One of my
earliest memories is
of afternoons in
the backyard, standing on
a wrought iron chair that
was painted
lime green.
My creativity was ferril.
The paint was peeling,
And the sun beat down
upon me.
I was 5 years old.
and the Genesis of my
writing career began.
Below my chair was a plastic
swimming pool filled with water.
I sang leaving on a jet plane I
I understood pathos,
and plot, and melancholia.
In my mind, I was a man
leaving a woman.
As I jumped into the pool
I could smell loneliness.
And I understood the
descent, the separation,
the sadness.
And in my little life,
and in my big heart,
under that hot July sun,
The poet was born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem