M. E. Uribe
I am undergraduate student at Vassar College where I enjoy the joys of a liberal arts education (aka not following a specific path). I was born in Bogotá, Colombia and lived there until I was sixteen when I moved to the DC suburbs. I love dogs, modernist classical music, dancing, and 'stewing'. Poetry previously published in Poetry Quarterly and other small school journals.
Dry maroon leaves fall–
clouds scatter at a distance–
I can’t help but cry.
I Can’t Explain
I catch myself thinking about nothing
and sink into a wave of nostalgia.
I don’t know the wave’s true origin
or where it takes me–smoothly sailing–
I simply ride the wave like a marlin
that has miles of open water between
himself and the next member of his species.
Everything looks like nostalgia under
certain dim lights. Any memory
that’s entertained for a little can slip
the heart into sadness–wishing to
relive or change some action. But it’s like
throwing anchors into open air.
I don’t know what got me in this state.
The Pastoral New England Splendor
I have seen you walk through snowy forests,
pick apples and look at wood piles, walk through
the dead of night, your face somewhat porous,
I have also felt your heart’s inner dew.
So tell me, Robert Frost, how many times–
by a candle at night while you read myths–
did you fantasize about nooses and cliffs?
Did you wander into the pines
while you were lonely–maybe a little drunk–
and meander to dark ponds to wonder
how dark! how deep! to what depths will I sink?
Underneath your pastoral splendor
I see something rotten–it really stinks–
your words take me to the darkest brinks.
In the Afterlife I run into a Sad Scientist
I see you lingering, Madame Curie,
as you try to comprehend history.
True, Chinese emperors drank mercury,
Burroughs left an eerie murder scene,
Goebbels and Hitler were allowed to breathe,
worse, now some believe their deed a myth.
Well, it’s all frustrating when you look back.
I know you understand, my dear Marie,
I see you still in utter disbelief–
you can’t comprehend how the world turned black
on august sixth, nineteen forty-five,
no apology given, just a sigh.
Shh! Don’t cry, mon cherie, it’s not your fault!
Bad men like to turn white doves into crows.
let’s talk about
fast cars and
quick creeks and
far pools and
new routes and
whatchu wanna see
let’s hold hands–
now or whenever–
go out to dance
or sit together
©2014 M. E. Uribe