TRANSFERENCIAS TRASCENDENTALES

Harry Thomas Dannvers

A veces el espíritu falla

Cuando se busca una

Calma transitiva

Donde antes había una

Senda y ahora se encuentra

Una autopista de cuatro carriles

Este lesiona el fenómeno

Llamado el progreso

Será que es

Una palabra

O un hecho

Predestinado

De

Fallar

El denominado

Progreso?

Solo en leer

Heroico

O Las Vidas

De

Plutarco

Explica

El

Pasado

En términos

Paralelos

Tal vez

Es como

Escribió Cervantes

Cuando dijo

Que la historia

Es la madre

De la verdad

Si tú era una persona

Como yo

Atrapado con los años

Más cerca del fin que el principio

Le da algo de pensar

Salvo que su concentración

Sobre y camino

Casi asfaltado

No se brinca

Con una bache

Escondida

No importa que su carro

Es del último modelo

Adquirido

A través de años de sacrificio

Lentos avances

De ganancias económicas

El carro se hunde

Porque el camino está malo

En estas cosas cotidianas

Apresurados

Evitando cualquier

Eventualidad

Entre camiones y bicicletas

Tal vez es mejor

Guardar su alma enana luz diferente

Pensando enana

Transferencia trascendental

Pero no es una cosa de pensar

Ni meditar

No solo porque los años

Hablan por si mismo

Sino que

No hay tiempo para hacerlo

Cuando uno esta transitando

Una carretera nueva

Lleno de hoyos

Y financiado con dinero

Extranjero

Las inversiones

Seductores

Como el pez

Gorda

Comiendo

Los peces

Pequeños

En un mundo

Sin agua

Los kilómetros son

Como los años

Unos planos

Nítidos

Mientras que otros

Son caídos

En unos barrancos

Profundos

Y otros con solos esperanzas

Este se refleja la realidad de las

Transferencias trascendentales

Sin embargo

Hay que agarrar

El timón

Aquellas sendas están ahora asfaltadas

Y se extienden en autopistas

Igual como los países

Industrializados

En

Una clase de Nirvana

En cemento

La India

Tenia

Ghandi

Para salvar

Su nación

Después de milenios

De los conquistadores

Y sumisión

Mientras que

El río

Ganges

Sigue siendo

Su salvación

Pero aunque soy viejo

Mi carro es del

Ultimo modelo

Brilla en el sol

Como los dientes de Vucub Ca'kix

El símbolo de orgullo

Para los Mayas

Con sus dientes de joyas

Y su nariz

Que brilla como la luna lejos

Los caminos de los Mayas eran

Adoquinados

Donde pasaban

En sillas reales

La gente real

Casi como yo

En mi carro del último modelo

Y con esto me pongo a pensar

En

Las trasferencias trascendentales

Pero hoy no es como ayer

Se necesita petróleo

No esclavos para

Transitar

Quizás es lo mismo

Pero en vez de gotas de

Sangre de los seres humanos

Es de la madre tierra

Negra, sucia

Llorando trozos

De la muerte

Sobre sus pechos verdes

Pero como

La. tierra es

Siempre

Tierna

Tal vez hay

Una esperanza

Cuando muere

La gente

Con sus

Maquinas

De

Perdición

Si no fuera por las

Transferencias trascendentales

Me hubiera quedado

Callado

Tal vez por mi edad

Y el hecho que mi carro

Del último modelo

Se oxide

Igual como yo

Las maquinas fallan

Con el tiempo

Dejando

Grietas profundas

En el metal

Y la piel

Arrugas de acero

Esperando su último toque

De la cirugía plástica

Con una pintadita nueva

Cubriendo la maquina

El ser

Del alma?

