costa rican poet

Travel: Here, is the clamor.

sound_of_india

Here, is the clamor.
Totality crackling.
I gather every seed of noise
as grains of rice
inside my cupped hands.
A nomad hymn has travelled
as a fantastic bird
through an atmosphere of time.
Its reflection is a worn
anatomy of ripples:
moving slowly like a full
moon pulsating on a lake’s surface.
The song and the silence
have become animals
savagely wrestling for
a piece of creation. I’m
watching their pristine
movements from a land
where gods sit next to
man, woman and child;
where we all sit
rapt and perplexed
by the howl of the light
and the course of silence.
This is a land where even the gods
confess not knowing their origin;
much less the nest
from which the primal rhythm took flight.

Contemporary Poetry

to sit

But to sit
inside to mourn
the faint flame of the tongue
a domain bursting with curl
don’t move these eyes
they soon thunder
behind two happy lips

asleep

to sit uprooted
of her hairs not beatific
by the window
to mourn, winter, the weight
sentenced to be borne
by a few final thoughts
they encircle waves around

minutes

to sit certain
of a scene, dream, or green unhappiness
I could roar like a hallucination
inside the tiny mount of my sleep
but to mourn
in the morning
without a second chance to

kiss

to sit
and the heart
shivers like a wet bird
to mourn
unblinkingly
like twigs of rain
towards soon of old

tomorrow

Nihilistic Poetry

against the city

against the city

when some disease erodes
the asphalt
a newer skin
to sow
our crooked shadows

when some orbit of dirt
surrounds
the hunting heart
where some twig
losses a single
leaf

when a step no longer
interred
in a busy old grid
but to settle upon
the new element
of pause

when everything
imitates memory
and wreck
pick up a stone
and imitate its
barbaric sleep.

…

This was, of course, a fictitious escapade. To flee from the constraints of the invisible system by leaping onto a wing of image. But the hard aphasic stone of man’s city is impervious to our poetry. We must drag our heavy bodies over predetermined paths. Poetry is drunkenness. And tomorrow we must awake scarred, shaken and as fixed as the streets we nauseatingly tread.

Nihilistic Poetry

Coincidence of Opposites

to stare at her
for hours
while her shadow begins
to curl like trunks of smoke
on the wooden floor

to escape the heavy
brief pale
gaze of
strangers

to be close to her
as close tangled
irreversible
as hours are to years

to hear her voice
like the hieroglyph
of a flower
carved into the
speech of rocks

to touch her eyes
when the walls of the world
become calm timorous
mirrors

to face each other
and collide like antonyms
in the swelling unity
of love

about a wall

My eternity
is the wall
holy plane of cement

there
a bird
stuck in solid whiteness
upon inspection
the rusty limb
of a nail

dawn is
but a hole
a minor cave
between two framed
photographs of the sky
of Arizona

a babel rising
against this vertical horizon

books and books
leaning against
my immobile infinity

a finger
combs the
miniscule craters
as if caressing
a tooth of God

my wall
neither
warm or cold
a monk’s sigh
converted to stone

 

 

 

Absurd Poetry

the predicament

Absurd poem

it may be . . .

that nothing can be understood
that trees make waves of transparent flying ointment
birds fluttering wings in atomic curls of laughter
a pebble the size of pain sinking in the stomach
of minds with no hands sculpting the invisible thought
a hole in the ground where we plant a bone
so it blooms like a flower of striped fire
confusing the stars for our parents
and pale dry flakes of sin as our former selves
the hand making shadows on the empty wall of time
where nothing can be changed and we sit
on sidewalks oozing the ancient bubbles of speech
mirroring the breath of drying tobacco fields
and swimming where the saliva twirls in gold desire
because we did not control the first kiss
that enamored us with fatal bliss of birth
that ends in destined death

it may be . . .
that nothing can be understood

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

the breadth of a breath

death poetry

it is in that last
place
where life is surrendered
and in one flicker
we must die
absolutely

forgiving
beauty
for having existed
and now
been taken away
in one last
absurd breath

every moment
revolves around
that final moment

and if there is any meaning
it is this

the immeasurably short present
being swallowed by nothingness

all details
consumed and
blurred

it is this
single and
isolated tick
of time

where we live
and
unendingly

shiver.

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

empty course

The petal has rivers

long opulent light against the breast
solely swirls in silent colors
my skin upon the sky’s skin –

certainties are wrestling
over collapsing possibilities

the leap has a tinge of sorrow
the chain rattles

a river of petals
aging
on an empty
course to bliss.

.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog

there

Poetry of eyes

There
by the brook of your stare
I meet the sound
of your drowning,
‘alas’ so light and lasting
a word surfacing like sighs from your eyes
I make room and stand back
so you run into the invisible
curl of a mistake,
my child you’ve begotten
sadness and its truth
is more distance than those streaming
glares that leap from walls to illusions –
there
I recognize our mutual meaning
nowhere in this fog
the outline of solution
nor the source of our misery.

Nihilistic Poetry

in red illusion

buried
in red
illusion

in the anthropomorphism
of ginger youth

in the great convulsion of beauty
affliction mirror fountain and edge

in dense mist of light
waiting for events
to dissolve

in
truest
red illusion

a hum
emerging

like hot laughter

from the frozen
fields of ego