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

thirst

windows to soul

Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:

Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….

Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.

In the same play, Cyrano wrote:

Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.

One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.

That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.

So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.

Contemporary Poetry

drops of truth (a translation)

drops of truth

I have felt the temptation to exist
as oblique impressions of black mystery
on the muted mantle of a desert

I have felt the necessity of vanishing –
diving in the diaphanous ocean of death
in search of its currents of agile repose

I have felt the secrecy of the soul
it moves as a needle marking seconds
over the limpid circle of silence

I have felt the province of oblivion
as drops of dawn attached to the crystal
of my eyes when I contemplate – truth.

 

 

 

Peregrino – Wayfarer

Wayfarer Poet

cuando terminé
de empacar
el universo
en mi mochila
ya había olvidado
a donde iba,
quería sentir como si
un candelabro opulento
colgara sobre
mi cabeza
iluminando con sus mil
brazos
todas las distancias
en este palacio
de tierra,
el destino
por más sinuoso que fuera
terminaría en el abismo
por eso te dije
antes antes antes
de que seamos polvo,
seamos barro unánime
en las manos
del alfarero,
un tazón
lleno de vino
para el poeta,
un seno de arcilla
en la boca del
dios que canta.

 

A translation:

 

By the time
I finished
packing
the universe
in my rucksack
I had forgotten
where I was going
I want to feel as if
an opulent chandelier
hangs over
my head
illuminating with its thousand
arms
all distances
in this palace
of earth
however sinuous
the path
it ends in abyss
so I told you
before before before
we become dust
let’s become unanimous mud
in the potter’s
hands
a cup
full of wine
for the poet
a breast of clay
at the mouth of
the god
that sings.

 

contemporary poetry

neon break

Neon Yellow Beer Morning

This wide open
sky
an echoed moon
on barely born hours
my couch
sitting watching
half moon, half
sky
half azure
half self –
light advances
neon
on surfaces
gilded by miracle
this pure instant
when no one
is watching.

Prosopopoeia

Poetry_of_Nihilism

My creator
has abandoned me
the hands that spun these
verses
are now caressing
night axioms and
mysticisms,
the poet left
me
a poem
sunken
somewhere lost
in the motions
of the automatic world,
I am the victim
a spirit
that occupies briefly
whatever soul
treads these words
but, alas
ultimately doomed
to perish
as your
eyes
approach
my final
sigh.

nihilistic poetry