Ahora no escribimos cartas

Dotadas con la pluma

Sino

Cartas electrónicas

Con la computadora

Más nueva

Y teclas

Igual como una máquina de escribir

Se tacha "enter"

Y al mundo está

A su alcance

Resplandeciente

Aunque le falta

El amor

Este consiste

De

Cuatro letras

Con más

Vocales que

Consonantes

Y sí las espinas

Con consonantes

Ganamos con

Los vocales

Es decir

El

Amor

La mayoría de mis amigos

Están muertos

Un fenómeno

Trascendental

Porque sigo poniendo

Palabras

En su memoria

Pero como no están

Quiero gritar

Por sus almas

Pero mi garganta

Está seca

Y necesito tiempo

Para reflexionar

Yo soy viejo

Aunque

Me dicen

Joven todavía

En las

Tiendas

Pero como son

Adeptos

Mentirosos

Es

Por eso

Me gustan

Las tiendas

Es igual

Como se narra en la creación del Popol Vuh

"Su molde fue convertido en

Una realidad, la idea de las

Montañas y los valles

Una fuente de la misma

Formación y multiplicación

Expansiva de

Una cara joven"

Pero la cara

Se arruga

Lo veo todos los días

En el espejo

Quizás si no me rasura

No veo tantas arrugas

Pero en dejare la barba cana

Me parece aún

Más viejo

Las canas no quitas

Las ganas

Como dicen

Los amigos

Y de allí?

Tal vez todo esto

Es una

Transferencia trascendental

Como la palabra

Maya

En sánscrito

Significa

Ilusión

Entonces

Tal vez

Todos estamos

Engañados

Por lo menos

En esta tierra

Adorada

Si los años

Lleva la sabiduría

Porque lamentamos

La vejez?

No es una estupidez?

O es porque

La sociedad

Lleva a todos

A su corriente

En una manera de actuar

Olvidando la esencia

De la vida

Para un substituto

Más comercial?

Vender es vivir

Vender es vivir

Vender es vivir

Suena el movimiento de mi carro

Del último modelo

Sobre el asfalto

Y yo encerrando en si

Pensando en mi pasado

Y futuro

Polarizado para que

No se ver de afuera

Mis sentidos atrapados

En las

Transferencias trascendentales

DEATH B Y WATER

                                                                    DEATH BY WATER

                                                               HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

                    THE WASTE LAND…………………T.S. ELIOT

 

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead

Forgot the cry of gulls and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss

A current under the sea

Picked his bones in whispers

As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his youth

Entering the whirlpool

Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you

 

                              Mike was neither tall nor handsome. He was not even a sailor, but he died by water.

                             We had met at the local internet center in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. He said he had bought all my self-published works of poems and short stories and had liked them and wanted to read more. We were both of Irish descent, so we had a love of literature and music. When I told him that I was also a painter, he insisted that he should visit my place, up on the mountain and I was all for it, but the weather came between.

                           It was one of those times that you thought that the rain would never stop. There were no sea gulls in the mountains, but the rivers overflowed and the streams were lost in the current. It was precisely and that point that Mike decided to visit me. It was at night.

                           The torrents of water and mud made all transportation impossible, but Mike was not daunted. With no further formality than a loud burst of laughter, he got out of a waylaid, downtrodden taxi and entered my adobe dwelling. The luxurious repast which ensued would have rivaled the most glorious fetes of the Knights of the Round Table.

                          But the rain did not stop. Mike not only brought the basic necessities, like a bottle of good rum, but also all the delicacies which could be bought from the American subsidized supermarkets that had swamped Latin America and threatened the rest of the world as well.

                         Due to the inclemency, we were forced to take refuge in the library. It was also made of adobe but somehow isolated us from the incessant downpour. The oblong room was filled with rustic book shelves that harbored some six thousand volumes. For me, it was paradise and if I had to perish with my books, that would be enough.

                       The handmade table was spread with a white, Irish tablecloth. It was a gift from my mother and thus not often used. This, however, was a special occasion.

                        We ate the imported cheese and consumed the whole bottle of Puerto Rican rum. The rain never ceased, but we were mellowed against the adversities of nature. Now the white tablecloth was stained by our mutual frivolity, so I decided to roll a joint and pulled out my guitar. Mike enjoyed my diverse repertoire, stretching from Bob Dylan to the shores of Ipanima. We had a great time, but the rain didn't stop. We told him we could rig something up for him for the night but he insisted that he could get a cab. He said he came from Oregon. This was nothing for him. He laughed and he was gone.

