Metaphysics of Cows
I love
the tranquility of cows
their concentration as they chew grass.
I love
their philosophical stains,
their religious eyes,
I love their tireless taste for grazing
in the memory or the metaphysics of Buddha.
I love
cows when they meditate
on a chess board,
but even more
when they walk to the dimension
of my existence and say:
"Wake up,
Cook and Insect
(ultimate dialogue)
An extractor, forks, a dirty kitchen and all the filth of a country in ten sugar tablespoons. I can still perceive my blindness collapsed at the frontier. We have been together for so long -from the fire of the stove to the corner of the waste-, that this culinary operation griddle goes crazy over too much of our gazes.
You will say:
“It is better to become extinct, at least in this place”.
There is a scouring pad in the sink, the soap is sand to bury my country. I have a reason to bottlebrush myself, to put my head to dry on a plate and receive a honey thread that allows me to purify myself from all the hate of the world. Thus, compulsive eaters will not be disgusted by chewing my legs, my pregnant belly, my swollen and crunchy body, soaked in blackberries and cherry flavoring.
And they will say:
What a beautiful specimen in the salad!
Even more so, when my face begins to get disfigured among their molars.
My Shadow is a Kangaroo on Guard in Front
of the Mirror
I'm
going to give myself a hug in front of the glass.
I'm going to treat myself to some kangaroo ears,
some clean gloves,
a jump rope.
I'll offer my cheek to all my terrors
until the last fibers emerge
from the last gyms of my childhood.
I'm in
a confrontation against my shadow.
I'll make a little boat of light for it
so the blows from my face can set sail
to reconstruct my past mirage.
Let's see if, like this,
If with so much bouncing,
If with so much somersaulting,
the kangaroo that persists in combating
the dejection of so much Valium in my blood
leaves the preparations for my death
for another round,
where my fists, with love and snow,
can rebuild a new man.
(Translation
by Dulce Chiang)
Author’s
Bionote:
*Hugo de Mendoza is an
accomplished Mexican poet, editor, and cultural organizer with over two decades
of dedicated contribution to contemporary literature. He is the founder and
director of the literary journal El Golem (est. 2009) and pioneered the
Literagen collective in 2002, an initiative focused on advanced literary
criticism, analysis, and creative writing. In 2017, he established the
influential forum "Cycles of Criticism and Thought on Poetry and Narrative
in Mexico." An internationally recognized author, his published poetry
collections include Danzar del Agua (2009), 34 Episodes of Pisces (2010), and
Confessions on the Divan followed by When the Angels Materialize (2023), with
selections of his work translated into English, Portuguese, and Italian.
Mendoza currently directs both the national Vértice en el Tiempo poetry
festival and the ongoing Cycles of Literary Criticism in Mexico.
(Photo:
Caligari García)
their concentration as they chew grass.
their religious eyes,
I love their tireless taste for grazing
in the memory or the metaphysics of Buddha.
on a chess board,
but even more
when they walk to the dimension
of my existence and say:
(ultimate dialogue)
An extractor, forks, a dirty kitchen and all the filth of a country in ten sugar tablespoons. I can still perceive my blindness collapsed at the frontier. We have been together for so long -from the fire of the stove to the corner of the waste-, that this culinary operation griddle goes crazy over too much of our gazes.
You will say:
“It is better to become extinct, at least in this place”.
There is a scouring pad in the sink, the soap is sand to bury my country. I have a reason to bottlebrush myself, to put my head to dry on a plate and receive a honey thread that allows me to purify myself from all the hate of the world. Thus, compulsive eaters will not be disgusted by chewing my legs, my pregnant belly, my swollen and crunchy body, soaked in blackberries and cherry flavoring.
And they will say:
What a beautiful specimen in the salad!
Even more so, when my face begins to get disfigured among their molars.
I'm going to treat myself to some kangaroo ears,
some clean gloves,
a jump rope.
I'll offer my cheek to all my terrors
until the last fibers emerge
from the last gyms of my childhood.
I'll make a little boat of light for it
so the blows from my face can set sail
to reconstruct my past mirage.
Let's see if, like this,
If with so much bouncing,
If with so much somersaulting,
the kangaroo that persists in combating
the dejection of so much Valium in my blood
leaves the preparations for my death
for another round,
where my fists, with love and snow,
can rebuild a new man.