A Town called Buendia (pour Marquez)


Buendia was where my bald woman
took me to see fire
there being none in my town

We all ate grass
Fine grass it was

When she showed me the chunks of fire
my mouth fell open in awe
because, as she leaned forward I saw
two little wings of fire
sprout mysteriously on her nipples
both breasts
either side
while I grew cloven feet of fire
and the guitar the muezzin crier was playng
burst out in flames

I had to kiss her
as the sun caught fire
Our lips were on fire
and unmentionable but true
our clothes were peeling off in strips of molten lava
revealing more than nature intended us to

While we were going back her breasts took off
and watching anxiously we waited
till tired
the little wings of fire, four
brought them back to her
and doused themselves
were never seen again

Por favor
let me tell you
in your ear a secret

I knew then itself
that Marquez
was dead.

(c) Koshy A.V.2014

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About terrestrian@gmail.com

Dr A.V. Koshy is presently working as Assistant Professor in Dept. of English, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Jazan University, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. He has authored or co-authored seven or eight books of poetry, theory and criticism. He is an editor and anthologist. He is also a distinguished teacher of the English language and literature and a critic, with a Ph.D in modern poetry, specifically Samuel Beckett's poems in English. He was a Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry in 2012 and his book Art of Poetry was selected as Best Reads 2012 by Butterfly and the Bee. He has been editor's pick on Camel Saloon thrice and poet of the month thrice in Destiny Poets UK besides often having his poems appear in the highly selected category. Has other international awards, diplomas and certificates to his credit too.

4 thoughts on “A Town called Buendia (pour Marquez)

  1. Louis Kasatkin

    A fitting tribute.

    For additional information ,I gleaned the following from the LA Times online-

    By Chris Kraul and Thomas Curwen
    April 17, 2014, 3:54 p.m.
    When Colonel Aureliano Buendía faced the firing squad, time slipped away, and his life became a dream. Before him rose the mythical town of Macondo and its retinue of gypsies and their pipes and kettle drums and magical inventions.
    Of course Buendía’s dream belonged to the teller of the tale, Gabriel García Márquez, whose novel “One Hundred Years of Solitude” casts a spell upon readers that can never be broken.
    A Spanish galleon lies in the jungle, its hull “an armor of petrified barnacles and soft moss,” its sails dirty rags, the rigging adorned with orchids. A child is born with the tail of a pig. Lovers tryst among butterflies and scorpions, and when it rains, it rains for four years, 11 months and two days.
    García Márquez may not have invented magical realism, but he was its most adept practitioner, capable of mixing the transcendent and the bawdy, the whimsical and the tragic in equal proportions.
    The 87-year-old Colombian writer died Thursday at his home in Mexico City, according to Rafael Tovar y de Teresa, president of the official Mexican cultural association.


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