lock
your blue pupil into mine.
What is poetry! And YOU ask me this?
Poetry...is you.
