Part One
Thank
God for the Angels
No matter which way the old turtle goes, sooner or
later he will end up under or over the waterfalls—(or splattered on the highway)
Swept
to his doom— this he knows.
He looks for a good death—but realizes good or
bad—the henchman’s melody doesn’t differ (he has
lived like a lion, to the fullest, on the edge, not like a dog, and that has
made all the difference to his way of thinking).
He has learned never to swallow the hook
completely (to walk the edge of the
highway).
He’s
discovered the sounds of trains, and rain, rivers and the swift wisp of the
wind—dipped in the sun—that man with all this, remains discontent, at the end of
the day…lost in his existence.
What
does all this mean to the old turtle? Perhaps that the world is lost, odd, or
insane—worse than hiding in his shell for the hunters (but time heals his suspicions, worries and
doubts, and he goes on….).
Part Two
The
aging old turtle
The aging old turtle has discovered something
peculiar about humankind—that their tongues bend more than their kneecaps—how
strange.
The
old turtle hides in his shell, looks out as if he is behind a curtain…looking
for the hunters of turtles, and the world goes by moving around the heat within
the sun, as everyone grabs sparkles of its sunshine, hunters and turtles alike (he’s tired of it all, ‘Nothing new under the
sun,’ he brings to mind, ‘… just old hunters with new faces.’)
He
doesn’t feel time passing—likened to rain drops falling, although he does
discover a few new little wrinkles here and there—now and then: he calls them:
‘Fine groves in the sand, on my forehead’ —looking in the water—; he even
notices some new wrinkles like fishing lines driven deep into his shell, but
what the hell, it’s just time passing.
His
legs feel cold and cramped— He knows (because
things keep slipping) time is short.
Part Three
The
turtle keeps talking
The old turtle has been talking—more like
whispering—into my ear; he has much to say, he’s trying to stir my emotions, in
this new descending season.
I
don’t mind all of that, but he complains about my hairy ears. Grumbles like an
un-tuned guitar.
It’s
not comfortable. I guess it’s the way of old aging turtles. If it is not me he
bothers, it’ll just be someone else, so I tell myself. Sometimes I want to tell
him to just be quiet—but I nevertheless bend my neck to his level to listen:
“Happiness is doing a service to others,” I tell myself, that’s God’s rule,
like it or not. This rule of thumb has been going on for thousands of years, it
will not change.
I’m
sure it will happen to me, perhaps sooner than later, and the listener will
say: “Listen to this old man crackle, like an old aging turtle,” as I try
explaining my life, or parts of it.
It’s
time now to push the old turtle’s head back into his shell.
Drag
the dock in—as they say, pile the wood up, for the coming winter, and enjoy the
silence in a warm bed.
((The old Turtle, his bones appear eager to be laid away in the grave)
(he doesn’t wish to be permanent, in his impermanent kingdom—like us; he
doesn’t even know.))
Part Four
The Turtle Poem
Some poems have their own skins, like bananas and
oranges, not all of course are sweet, and some are bitterer than others, the
poet knows words are abundant like fruit — he or she can be selective as in
this poem.
The
dear old turtle, abandoned his turtlish-life (to a certain
degree; as often animals do, or are force to do), to live and hide among
mankind—sometimes among skyscrapers and highways, and sometimes deep within the
swamps. This old turtle, He’s even learned the human language to a certain
degree—not really so uncommon, certainly his gestures, or body language.
Well, I must say, before that took place, perhaps
deep in the woods he may have lived a scandalous life, perchance an extravagant
one, by choice alone maybe—who’s to say?
I
don’t want to alarm you, but so many old turtles have been lost in the bog.
This old turtle—screwed to have lived so long—evidently slipped through the
bushes, that is why he is in this poem.
In closing, let me simply say: things move slowly in the
woods. I don’t want to try and cheer you up, it’s all right that the turtle is
now long gone, people like animals stroll about, some come to meet and greet
you; while on the other hand, human or animal (sometimes
more alike than not), come to eat you, walking over your footprints century after
century—shortening your days, all trying to make a home—all trusting that the
world will not end, before their time—while scholars cobble together to product
it, while others try to preserve it—it’s simply the way it is, odd and mysterious
as it may look.
The Author with his turtle hat on, sitting in the Plaza de
Arms, in Huancayo, Peru, 7-13-2011 (afternoon)
Note: “Hunters of the Turtle”, parts one and two
written 7-7-2011; part three and four written 7-8-2011 (No: 2965 thru 2968);
illustration by the author,
Photo by Rosa Peñaloza
