TODO TITULO SUBRAYADO ES VÍNCULO A LA PÁGINA CORRESPONDIENTE

Eric Chaet

eric.jpg

SOLIDARITY & BEYOND
 
I'm the son of parents who never found their feet
of migrants from where they'd never completely arrived
to another place they never completely arrived
& also the son of their neighbors from everywhere 
likewise groping & flailing 
among some who would take advantage of them
more solidly established or imagining they were so---
but mainly among those too busy trying to avoid joining them
to lend a hand or meal or hygienic quarters---
so that fighting versus gravity, winter, & pathogens
was what they specialized in
making a career of exerting themselves
without sufficient understanding, resources, or rest
til they died of the constant effort.
 
I, too, witness the migrants who never arrive
groping & flailing 
among some who would take advantage of them
while I'm so busy mainly trying to avoid joining them
or merely living & dying, specializing in the effort
of fighting versus gravity, winter, & pathogens---
& trying to figure out how profitably to insert myself
among others likewise trying profitably to insert themselves
in the midst of those so desperate for immunity
from the mere struggle versus gravity, winter, & pathogens
that they don't believe they can afford the time 
to become & be righteous, wise, & kind.
 
I'm an old man, yet such a son, still
& while I live, I hope to become more effective
in service to those whose need is even greater than mine---
my hope is to become more & more effective so---
I have little time left, but more understanding
tho understanding is never complete, always evolving---
habits of ineffectiveness & effectiveness, likewise---
not merely to express my solidarity with those suffering
nor merely to be esteemed by others
expressing solidarity with those who are suffering---
&, without losing hope, not merely to hope, either 
 
I don't mean to insult those expressing such solidarity---
I'm expressing such solidarity, too!---it's a start---
nothing good begins without a good intention---
but words aren't enough, tho they're part of what's needed---
first, ideas formed, correctly, within oneself 
then words for the ideas---no easy matter
while you're a specialist in groping & flailing---
then the words launched somehow into the world
where others can consider them, if they will---
& compelling enough, somehow
that some, eager to speak, not listen
will actually listen, & consider them 
& modify their behavior accordingly
if you've managed to make advantageous suggestions
regarding more effective behavior---
however much they're groping & flailing.

 
Beyond groping & flailing
 beyond words, beyond expressing solidarity---
eventually---may you & I while we live reach the point---
we could discuss how actually to transform the situation---
it's happened again & again, enough already, no?---
transform it temporarily here & there, first
also making an impression, more than words 
that no one & nothing can annihilate---
& eventually, eventually---actually---forever, everywhere.
 
If it's not possible, why are we talking?
Are we just trying to impress one another
that our sentiments are correct
& that we're clever with language?
 
If it is possible
let's get beyond suffering in solidarity
& transform the situation more & more effectively---
always with mercy even for ourselves---
not just exerting ourselves to exhaustion
& dying of futile efforts, as so often happens---
but not contenting ourselves, either
that we've finally managed to put into words
our anguish, indignation, solidarity.

 

 

Born, Chicago, USA, 1945.  Raised on rough South Side.  Janitorial, clerical, factory, warehouse work, teaching jobs from the East Coast to West, years of hitchhiking, often sleeping outside, eating little.  25 years solo consulting assignments: logistics, manufacturing, space exploration, & agriculture operations research out of my northeast Wisconsin home.  I study a lot, & try to modify behavior according to what I learn.  Album of songs: Solid and Sound (1977).  Books: Old Buzzard of No-Man's Land (poems, 1974), How To Change the World Forever For Better (telegraphic philosophy, 1990, second edition, 1994), People I Met Hitchhiking On USA Highways (narrative prose, 2001).  About 1,500 posters (silk-screened on scraps of cloth) stapled to utility poles across USA (1985-1995).  100 So-Called Poems (website, 2007 - now).  

SOLIDARIDAD Y MÁS ALLÁ
 
Soy hijo de padres que nunca encontraron su rumbo de migrantes
que nunca llegaron por completo a donde llegaron antes
o ningun lugar llegaron completamente---
y tambien soy el hijo de sus vecinos de todas partes
igualmente tanteando y agitando
entre los que se aprovechaban de ellos
mejor establecidos o creyendo que lo estaban--
principalmente entre aquellos demasiado ocupados
tratando de evitar unirse a ellos
darles una mano o comida o una vivienda higiénica ---
así su desafío para sobrevivir, el invierno y los microbios
¿lucha poderosa ,enorme esfuerzo, sin comprender nada
sin recursos y así hasta morir.

