The Neoliths
The Tagus runs silent
Sullen steps offer brother no comfort
The ancient ones
Here before my mothers and fathers
Heavy brow and strong arms, but alas
Thick minds and inflexible.
Inflexible.
The Tagus runs silent
We left them a monument today
From the dawn to the dark
In mimicry of the tombs they leave us
Standing stones, oaken carved bulls
My sister in her grief
Painted them a grand horse
To run alongside their spirits
The Tagus runs silent
Innumerable tributaries
Veins in the Earth
Blood of the Mother
Our children are theirs
And the trees will never stop singing
Their songs
Estrímnio
The snake folk
of the far west
A Blind Greek
said,
Eastern friskers
pass through on elephants
Always
clamoring, stammering, and fighting for naught
One called Mago
knocked at our door
He spoke
politely, but felt the need
To prod us for
gold, jewels and wheat.
We gave what we
could and he went on his way, but turn the season and
One called Cornelia
came to our palisade
To hunt one
called Mago
We did nothing
to aid, but point to his trail
Of spoils, blunt
gold, and hardly fresh bread.
The hunter
returned, a great red kite
And captured the
sweet dove of home
Driven centuries
In Octavian law
Forgotten people
We once were
Lusitanians,
Cantabrians, Asturians, Arevaccans
Reduced to
nothing but signs
Songs soon
forgotten
Rulers soon
turned stinking rotten
They die within,
we die without
A tremor finally
mounts
Great shakers of
history!
Visigothic rage
trapped in the Earth
Disappointment
of our gods
Set loose,
violent, complete
And to some
hellish drum beat
Spilled from the
wounds of our ancient mother
And settle us
into dust
The northern
hordes
Our homes shook
and fathers died
As Roman blood
flooded our streets
And temples fall
to the whims of our Mother
We drown
al-ʾIšbūnah
On gusted winds
came the hard, red sand
And settled into
the gaps left behind,
Wounds torn open
by Eagles
Now fill with
dust
Down the twisted
corridors
Of streets
turned distant
Granite blocks,
hungry boys
A smiling ochre
face
He came from a
land
That is
unimaginably far
Twisted, he
says,
By the wind into
mountains he calls
Dunes
Though on
horseback he arrived
He and his
brothers came softly
And took pity on
us who were Vandalized
To the chagrin
of kings and priests
They built our
walls
To protect us
from what old masters call freedom
And what new
masters call heretic
I wish I could
say it was all bad
But in the
winding of the city
The clouds
turned over on their bellies
And felt no
spear thrust to finish them
Only a warm hand
And a basket of
fruits
Porta de Martim Moniz
My son asked me
the other day how he fell
And so I told
him the story
The Day Martim
Moniz died, was the day Portucalae was born
His blood the
sperm, the hard red earth
The egg
My boy loves
fables and asks of the way
The way he died
And I told him
the story
Of the
crusader’s mad desperation
To clear away
sticky those eastern sands
That had filled
our markets
Clamped himself
in the jaws of the gate
And died
To block the way
open to his comrades
With his mailed
body
Like the scales
of a snake
Locked in the
jaws of a hawk.
My son is a
lover of tales
And so I weave
them for him
Fables of
chivalry and success
Often lies
But what little
truth there is
Is golden
The boy asks for
another tale
And I happily
oblige
Pleased that
stories are what he seeks
So I tell him
Church of the Raven
Why does the
raven block the sky?
Does she worship
here as Saragossa once did?
Will she too, be
ripped from her grave
By a conquering
king?
I keep from him,
the cruelty of his death
No child needs
to hear
Of torture,
salt, and hot irons
I only spoke of
a man
Who dreamed to
pray
The way the
crows do
Desires
dispelled
Feathers
fluttered
And carrion
eaten
Freedom of the
skies
Eyes of God
And the wind in
our hair
The relics of a
ruined village
The scattered
bones of the devout
And a flock of
ravens
A flock of black
This is the
plague of the saints
His body taken
To the walls of
a sea-drenched town
And left to
settle the spirits
Of those who had
been conquered
And rose again
for conquest.
Market Mistress
Spices,
porcelain, open enterprise,
Dyes, ivory
dice, artisans
Sugar, gold, hot
fruit pie,
Bookers,
muggers, folds of paper,
Wine, fur, salt,
Frankincense,
myrrh, revolts,
Iron, copper,
they’ll accept anyone’s dollar
Blood, silver,
fill the coffers
Coffee, cocoa,
silk,
Boards for
boats, floors, and all that ilk
Slaves, men,
women, and babes
Tea, terracotta,
glass,
And bodies of
thieves, tied to an unused mast
Rot in the sun
just as well as
Peaches, pears,
apples,
Services of
labor and leeches
The importance
of grain
Met with
profitless disdain.
Today, to trade
is to prosper
Thus here we
are, catering to any shopper.
All Saints Day, 1755
A dust storm did
war
Unfathomable to
Moorish hordes
What once stood
strong
Long had frail
intentions
But now recall
the fury of the gods
Who crack the
earth to take their dowry
And raise above
a man’s head
The sea.
An Unfortunate Patriot or, O Nascimento da Saudade
Who so meekly
scuttles away,
A barefoot
pitter-patter,
Stealing along
the calçada,
The abandoned
return the favor,
Casting aside
golden spectacles and silk socks,
To watch the sun
set over the Tagus once more.
Already a
whisper across the gilded blue sea
Stained the
colored azulejos with two drops of blood
Tenho saudades tuas
But will they
care?
In this land,
We miss what we
never lost.
They gave me two
names,
And neither fit,
But now all that
remains are the ashes of an empire,
Indistinguishable
from the ashes of a leper
The studious
should never rule
The Whole World and You
Acrylic chips,
lying on the musky street
Our cousins kill
each other
Pure honey
Leaks from their
veins
And somehow
stokes the fire
Our sons scoff
at us
In our tainted
home
A rage rips
through the old Goddess
Does the sea
approach
As friend or
foe?
Even the Saints
here couldn’t know
A backwards
ritual
Weakest on their
birthdays
And most
couldn’t even save themselves
A lover without
a lover
A green, violent
funeral pyre
A painter, a
bomber, a mass grave
We all reap what
we sow
And in the end
We shall repent
for what we have done
Future Goodbye
When did the
raven leave from these sunkissed shores?
Was it when the
food became good?
I’ve heard
rumors ravens only eat dead things