                        He came to my art exhibitions and we had a few beers and jokes. In fact, the last time I saw him was at an exhibition I had in December.  He told me: "You know Harry, I don't know anything about art, but I sure do like your colors..."   I never saw him again, for he drowned in the Pacific. Perhaps there was…"a current under the sea (that) picked his bones in whispers..." and in a moment.."he passed the stages of his youth…Entering the whirlpool…"

                       He was not tall and handsome like Phlebas the Phoenician sailor, but he was my friend.

ARE YOU A DOG PERSON OR A CAT PERSON

                                       ARE YOU A DOG PERSON OR A CAT PERSON?

                                  HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

                    These were the elucidating words from the Cultural Affairs Officer from the American Embassy, in awarding the outstanding prize for the outstanding artist, in some corner of what might be considered a Central American existence.

                   But; what does that mean? Ostensibly the difference between a man a rat!

                   The outstanding prize, for the outstanding artist was given to a dog person, for it was a staunch rule in the American Embassy, to favor that breed of companionship. This was determined on the fact that a dog could be trained to heel, while a cat was an independent entity and most likely its companion might share the same opinion. Thus the former could be trained to heel to government rules, while the latter had to be rejected out of hand.

                  Exactly how all of this coincided with the outstanding prize for the outstanding artist, was not clarified: but it was inferred that the omniscient and omnipresent forces were also at work at dismembering the world of art, with as much deliberation as open warfare.

                 The outstanding prize, for the outstanding artist, from the outstanding country, was given with great pomp, considering the circumstance and then all the said animals then went home to roost.

                 The lesson to be learned here, was that one had to be circumspect, when asked the question: ARE YOU A DOG PERSON OR A CAT PERSON?

I HAVE NO IDEA

                                          "I HAVE NO IDEA! "

                                      HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

                     Was the standard answer, to the question of which no one knew anything about? Yet, it radiated a kind of herd poison that infected the masses into relinquishing their individuality. It was frightening in its classic repetition.

                     They all wanted a change, for their dismal economic situation was less than lean and waning. Some swerved to the right and others to the left, while those in the middle were trampled down as being mere spectators.

                     Military might to control the situation was thwarted by the staggering number of individuals, who would have to be butchered. There were almost not enough bullets for that. Besides; the other side was armed with determination, as well as Molotov cocktails.

                   Thus, the world leaders began to disappear and everywhere their absence created anarchy. What was worse was that it was not isolated, rather universal. The beast in man had reached its full potential. The black abyss was before humanity, just as the backdrop of space which surrounded the planet, was equally impenetrable.

                  And all around this sphere of darkness, there remained a light. No, there were many lights of luminous intensity. Not a few, rather tens of thousands which had already been counted.

                 They did not communicate with the restless masses. It remained that there was no one to answer their question and if there would have been, the answer would have inevitably been the same…"I HAVE NO IDEA!

                     

COME SEE OUR TREE

                                                          COME SEE OUR TREE!

                                                   HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

                         It was a difficult problem to choose the right Christmas tree, which would go under the bay window in our middle class home, in the suburbs of Pittsburgh.

                        Difficult, because there were many specimens of spruce; dethroned at the base and disposed upon a parking lot, where all the neighbors deliberated on the same subject. How would the bare tree be decorated below the same bay window in all the look alike habitations, in the said housing plan?

                       My father was a salesman, so he knew all the jokes and antidotes. He was a pitch man, who knew how to sell his product. I don't think he was particularly religious, although he had a catholic sense about the necessity to sell. During the said religious season, this was obvious.

                      It was all glitter and glitch and people were happy because they had their yearend bonuses, from the large corporations, which they represented. It was my father's bonhomie, which required him to say something. So he did. His stock phrase was: "Come see our tree!"

                     And now? Now it's all plastic; waterproof, fireproof and well deleted from the original purpose, although his words still rock me to my foundation. "Come see our tree…"

                    God bless his memory.

