21st century poet

across a boundless place

One day I took a look and there was a place. In that black density a lace began to arrange memory like a bow around every name that I remember, back then, throwing outside, out there, like small smooth stones. I craved to eat the clouds in the mud of my imagination; I was a child in rags (how many clouds had transpired) before I learnt a world was a word capable of eclipsing all the things of the world. So I craved to forget every flavor of sound to rediscover suddenly the purple of music under the noon of my eye. (Always I’ve been making things so real and why is there only an ugly street, this very instant). I remember softening the sky and making a drum in unison with horizon. I won’t claim here that I’ve invented the universe just because I’ve made giant centuries sleep in my mad silence. I’ve only borrowed infant atoms of late. Perhaps I’ve always been alone preexisting like a submarine below the surface of time. I’ve been waiting like a peculiar magnet unnoticed in the abyss. Perhaps this here is not an ugly street but a vein carrying the fatality of the dream to a new pulsation. Perhaps this reverie is not a quick line scrawled on another page of earth. I see now that the poet has started to unearth his own visions beneath the thirst of trees. I see him proudly unintelligible against all the violence of thought. I see now that the poet still craves the flesh of the clouds and has made brightness a bridge across a boundless place.

Contemporary Poetry

for voyages

Descend aloud
into the art
of the thing,
before words with
enormous arms
bind us to awful
regions of totality

be unique
alone afraid
as the shiver of
twig, partly
shaded by
the inexact locus
of the clouds

rest in the dominion
of a figure,
aslant and radiant
like a candle
in its own silent
culture

adduce nothing
and the inner light
makes a thorn
to thunder upon
the dark innocence
of sensation

look below
as the summits
know little of
our wounds we
use as vehicles
for voyages that take
place behind
the language of order.

Contemporary Poetry

history of the abode

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

There was a time.

When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.

There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.

There was house.

A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.

There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
silver stars.

There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.

There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.

There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.

There was a home.

When purpose and space
were known a hundred
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

Contemporary Poetry

fields of visions

Long breadth
an afternoon
in the ebb to unknown
was braver ago
than this flow of impetus.

The endlessly ontological
thrust of here. In accordance to
some laws rooted in seed and smoke,
a dab of cosmos along the tracks
early in the familiar day.

Awake, awake and a consequence.
For here is the strength to lift
the poison of life and its powerless
perfume.

This body still nested
as soft dull, still, born, erosion.

Then, at that point,
I perceived that all around
me were fields, fields
of wheat and leaves.

I perceive the sun
as particle in
the lazy pulse
of the sea.

Then deep smaller
motion creating
the assemblage of hours.

To them as tight
as horizon, in the
feminine shadow of
sorrow.

Contemporary Poetry

behold the word

A poet holds a word
like a heavy tragedy.
A poet holds a word
like a loud apocalypse.
A poet holds a word
like an epic miniature.
A poet holds a word
like a historic voyage.
A poet holds a word
like the cup of disease.
A poet holds a word
like the blood’s island.
A poet holds a word
like the axis of light.
A poet holds a word
like the noise of truth.
A poet holds a word
like an immense event.
A poet holds a word
like a vital bone.
A poet holds a word
like the spine of god.
A poet holds a word
like eternity’s tear.
A poet holds a word
like the basis of the earth.

Contemporary Poetry

Pose for me

Take off your clothes.
Peel off every last layer.
Squat, further down.
Place your left arm over your left knee. There.
Bend your upper body to the right. Just there.
Right foot a tad over to the right. Lean forward
the other arm straight down touching
the coldness of the earth. Don’t look
at me, look down as if something
great and heavy was pushing you down
restraining your mobility, locking you
with the awkward chain of the body itself.
Untighten your abdomen. Relax the brow,
look defiant as if you’ve been angry
for years, but tired and nearing hopelessness,
like an irrational animal that’s exhausted
from growling in its cage.
There, let your member hang. Let the
pain of the bones and joints led
to convulsions, feel the crush and the pendulum.
Begin to accept this position as your end,
as your skin’s predestination.
There, that’s it. It will be over soon.
I almost got it.

It will be over …. soon.

Contemporary Poetry

Like everything else

Burning—the stars are burning.
Rows and rows of flame where we row
arrows were descending like hot petals of fire.
A muscle swells and the voice
speaks between curtains of blaze.
The fire is in the world
and every instant is its fuel.
Staring, standing, seeking
with star-studded pupils
one word is spoken: fire
fire that burns all the pinnacles,
the sacrifice, the holocaust of sacrificing
love, the historicity of the encounter.
Escape woman, hold on to my wings
as embers consumed in this climate
of fire.
The stars — are burning.
Like everything else
we’ve touched, sensed
and desired in the charred medium.
Even the lines of our silhouettes
are wriggling as coils of screeching oils.
Your lips will say it,
when a starving spark devours
those tiny lengths of brief candlewick,
your lips will say it
over and over again
until I will think of nothing else:

Burning—the stars are burning.

Contemporary Poetry

bellsound

If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.

Someday come.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
of thoughts.

The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
of remembrance.
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
lights.

When all meaning
at last
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
bellsound nestled
by chance
in the straw
of the verb.

Contemporary Poetry

to hide the earth

hide the earth

I shove this earth
into a labyrinth
of song

as a poor
anchorite
sewing mountains
to his thoughts

as a forest
measuring
the future
with the footsteps
of an ant

I blink
two white
sails when
light is a
black wind

as lips
that find
the spiral
of a whisper

as a cloud
the stranger
mistakes
for a weeping
galaxy

I pretend
to hide the earth
behind
the cathedral
of each sound

Beyond Language Poetry

Ding an sich

philosopher poet

Don’t ever
seep into words
forsake the colors
and phenomenon can rain
towards black, equidistance
to every night

sleep
as the thing-in-itself
within the shadow
of one thought

soon no externals
but the perception as bread
feeding cold stomachs of mind

don’t lay claim to matter, chain
blind domain but instant unity
where space is skin and
bodies bounded as kissing
tongues

CONTEMPORARY POETRY BLOG