michael hogan Poems
In memoriam Francis X. Hogan (1913-1974)
On Sunday mornings in March my father
would take a homemade kite broad as his back
up the hill near Reeve's Farm.
This was how men learned of flight
he told me then.
Racing down that hill to catch the wind
where there was none to speak of,
the kite (gradually lifting) caught at last
on a thermal from the sea his running almost reached.
He told me breathless watching it rise:
The Chinese were the first.
They made them shaped like dragons
which in those days roamed the whole earth
free and ...
-Viña del Mar, Chile
Ascend those hills away from glitz of Malecón and Casino
where streets tangle around themselves and stone buildings
built by Spaniards still stained with blood
hold the damp and mold of age-old conquest.
Teens spill out of noisy antros and climb cobblestone hills
watched by bouncers with swollen arms and faces cold as gargoyles.
Below the looming bulk of El Castillo