A PIOUS WOMAN

Poem By Nicolás Suescún

The fridge sits purring happily
in the corner of my kitchen,
well-behaved, domesticated,
house-trained even.
Once a week I give it milk and food
and clean the mouldy stuff
from its bottom box.
Open the door, a lightbulb comes on
as if a cartoon character is thinking...

all night long the fridge is dreaming
vague folk-memories
of its ancestors roaming wild
on the plains of the Serengeti -
roaring, not purring,
fridges to be feared -
or their temperate Northern cousins,
lurking in pine woods,
putting the wind up the Picts
like a large white oblong yeti.

Perhaps these days are not yet over.
There must be some still in the wild:
I saw one on Tuesday morning,
lying on its back in the wide grass verge
on the Ludlow bypass,
a roadkill fridge to add to the countless
badgers, foxes, cats and rabbits
littering that highway of death.

From where I read, if I stretch a bit,
I can see my fridge, sitting thinking.
How long will it be satisfied
with just a pint a week
and the odd tray of sausages?
Will it one day pull me in,
a giant Venus fly-trap,
and purr no more, but belch and roar
as, smashing through the veneer
of generations of fridges
tamed, dulled, zombified,
my fridge responds with all its pump
to the call of the wild?

I sit and watch it, stretching a bit.
It sits in the corner, quietly dreaming,
contented,
for now.

Comments about A PIOUS WOMAN

Thanks for the timely warning, Bill! I don't know about wild fridges but I do think my fridge is stirring up trouble with the boiler - they are both old revolutionaries from the seventies and I often hear them grumbling togather... Great concept and cheered me up no end!
Blancaphobia! ! A new word for a new phobia. And to think that all these years I have been suffering from whitegoodsblindness and never knew...........
A great plot of Dr Who in there somewhere (o: What an original piece of poetry!
OMGosh, what a fun read. This was absolutely fabulous and perhaps the most unique poem on the net. Wonderfully written too. I was captivated throughout the entire poem. Truly a creative work of art. Bravo
Loved reading this poem. It was very funny and interesting at the same time.: -)


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Other poems of NICOLÁS SUESCÚN

UNA BEATA

Lenta, sofocada, se da contra los muros,
se para aquí y allá para tomar aliento.



Dos cuadras le llevan una hora
del cuartucho a la iglesia,
una hora se le va en dos cuadras
de la iglesia al cuartucho.



Entre santos de papel y santos de argamasa
balbucea plegarias, practica la Esperanza
y el Espíritu Santo la consuela,
el Sagrado Corazón le guía los pasos,
la Santísima Virgen intercede por ella
y el mismo Jesús lindo a veces la visita.

PEQUEÑO POEMA A MI PADRE EN ESPERA DE UNA LARGA Y TENDIDA CONVERSACIÓN QUE MUY PROBABLEMENTE JAMÁS TENDRÁ LUGAR

Con usted no puedo hablar de nada
a pesar de que mis ojos
y mi nariz sean suyos
-me lo han dicho-
o de que yo haya sido
su mayor imprudencia
-me lo han dado a entender-
y de que en cierto modo
sea usted quien camina
-soy yo quien lo sospecha-
cuando voy por la calle.

A SMALL POEM FOR MY FATHER WHILE WAITING FOR A LONG AND EXTENDED CONVERSATION WHICH VERY PROBABLY WILL NEVER TAKE PLACE

With you I can't talk
about anything
even though my eyes
and my nose be yours
—as they've told me—
or that I have been
your greatest mistake
—so they've suggested—
and that, in a certain way,
it's you, not me, who walks
—which is what I suspect—
when I walk on the street.

EL ARBOL DEL MANICOMIO

Tocó en todas las puertas y ninguna se abrió,
se asomó a todas las ventanas y todas se cerraron,
era una manera de decirle:
tal vez hay más puertas y ventanas
que las que has soñado.
Apeló a las instancias más altas
y se humilló ante bajos personajes,
hizo de payaso en las calles,
las gentes hicieron mofa de él
y lo encontraron en un manicomio
donde entre más pregonaba su cordura
más honda su locura y sin remedio la creían.
Así que en las horas que pasaba en el patio
aprendió a convertirse en un árbol,
y el viento entonces, al mover sus hojas,
dejaba oír su subyugante canto
y música hacía al mecer sus ramas.

THE MADHOUSE TREE

He knocked on all doors and none opened,
he looked at every window but all were closed.
It was a way of saying:
'There are more doors and windows
than you've ever dreamed of.'
He appealed to the highest courts of justice
and he humbled himself before a lot of people,
he acted the clown in the streets.
His family almost forgot about him
but one day they found him in a madhouse,
where the more he announced his soundness
the more they thought his madness deep and cureless.
So during the hours he spent in the courtyard
he learned how to become a tree,
and then the wind, as it swayed its leaves,
produced a subjugating song
and made music when it shook its branches.