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Tuesday, February 13, 2007


"You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning,
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams began."

Pablo Neruda "In My Sky at Twilight."


A quick-silver spark
like a diamond’s prism
strikes me.
Aphrodite’s silver arrow
turns this cafe bar
into the galaxy.
Reality escapes me.
it hits its mark,
sets aflame
the dark night
of my heart.
Written one night in the Latin Quarter

a poem for Anibal

I sat , a disciple at the feet of the Master
I listened to your stories
of shanty towns, poverty
President Allende dying in his bombed-out palace
Victor Jara, the musician/poet,
his hands crushed,
beaten to death in the Stadium
because he sang for the people.
I learned about social injustice
from you.
You taught me well.
Urged by your political passion
I joined marches,
raised my voice with the populace:
Peace, not War!
You captivated me,
I was your willing audience.
Your smile lit up my world
like a blaze of Chilean sun.
I absorbed every story you told.
Hundreds of Chileans died you said,
tortured, beaten,
some dropped from helicopters into the sea.
Thousands disappeared.
You were imprisoned,
Ran for your life across the mountains
into Argentina
disguised as a priest.
Over glasses of Chilean wine
red as blood
you told how you had to flee again,
this time on a plane bound for Canada.
I shared your anguish
though I could never truly experience your pain.
Exiled, torn from your roots
like a tree blown down in a fierce gale
this stormy life of yours
enveloped me,
I was swept into the vortex of your melancholy,
submerged under the waves of your nostalgia,
drowned in the sea of your despair.

Written one night in the Latin Quarter.


In the arbour

under a tangle of vines

the artist wields his brush.

Strokes the canvas lightly

spreading colours: pink and lavender and yellow.

Flower petals take shape.

A garden is revealed.

I remember the touch of your fingers on my arm,

soft as a brush stroke

awakening a garden in my heart.

Written August 2005 in Van Duesen Gardens.

Anibal died October 28, 2005

"We will be friends until the end of time," he said. Yes, we will, my friend, and when I hear the bolero play, I'll dance with you and remember...

"Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

William Shakespeare "Hamlet"

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