postal poetry – Page 2

January 2, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Horseman, pass by

This entry is part 10 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'The horse I rode in on, a proud Andalusian steed, screamed like a native when it was cornered by that rabble of cooks.'

Replacing yesterday’s installment in the series, which is now the focus of an exciting contest: Name the Strange Roundish Object in the Digital Postcard! See comment thread for details.

January 1, 2009 by Dave Bonta

Gilt

photo of an oak apple gall with a poem about El Dorado

December 29, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Misfit

This entry is part 9 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem:

December 27, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Legend

This entry is part 8 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'Because we appeared to have come from where the ocean meets the sky, the Indians thought we were emissaries of the sun. They'll believe anything, these infidels.'

December 27, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Knight

This entry is part 7 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'Grief was the armor I brought with me from Extremadura.'

December 25, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Prima materia

This entry is part 6 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'Before we brought them more specialized tools, they used to make blades and mirrors from the same black stone: blades for killing, mirrors for capturing souls.'

For a larger version of the photo sans poem, see here.

December 24, 2008 by Dave Bonta

The birds

This entry is part 5 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'The forest went halfway to forever. There was a kind of dove so numerous that one flock could darken the sky for a day. It wasn't natural.'

December 23, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Ignorance

This entry is part 4 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'The locals are so ignorant, they didn't even know that they were poor until we told them. We put them to work turning mountains upside-down. When the mountains are gone we'll make a fortune farming the wind.'

December 22, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Waste land

This entry is part 3 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

Poem: 'The land gets under my skin and festers. Its native inhabitants dwindle from unknown causes. Old-world weed seeds germinate in the crevasses of my bootprints.'

(For an uncaptioned version of the photo, see here.)

December 21, 2008 by Dave Bonta

Off the map

This entry is part 2 of 16 in the series Postcards from a Conquistador

hoarfrost on the ridge