Yo también soy testigo de los migrantes que nunca llegan,
a tientas y agitándoseentre algunos que se aprovecharían de ellos
mientras estoy tan ocupado principalmente tratando de evitar unirme a ellos
o simplemente vivir y morir, especializándome en el esfuerzo
de luchar contra la gravedad, el invierno y los patógenos ---
y tratando de descubrir cómo insertarme rentablemente
entre otros, tratando de insertarse igualmente
en medio de aquellos tan desesperados por la inmunidad
de la mera lucha contra la gravedad, el invierno y los patógenos
que no creen que puedan permitirse el tiempo
llegar a ser y ser justos, sabios y amables.

 

Soy un hombre viejo, pero sigo siemdo hijo
y mientras vivo tengo la esperanza de ser más efectivo
al servicio a aquellos cuyas necesidade son incluso mayores que ls mías ---
mi esperanza es ser más y más eficaz, así que ---
Me queda poco tiempo, pero más comprensión
no solo para expresar mi solidaridad con los que sufren
sino paea la comprensión que nunca es completa, siempre evoluciona ---
hábitos de ineficacia y efectividad, igualmente ---
expresando solidaridad con los que sufren --- 
no simplemente para ser estimado sino
para tampoco perder la esperanza.
 
No pretendo insultar a quienes son tan solidarios---
¡También lo hago! --- es un comienzo ---
nada bueno comienza sin no hay buena intención ---
pero las palabras no son suficientes,
aunque son parte de lo que se necesita ---
primero, ideas formadas, correctamente, dentro de uno mismo
luego palabras para las ideas --- no es fácil
mientras eres un especialista en andar a tientas ---
entonces las palabras se lanzan de alguna manera al mundo
donde otros pueden considerarlas, si lo desean ---
yson lo suficientemente convincentes. 
de alguna manera algunos, ansiosos por hablar, no escuchan.
 
Si realmente escucharan considerian
modificar su comportamiento, -
por mucho que estén a tientas y agitándose.
Más allá de tocar a tientas y agitarse más allá de las palabras, 
más allá de expresar solidaridad ---eventualmente --- 
tú y yo mientras vivimos y lleguemos al punto ---
podríamos discutir cómo transformar realmente la situación ---
ha sucedido una y otra vez, ya suficiente, ¿o no? ---
Transformarlo todo temporalmente aquí y allá,
causando impresión, más que palabras que nadie y nada pueden aniquilar ---
y eventualmente, eventualmente --- en realidad ---
para siempre, en todas partes.
 
Si no es posible, ¿Por qué estamos hablando?
¿Estamos tratando de impresionarnos unos a otros?
que nuestros sentimientos son correctos
y que somos inteligentes con el lenguaje?
Si es posible
vamos más allá del sufrimiento en solidaridad
a transformar la situación más y más efectivamente ---
siempre con misericordia incluso para con nosotros mismos ---
no solo esforzándonos hasta el agotamiento
y morir de esfuerzos inútiles, como suele suceder ---
pero tampoco contentarnos
que finalmente logramos poner en palabras
nuestra angustia, indignación, solidaridad.

 


 




Nacido en Chicago, EE. UU., 1945. Criado en  el South Side.Autoeducado,  recorre losEE UU desde muy  niño trabajando en limpieza de oficinas, fábricas,  almacén, desde la Costa este hasta el oeste, años de echar dedo  en las carreteras a menudo durmiendo al aire libre, comiendo poco. Así y 25 años de transferi sus experiencias t dando consultoría individual en  logística, fabricación, exploración espacial y investigación de operaciones agrícolas. Formóun  hogar en el noreste de Wisconsin. Estudió mucho e intento modificar el comportamiento de acuerdo con lo que aprendía. Tiene un Álbum de canciones: Solid and Sound (1977). Libros: Viejo zopilote de la tierra de nadie (poemas, 1974), Cómo cambiar el mundo para siempre   y para mejor (filosofía telegráfica, 1990, segunda edición, 1994), Gente que conocí haciendo autostop en las autopistas de EE. UU. (Prosa narrativa, 2001). Alrededor de 1.500 carteles (serigrafiados en trozos de tela) grapados a postes de servicios públicos en todo Estados Unidos (1985-1995). Poesía   Poemas taL llamados  .


MEN
by Eric Chaet
 
 
Tom's been on the job 3 months, still smiles, can't shut up about precision with which he runs machines.
 
