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In the Face of Stela Nova | A Poem by John Martinez

There is no pity
In this circling
Of images

thrown into a net
Of sewn words

Leaning, cupping,
Lifting, the jittering
Fish of our time

These are my colors, then,
The color of sadness

Is grey

the color of my
mother’s love

Blue

Like the sky
she returned to

The color of my Rosa,
Yellow

like the sun,
Beginning to bleed

Over the foothills
Of my memory

She gathered her
blood, started
A chorus

From my veins

I see eternity
Walking from me

In the face of Estela Nova;

The few trees
Raising their
branches in me

And you? Seeing
My hand curl from

Our mutual pain

Look away, the night
Fog is at my feet again

Let this Winter in me
Turn to Spring

And go away, go away,
Into centuries
Of stacked words

That I become numb to
The death under
my tongue

Vibrating in
my Adams Apple

That I feel
This multitude of minutes

Swirling dust storm
Of sighs and laughter
Before me

I should walk with
The new again

Through landscape knit
with uneven knots

My offering, this shawl,
The blanket
my mother made

This loose net of words
My father coughed

I should ask that you
Hear

Only a bit and not forget,
What I will forget
One day



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2 thoughts on “In the Face of Stela Nova | A Poem by John Martinez

  1. John Martinez

    I have little memory of writing this poem. I mean, it must have been late at night and I was dreary. Stela Nova is my granddaughter. She was born, maybe a week before I wrote it. She is, or represents, the “beginning” of life, and I, at the time, perceived my life as a kind of, exiting. This is my brooding voice. But, reading it again, I am actually warning her, of this existentialist, angst, a poets burden… An imperfect burden that is welcome, I have always felt. It’s really not about her, but something that she might read and feel this kind of emptiness, this, leaving of things; a human feeling. That, I should warn her, like a grandfather should… or trying to deeply speak to her, in a future that is hers.