English, puis le français y después l’español.

This poem (or poems) began to be unearthed as I was riding my bicycle along the Seine on my way to the Instituto Cervantes, and a draft first line came to me: “We would have a cannibal tell us.” In my mind at the time the idea was that he or she would tell us what we tasted like. After this, in fits and starts, the poem took form. It became a favorite of mine perhaps particularly just for its original opening couplet; however, as often happens, in time I found myself less impressed. Rewriting/overhauling seemed called for.

And by then, in September 2026, the media had begun reporting that AI might destroy all of humanity within the next decade. Certainly this, and, to a lesser extent, the ongoing wars and disorder, the resurgence of fascists, influenced the revisions (or new poems?) I made at this later date. (N.B., this month William J. Broad and Cade Metz wrote for the New York Times an excellent analysis of the existential risk our species faces. They, for example, quote Oren Etzioni, a professor at the University of Washington and the founding chief executive of the Allen Institute for Artificial Intelligence: “If I had to worry about either an A.I. escaping the lab and killing millions of people and a virus escaping and killing millions, it is no contest. The worry is the virus.”)

Allow me also to here tip my cap, or website, to Simón Mesa Soto, Ubeimar Rios, Rebeca Andrade, Guillermo Cardona, Allison Correa and many others for their superb movie, Un poeta (A poet). (Muchas gracias a Simón Mesa Soto, Ubeimar Ríos, Rebeca Andrade, Guillermo Cardona, Allison Correa y muchos otros por su magnífica película, Un poeta.)

English

The cannibal poem

What might a cannibal tell us,

With a licking of the gums?

And might the Earth while turning,

Just forget about the sun?

And could one flower graying

Set off on a run?

Dismay as gray as my brain,

I wonder what’s next to come?

Français

Le poème cannibal

Qu’un cannibale nous le dise,

En léchant ses gencives. . .

Notre Terre si tourbillonnante,

Aimerait-elle quels médicaments ?

Nous reste-t-il un vœu

Que les fleurs n’ont pas formulé ?

Et vire-t-il au gris, notre sang,

En voyant tout ce qu’il nous arrive?

Español

El poema caníbal

Que un caníbal nos lo diga,

lamiéndose las encías.

Y que la Tierra, mientras gira,

deja las rutas antiguas.

Que unos cálices de unas flores

nuestros veranos sobrevivan.

¿Crees que no somos más que imanes oxidados,

o podemos aprender a amar?

— Poem(s) and photograph by William Eaton

Check out Eaton’s 2024 collection of poetry and prose: 4 billion eggs.