WORDS

GONZALO

Hey, Gonzalo bien hecho this year the acidity is low

Abuelo sold that good piece of land
and the money went
to the maquinista.
Build an Olive press
dream of your familia.

The village smile poured
a drink for your luck.
Soon the grinding machine fun
shook the autumn ground
That year for three weeks in one.

You couldn’t hear
the herding bell of the iglesia,
just circled, fetched around around
the two Toledo granite cones
Boulder planets orbited.

Kids clung on the rejas de las ventanas
peeped at your door watching fascinated
the cavalcade of your planetarium,
as the oozing fruits was shovelled
under those hungry, great rollers.

The Moon and your wife
called you, but the rattle of your
orchestrated machines
kept you nearly deaf to
the world around.

The heart in your wiry body
followed the rhythm of winding wheels
as you danced on the oil soaked floor,
with toreros’s skating steps
between those wild, black beasts.

Than to recover from the nauseating spin
took a good sip of the thick smoke of the boiler.
While another log ignited
to hustle the steam to the Hercules press
to squeze to death the oil soaked muddy mats.

until the last shiny drop of virgin oil
ran down to the trough,
juced treasure of the village. Then,
stopped, collapsed on the bench
shouted for coffee.

Two day later, you took the tractor
up to your uncle’s land
reversed into the bancal’s edge,
turned over; under the huge wheels.

Crushed and, trapped yourself
like those olive berries,
bleeded; coughed up your
shiny, oily blood back to the soil.

23.05.2013 Gyula

 

 

Village walk in Spain

 

I climb up from the valleys

follow the  path of donkeys.

My presence pursues the moments

it croaks like a floundering bullfrog

in the mind’s stronghold.

 

The floating minute whistles casually,

weaves wreaths from wildflowers

and gently strokes my neck.

Vast, bright air flooding from the above,

the scented breeze ignores me.

 

I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces

of these elegantly lying female mountains.

Herds and swarms of cultures gathered

in these cupped hands and

disappeared in the drain hole of time.

 

Nobody wants to wake up from

the oozing garlic ornate dream,

just repeat what was safe,

what was told to survive,

surely good for their godly goats.

 

Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.

 

 

Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013

 

 

Walking with Gyula Friewald.