Klem was born in Lithuania, Germans cut off his military schooling, & gave him choice to work or fight for Germany,
labored in Lithuania, Brazil & Argentina, for railroad in Pennsylvania, speaks 6 languages, looks like T.S. Eliot with muscles,
wife may be dying of swollen neck glands in hospital, where doctor don't promise nothing, & they rob you in broad day.
 
Israelis chased Abe the Arab from his home, he had 22 date trees 6 miles west of Jerusalem, he crawls into machine
whenever it malfunctions & quickly fixes it, thinking about divorcing his pregnant wife who believes
he is having an affair with her cousin, & shows me every consideration-he says Shalom,
I say Salaam-when I make boxes for him, demonstrating with hands each shorn a finger to second digit.
 
Harris speaks only to black men, only snaps at me when has to, gray specter tinctured dark brown.
Sam thinks being Polish is a joke on him, smiles in round layers of fat, reaching across circle
to grab hot plastic with cotton gloves, setting up huge 18 below.
 
Groundhog Benson banged his head & opened pouring hole, blinked twice, & said 2 shots would fill it, followed by 2 beers.
 
Ken eats candy bars & swells noiselessly over rebelling nerves.
 
James Lee Johnson's a giant black youth once walked from Wisconsin 31 cents in pocket,
to find he'd lost a job, too tired this last month to lift weights at home.
 
Woody says he has 3 years of law school & is worth $165,000, housepainter 37 years,
retired & took this job to not relax, can't keep hands off me trying to demonstrate quick cuts
of razor thru thick film among jerking oily rotations.
 
Pete's wife of 19 years left him to run away with motorcycle gang, now brags of his lover
met in tavern & callousness to wife, broke-hearted, fading white smoke, foreman, disappearing before my eyes.
we drink some beers 63rd & Cicero, mornings, driving home.
 #1484, shift 3-D, midnight till morning, polyethylene division, Chicago plant,
earning some money, I quit.

THE NEXT MOMENT
 
I live right in the middle of everything:
between Venus & Mars, the arctic & Amazon.
I have more money & freedom than some,
less than others,
more skills & understanding than some,
less than others.
I live between birth & death, history & the future.
 
On the one hand: elementary natural forces-
on the other: the market, political machinations,
traditions, & widely-held beliefs.
 
People don't call me much, but I have a phone.
Some people have heard of me, but not many.
Some pay attention to what I say, but not many,
& not often, or for long.
 
I'm not without power-
but people with far more power than I trigger events
that sweep me along like tsunamis.
I live in the era of capitalist revolutionaries:
they innovate & organize, squeeze all possible profit
out of the labor & materials they synchronize-
these are no shrinking violets!-
then use the profits to innovate again-
leaving all they previously created obsolete,
& any who can't keep up,
stranded by the side of the road
with a lot of fancy, odd-shaped appliances
that have little application
to their current needs or hopes-
like children's toys,
five minutes after they tire of them.
 
I live among capitalists, the stranded, & children.
People don't notice me-I'm one of them-
right in the middle of everything.
 
After the time of hunting & gathering,
& improvising a language,
while the tribe moves on;
& after the time when the peasants-
with their tools, land, & animals,
& confessors, plagues, & lords-
were sure where they belonged;
& after the cities, factories, nations, & wars-
I continue into whatever the future is going to be.
 
I'm for liberty, but justice, too.
I'm for justice, but liberty, too.
Yes! I say. No! I also say.
I'm not altogether confident, or without hope, either.
The next moment is a mystery to me.
I not only don't know what I'm going to do:
it's not even clear to me
what I hope to accomplish.

A Man Swerves His Car

A man swerves his car as tho to hit me
where I stand on road shoulder
torn between thumbing a ride east from Kansas City
& watching a crew lay bricks on a newly-erected wood frame.
At the last moment, he turns aside.
He wants me more aware of death & of himself & myself
if I'm going to stand in midst of world
that's driving him back & forth along highways.


EMPATHY
 

I dreamed of neighbors
only slightly known
secretly suffering
their hopes thwarted-
that I could do nothing for them
& couldn't even prevent
myself from being one of them.

GREAT BATTLES

The so-called successes
of my celebrated contemporaries
are so puny, I'd laugh
if I weren't afraid
that the congregations
of the taverns, churches,
courts, & arenas
would beat me
til I'd feign respectfulness.
How I wish
I'd hear from those, like me
engaged in great,
unnoticed battles!

