here of time (a translation)

poetry of time

here
in this stone
not one two sounds
rain neither in the air
or light giving echo in its shores
here
was quiet
and very slow
in this blue-ceiling stone
there was no yesterday it was beautiful
without clothes and open nudity
dripping between the legs
of day and night of glass
without stars or questions
all transparent
without language
asleep with names
like shadows in the
shell here of time.

 

(a translation of http://nihilisticpoetry.com/2013/09/29/aqui-del-tiempo/)

Contemporary Poetry

aquí del tiempo

poesia_y_tiempo

aquí
en esta piedra
no habían sonidos
tampoco en el aire lluvia
ni la luz daba eco a su orillas
aquí
había silencio
y mucha lentitud
en esta piedra de techo azul
no había un ayer era hermoso
sin vestimenta y desnudez abierta
goteando entre las piernas
del día y la noche de vidrio
sin las estrellas ni preguntas
todo transparente
sin idioma
con los nombres dormidos
como sombras en la
concha aquí del tiempo.

 

 

Poesía Contemporánea

arterial aerial

modern_poetry_blog_21st_Century

Cleave to that place

arterial

the vessel no the aerial

where fading flight merges

with being and life

is no longer

an only particular

thing

but interior of great

continuity

of circulation density

dripping

in center toward

multiplicity

and radiates back

into blood

the skin, your eyes, your hands

the fur of the world

at your fingertips.

Contemporary Poetry

BASED ON

bukowski_burning_in_Water_drowning_in_flame

‘in the madhouse a man kisses the walls

and dreams of sailboating down some

cool Nile’

I have this book open at page 93.

I don’t know why.

It could have been another page

even another book.

if it belongs here

IN YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS (you fool)

should you consider

finding a knife

and begin carving the letters

of the thing of tomorrow

on that table in front of you

we are all arms around the world

and we share the flesh

and it’s going to be hard to explain

why bukowski decided to write

‘the dark is empty;

most of our heroes have been

wrong’

it is opposite of the page: part II

of his book Burning in Water

Drowning in Flame

was he dissatisfied with the idols

that humanity has been able to cough up so far

was he frustrated with the incomplete answers

that savants have left after more than

2500 years

we are left in the dark

as to the reason he decided to title

part 3 of that book:

At Terror Street
and Agony Way

imagine writing

‘it was a splendid way in Spring

and outside we could hear the birds

that hadn’t been killed

by the smog’

as a subtitle to your third chapter

was he implying

that it’s a miracle

that the morning is not stained

with our mumbling

that the evening is not polluted

with our parades

 

the last page

the last three lines

state unequivocally

I will never understand men

but I have lived

it through

 

AND I UNDERSTAND HIM

BECAUSE HE NOW SLEEPS

LIKE PLASMA IN A

CLOUD OF  MEMORY.

ANTIPoetry

I’m not a nihilist

Nihilist_poet

What happens at city
when blank is a building
and the corner is brutish
and the road ahead pale
like something at the end of time
see nihilism is a tentative position
an aggressive form of modesty
because below the blue sky
a head is incapable of understanding
the many things that are absurdly naked
in the world;
of all words
we select a crown
to place that holy concept
over our heads like laurel
to impress the wavering leaves of trees
see nihilism is nothing about thought
but about feeling what thought cannot attain
at the light you stop and feel the beast
the wise thunder of blood
and what happens when city
is trembling and being chased
by whiteness or a hot drunkenness
you pick a word
and make claim that it will save you
under the streetlamp
like a natural haze
at that common street
you remember like an ascetic
that this flesh will be forgotten

 

Contemporary Poetry