Nostalgia in the Rain
Once more the day drops
in a paradiddle of raindrops,
knocking at my amygdala.
Standing with an armful of eggs
between the porch lilies,
a shadow drops the trench coat
from its man-shape
and collapses into a mist
of formaldehyde. I step out
upon the eggshells.
Nostalgia rises with the force
of the worms rising up,
and nostalgia itself
is a worm-eaten bore in the brain—
so straight it’s a peephole
from ear to ear. When the rain
falls hardest, it drums
a death-rattle from the earth,
and the stink of it suffuses the sky.
I can’t smell a thing,
but somehow I know the odor,
like an old rainjacket,
like an old drunk passed out
in the pissing dawn.
by Ryan Dowling
Suicide (translation by Alan S. Trueblood)
(Maybe it was because you hadn’t
mastered your geometry)
The lad was going blank.
It was ten in the morning.
His heart was growing full
of broken wings and rag flowers.
He noticed there remained
just one word on his lips.
And when he took off his gloves
a soft ash fell from his hands.
A tower showed through the balcony door.
He felt he was balcony and tower.
No doubt he saw how the clock,
stopped in its case, surveyed him.
He saw his shadow quiet and prone
on the white silk divan.
And the stiff, geometrical youth
smashed the mirror with a hatchet.
When it broke, a great burst of shadow
flooded the illusory room.
by Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936)