If I Owe You Anything, My Friend (+Udugi translation)

If I owe you anything, my friend,
it is not money.
It is listening,
understanding,
and a helping
hand.
But most of all,
it is respect.


[Udugi]

iyuno aya atsidugase nigavquone
nihi didla, aqua unali,
tla gesvase adela.
gesvase hadvdasdo,
golisdo,
ale alisdelvdihi uwoyeni.
aseno nasgi-ugodidi
gesvase gohiyuhi.

ᎢᏳᏃ ᎠᏯ ᎠᏥᏚᎦᏎ ᏂᎦᎥᏉᏁ
ᏂᎯ ᏗᏜ, ᎠᏆ ᎤᎾᎵ,
Ꮭ ᎨᏒᎠᏎ ᎠᏕᎳ.
ᎨᏒᎠᏎ ᎭᏛᏓᏍᏙ,
ᎪᎵᏍᏙ,
ᎠᎴ ᎠᎵᏍᏕᎸᏗᎯ ᎤᏬᏰᏂ.
ᎠᏎᏃ ᎾᏍᎩ-ᎤᎪᏗᏗ
ᎨᏒᎠᏎ ᎪᎯᏳᎯ.

Staying Power

I was wondering what generalizations I could make about the blog posts that have received large numbers of visits over time. The best tool I have for this is the top-ten listing for the life of the blog (a little over two years). Here's the listing:



Prayer for the World                                                   110                   19 July 2017

Happy Birthday                                                            97                   5 Oct. 2016

Arcanum Zero, the Fool                                               94                   30 Sept. 2017

Morning Sky, Aguas Dulces                                        88                   28 May 2018

Gymniad XXIII - I Do My Best                                  87                   4 Jan. 2018

gado-usdi aya asquadisdise                                         84                   11 May 2018

Rumer                                                                         82                    8 Oct. 2017

I Will Be Guided                                                        80                    13 Oct. 2017

Gymniad XXX - Reflection                                       79                    12 Jan. 2018

Gymniad LI - Ancestral Campfires                           73                    24 Jan. 2018


Timewise, there is one from 2016, four from 2017, and five from 2018. As to genre/subject matter, there are two semi-religious poems, one piece of political doggerel, one standalone photograph, something in Udugi, two poems with general subject matter, and three poems on the subject of and illustrated by nudity (mine). The list includes a couple of my personal favorites, Prayer for the World, and Rumer. The bar of 73 visits has so far been too high for some of my other favorites. I'm happy to see that posts from the current year are holding their own although they are at a disadvantage in a two-year listing. I'm hoping that a few prose pieces will eventually make the list.

Thank you all for your continued encouragement.

Both Sources

Both sources are alike
in being sacred,
both sources are alike
in being defamed,
desecrated,
and hidden
from sight.
Both sources yearn
to spew life
and light.

Bioscope 2 - Seventy-six Years, One Month, and Seventeen Days

Seventy-six years, one month, and seventeen days.
I am not young,
but I am not dead.
I am who I am,
neither more nor less,
as I face the future
with mounting dread.
The sun is my friend,
and I have no enemy.
My work is done,
but I have yet
to be free.

Languages

Languages and
writing systems
have power of their own.
They are the keys
to my past,
a rudder guiding
present time,
and a compass
for the future.
They have opened doors,
brought friends and lovers,
and created adventure.

Life is the most interesting
movie.

Hope Is Alive

Sunrise, Aguas Dulces, Uruguay, 7 November 2018

Making Morning Ma-te

I place three cups

in the small microwave,

enough for the ma-te

cup and the thermos.

Six minutes should do it.

You’re not supposed to

boil it—82 Celsius

is optimum.

As I clean yesterday’s

ma-te out of the cup,

I think about today,

Election Day

in the U.S.

I rinse out the

ma-te cup,

rinse out the slender

bombilla, a kind of

silver straw.

Election Day.

The sound of the bell

on the microwave

brings me back

to earth.

Working quickly,

I put ma-te in

the cup,

educated

fingers knowing just

how much

of the lovely and

aromatic green powder

to put into the cup.

I fill the cup with

water and put the rest

into the thermos.

Walking out onto the

deck,

ma-te in hand,

I see three or

four fishing boats

on the water.

I haven’t seen that many

since California.

Do they still catch salmon

off the Pacifica

coast? I don’t know.

Election Day.

The Uruguayan workers

are at work on

our roof.

A cutting disk sings

in the wind.

Election Day.

They will rebuild

the “caballete,”

the same word that is used

for the easel that Sandy

brought from California,

and we will soon sell

if the election results

are favorable.

I love my morning ma-te,

but I’d gladly give it up

to have my country back.