STATE STREET, CHICAGO

Beneath law, lie ocean, ape, & dream-
branches & leaves
wrestle & dance with wind
roots reach elsewhere.
Broke-nose Chicago
ascends the lumbering bus
jamming in aggravated swarms aboard
or slowly thoughtful in worn clothes-
to feed the work addiction,
morning & streetlamp night.
My grandmother on my father's side
rode by horse-back from Pharaoh & Babylon
the Persian & Seleucid empires
English, French, Spanish, German expulsions-
nationalism & bigotry breaking the feudal shell
the dismantling of Poland-Lithuania
& arrested development in the Pale of Settlement-
access to nutrients deliberately withheld-
then incited rioters, while police stood by
burned the roofs under ecstatic, autistic fiddlers-
time to move or die, however dire the options-
thru mechanized, electrifying Germany
by locomotive to the steamer ark-
& emerged from the rocking, implacable sea
at Baltimore-& caught another connection
thru Cumberland Gap's doppler zones
to this booming refrigerated railroad car city-
as ravenous for cheap sewing machine operators
as for cowed, driven, bellowing meat.
Trailing Assyria, caesar, czar of all
Odessa & Kiev, hasid, & kosher butcher.
She met her man on day shift
& lived behind store-front
near penalized black Africans
mafiosa & their wives & children
Irish cops & bars & tenors
& stench of pig & steer massacres.
I am only trying for a straight account
of how I come to be walking up State
sucking Chicago's rusty teat
dreaming & growing stronger.

STATE STREET, CHICAGO

Beneath law, lie ocean, ape, & dream-
branches & leaves
wrestle & dance with wind
roots reach elsewhere.
Broke-nose Chicago
ascends the lumbering bus
jamming in aggravated swarms aboard
or slowly thoughtful in worn clothes-
to feed the work addiction,
morning & streetlamp night.
My grandmother on my father's side
rode by horse-back from Pharaoh & Babylon
the Persian & Seleucid empires
English, French, Spanish, German expulsions-
nationalism & bigotry breaking the feudal shell
the dismantling of Poland-Lithuania
& arrested development in the Pale of Settlement-
access to nutrients deliberately withheld-
then incited rioters, while police stood by
burned the roofs under ecstatic, autistic fiddlers-
time to move or die, however dire the options-
thru mechanized, electrifying Germany
by locomotive to the steamer ark-
& emerged from the rocking, implacable sea
at Baltimore-& caught another connection
thru Cumberland Gap's doppler zones
to this booming refrigerated railroad car city-
as ravenous for cheap sewing machine operators
as for cowed, driven, bellowing meat.
Trailing Assyria, caesar, czar of all
Odessa & Kiev, hasid, & kosher butcher.
She met her man on day shift
& lived behind store-front
near penalized black Africans
mafiosa & their wives & children
Irish cops & bars & tenors
& stench of pig & steer massacres.
I am only trying for a straight account
of how I come to be walking up State
sucking Chicago's rusty teat
dreaming & growing stronger.


PENNSYLVANIA WHISKERS & A RUSSIAN LADY

On our way to march in Washington
we filed in from the bus, shaking with cold
breathing white vapor into the coal-grimey air
& hunched over the all-night counter among bleary miners-
strangers brought together
on another mission unlikely to succeed
for sanity & justice
elbowing mugs of steam to nostrils.
Drops of chocolate malt trembled at my new beard's tips:
one blackened, wheat-bearded, piercing-eyed miner
swiveled on his stool, & bellowed for my benefit:
Let them whiskers grow, young fella! Let them whiskers grow!
There was giggling about it, rolling thru Maryland:
but I was thinking of the woman in the green dress
alone-she'd seemed old to me-at the free concert-
synchronized emanations from within the shell
Lake Michigan slapping its concrete shore-
one crew-cut summer evening in the Loop next to Mom-
who was carried as an infant from one empire to another
before I had a clue how Grant Park or Chicago came to be
or in which third doomed empire
Beethoven harvested, then deployed the sounds-
who, seeing my book, said, "Anna Karenina, ah!"
&, when I nodded, rattled Russian off
so hard & fast-I thought she'd cry
when she finally noticed my uncomprehending eye.


PENNSYLVANIA WHISKERS & A RUSSIAN LADY

On our way to march in Washington
we filed in from the bus, shaking with cold
breathing white vapor into the coal-grimey air
& hunched over the all-night counter among bleary miners-
strangers brought together
on another mission unlikely to succeed
for sanity & justice
elbowing mugs of steam to nostrils.
Drops of chocolate malt trembled at my new beard's tips:
one blackened, wheat-bearded, piercing-eyed miner
swiveled on his stool, & bellowed for my benefit:
Let them whiskers grow, young fella! Let them whiskers grow!
There was giggling about it, rolling thru Maryland:
but I was thinking of the woman in the green dress
alone-she'd seemed old to me-at the free concert-
synchronized emanations from within the shell
Lake Michigan slapping its concrete shore-
one crew-cut summer evening in the Loop next to Mom-
who was carried as an infant from one empire to another
before I had a clue how Grant Park or Chicago came to be
or in which third doomed empire
Beethoven harvested, then deployed the sounds-
who, seeing my book, said, "Anna Karenina, ah!"
&, when I nodded, rattled Russian off
so hard & fast-I thought she'd cry
when she finally noticed my uncomprehending eye.