THE SIDE SHOW

                                                         THE SIDE SHOW

                                                  HARRY THOMSAS DANVERS

                                   "There's a sucker born every minute!"stormed B.T Barnum.  He was the inventor of the three ring circus, under the Big Top.

                              The first time I went to see the said phenomenon was with my father in Philadelphia. I was about ten years of age at the time and the whole thing was a strange combination of human and animal species; brought from distant continents and flavored with the scent of their own grandeur. It all consisted of straw; sand, dirt and the displacement of all that under the Big Top.

                             I remember it was raining and therefore the area was difficult to traverse. My father had to help me around the mud and we sat in bleachers, which were not first class seats. They were at the top and nothing more than painted, gray planks, the kind found in high school football stadiums in the late fifties and early sixties.

                            It was tremendous; at least for a little shaver like me, for there were three huge rings, of distinctive shows, which I could not watch at the same time.  I tried to concentrate my interest at the most outstanding, but since B.T. had a knack for talent, he had them all blazing with an international flare and I was wont to dart my attention from the lion trainer, to the man on the flying trapeze.

                           I was about to ask my father if he would take me to the side show, when the elephants stampeded. Almost everyone thought it was a part of a novel act, but the truth came out the next day in the Philadelphia Inquirer.  Through the negligence of the trainers, the elephants had gone wild and if they had not steered them through the openings, he might have overturned the bandstand seats and toppled us all over into primordial oblivion.

                            It didn't happen, of course, but the side show closed up after that.  I don't know if it was because of the rain or for the fact that the elephants had to be rounded up.

                           But, missing the side show had always bothered me, even after I migrated to Silicon Valley and made my first million in the computer game. There I met a different kind of three ring circus, but good old B. T. was always present in my mind and I managed to make a killing with a new kind of sucker.

                           Yet the side show continued to haunt me, for I entertained periphial vision of expanding my gains, with congruent enterprises, sustained by the Big Top I had already established; complete with its three rings.

                         Everything went well for a few years, for like the three rings; I had invested in an international spectrum. The Big Top remained strong and active and I was defraying gradual loses from the main company.

                         It was on my seventieth birthday that the elephants stampeded. The Stock Market took a dive and all that I had invested was lost in a minute.

                        I was left with my skivvies and a house on Long Island. I sold my Van Gogh's and Picassos and was left without servants and a swimming pool without water.

                        I realized that this was the main event, but couldn't help but consider what might have happened, if I would have attended the side show.

IT ALL STARTED IN GREECE

                                                       IT ALL STARTED IN GREECE

                                            HARRY THOMAS DANVERS

 

          Such were the words, as I remember them, from Dr. Dow, in the history class, during my underguduate years at Columbia.

                   "There appeared the crux of western civilization, which, in essence, was defined by three salient scholars. The first was Socrates, the second Plato and then Aristotle, who culminated everything previously complied into what he called "deductive reasoning" This later became the germ for scientific advancement, which was not only a boon for the Western World, rather all mankind…"

           The reason I remember these words bordered on several issues, which, instinctively, put me at a disagreeance.  In the first place there were many civilizations before Greece. What preceded the Egyptians, I was not sure, but Greece, to me, was but a drop in the philosophical ocean. The tapestry of minds, which had come down to us, was like a Turkish rug, continually to be walked over and left threadbare.

            Those were the thoughts that ran through my mind at the time; although I am not certain if they were the exact words. It was as though his rigid doctrine pierced my heart, which remains the guardian of the soul.

             I later went on to get my Masters and PhD in Philosophy and many years later retired from a small college in West Virginia.

             I expounded the curriculum, which Dr. Dow had expostulated and which I scorned, with subdued delight. I got my tenure, grew a beard, and shacked up with a student, in my final year before retirement. I don't recall how I performed, but she did pass the course.

           If it all started in Greece, with its rise and fall, then essentially there was nothing to learn. I considered that history is the conscience of mankind…and if it forever stoops to frivolity; where will it end?