poetry in english

Before nineteen thirty eight
I was a tree.
My roots went deep in the earthliness of the world
and I was reading its evil alphabet,
the frightening signs of the century
that was about to end.
There was a rooster between my leaves,
or a bumblebee
and not even Tomás Linden
could chop me off with his silk ax
After two thousand eight
I have become a tree again,
with my pulp many books have been written,
books incredible and quiet
as those of Blas Coll.
—–
From Alberto’s award-winning poetry book, “Los Que Vinieron,” published in Spanish by Negro Sobre Blanco Editions. Caracas, Venezuela, 2014.

To them in courtesy they
told they exchanged niceties
without withdrawing wide
friendly gestures people
expected in all genuine acts
of announced closenesses,
blunders of wayward words
to historical animosities had
turned frustrating people,
their futures, like their ugly
pasts, were to be mortgaged
to bellicosity and bestiality
the brute world was best
to exemplify in its wild ways
and vengeful madness and
mean meaningless poses,
of apt crooked criminalities
captioning them in proverbs
of peace and prayers for the
harmony and progress of
all whose fortunes are tied
to the mindsets of people
who are yet to learn hard
lessons in humanity and its
rights to dream of majestic
millennia of amity and easy
credulity, not corruptible,
in ways even unthinkable.