A Man Swerves His Car

A man swerves his car as tho to hit me
where I stand on road shoulder
torn between thumbing a ride east from Kansas City
& watching a crew lay bricks on a newly-erected wood frame.
At the last moment, he turns aside.
He wants me more aware of death & of himself & myself
if I'm going to stand in midst of world
that's driving him back & forth along highways.


EMPATHY
 

I dreamed of neighbors
only slightly known
secretly suffering
their hopes thwarted-
that I could do nothing for them
& couldn't even prevent
myself from being one of them.

GREAT BATTLES

The so-called successes
of my celebrated contemporaries
are so puny, I'd laugh
if I weren't afraid
that the congregations
of the taverns, churches,
courts, & arenas
would beat me
til I'd feign respectfulness.
How I wish
I'd hear from those, like me
engaged in great,
unnoticed battles!

A Man Swerves His Car

A man swerves his car as tho to hit me
where I stand on road shoulder
torn between thumbing a ride east from Kansas City
& watching a crew lay bricks on a newly-erected wood frame.
At the last moment, he turns aside.
He wants me more aware of death & of himself & myself
if I'm going to stand in midst of world
that's driving him back & forth along highways.


EMPATHY
 

I dreamed of neighbors
only slightly known
secretly suffering
their hopes thwarted-
that I could do nothing for them
& couldn't even prevent
myself from being one of them.

GREAT BATTLES

The so-called successes
of my celebrated contemporaries
are so puny, I'd laugh
if I weren't afraid
that the congregations
of the taverns, churches,
courts, & arenas
would beat me
til I'd feign respectfulness.
How I wish
I'd hear from those, like me
engaged in great,
unnoticed battles!

To say that the enterprise that underlies the emails coming from Joseph Berolo  is impressive, is an understatement.
 A lot of it passes me by, as translating from Spanish is difficult for me, & Google's translations are far from elegant, let alone poetic.
 As always, I find most poetry---English, Spanish, everywhere; ancient, modern, all times; all styles---not to my liking or advantage. 
Although  the poetry I like & find advantageous, I love, & consult again & again.)
 I am most impressed with what Joseph has   done, organizing, making  himself  capable, making so much happen.  It's wonderful.
 I like to think that he haS  done something equivalent, but few can see the results so far, & many of the results are yet to emerge, so can't be displayed.
 I appreciate his attention to the website of my 100 so-called poems, of 50+ years:  ericchaet.wordpress.com.
 Toward the end of the menu, there is a page called The Turnaround Artist, on which I tell a very little about the results so far.
 Please, I can see that, if anyone is busy, it's you.  I don't expect you to look at the site.  I only offer it, in case you're interested.
 I believe it to be extraordinary, tho. Keep it up!

 


Decir que  el proceso  que subyace en las  creaciónes provenientes de Joseph Berolo es impresionante, es un eufemismo.
Mucho de eso me pasa, ya que traducir del español es difícil para mí, y las traducciones de Google están lejos de ser elegantes, y mucho menos poéticas.
Aunque  encuentro que la mayoría de la poesía: inglés, español, en todas partes; antiguo, moderno, todo el tiempo; todos los estilos --- no  es de mi agrado .
Sim embargo,  la poesía me gusta y me encanta, y la trabajo de vez en cuando- Estoy muy impresionado con lo que Joseph ha hecho, organizarse, hacerse capaz, hacer que todo suceda. Es maravilloso.
Me gusta pensar que ha hecho algo grandioso pero pocos ve  los resultados y  muchos  los aprecian, Agradezco su atención al sitio web de mis 100 supuestos poemas, de más de 50 años: ericchaet.wordpress.com.
Hacia el final del menú, hay una página llamada The Turnaround Artist, en la que cuento algo de lo  poco que  he logrado Hasta ahora que  Josepoh  publica lgo de mi obra, 
 Le agradezco mucho porque  si alguien vive  ocupado, es él- . Creo que  lo que hace  es extraordinario, Eric