Javier O. Huerta: Three Poems

Cy Twombly's Untitled (Say Goodbye Catullus, to the shores of Asia Minor) | The Loretto Chapel Stairs | Rising Thunder

Cy Twombly's Untitled (Say Goodbye Catullus, to the shores of Asia Minor)

                                   —The Twombly Gallery-Houston, Texas

A child could not have drawn this.
Maybe something more like 67 children.
(Each with his or her own favorite ice cream.) And not just
Ordinary children. All 67 would have five arms each.
And each arm would have three hands and each hand
Would hold three brushes and two pencils.

And, in his or her own way, each child would love and hate Catullus.
Love him so much that they would crawl the streets of Rome in search of him.
Hate him so much that they would crawl the streets of Rome in search of him.

335 arms to embrace him. 1005 hands to maul him.

Catullus, give back all the beautiful words.

The Loretto Chapel Stairs

                                   —Santa Fe, New Mexico

more than a miracle you

mysterium tremendum you

diabolic drill bit you

whirlwind you

nostalgia for the heavens you

deformed horn of the unicorn you

thirty-three wooden teeth you

twisted spine of the hunchback you

biography of a wrinkle you

Rising Thunder

I came to translate the mountain, but the mountain did not speak. I gave it a name: O Rising Thunder. But the mountain did not speak. I danced in a circle and chanted its name. I sacrificed a scorpion and left it at its feet. But the mountain did not speak. I sang its past:

The Daughter of the Storm God fell in love with the King of the Rhinos. Forbidden, they only saw each other on moonless nights, and in that darkness they made love. When her father discovered that Storm Princess was pregnant, Storm God ripped the fetus from her body and thrust the unborn. Oh! the thunder that shook the world when you crashed to the earth!

But the mountain did not speak. I celebrated its present:

The surrounding peoples believe that the stone from the mountain arranged in the form of a horn around a birth-giving mother will bring forth a strong and healthy infant. You, Rising Thunder, Guardian of Infants.

But the mountain did not speak. I cut my chest, smearing the blood over my naked torso, and embraced the mountain for five days and five nights. But the mountain did not speak. I prophesied its future:

You will rise again to revenge the deaths of your mother and father. O Storm God, how you fear the horn and thunder of your grandson! It is said that on a moonless night Rising Thunder will rip through the heavens.

But the mountain did not speak. I cursed: What then? Are you to be nothing more than silent stone? For nine years I have apprenticed myself to its silence.

Poet's Biography:

Javier O. Huerta is a doctoral student in English at UC Berkeley. His research interests include the naughty poetics of John Keats and the rhythm of immigration. His manuscript Some Clarifications y otros poemas received the 31st (2005) Chicano/Latino Literary Prize from UC Irvine and will be published by Arte Publico Press on September 30, 2007, which coincides with the 800th anniversary of the birth of the sufi poet Rumi.