from above

poetry_of_future

They found a bulge
between Amaliegade
and Esplanaden
and it was in the news

and the hearts
shook with dread

a long sack of skin.like flesh
growing from a thin string
into an enormous
bulk

a man stood drinking the ship
in a circle of dizziness

the lights of police
and the endless of an image

no one could understand the revolution
and beauty of the bulge

it was hauled off the street
like a rainbow
as a miracle of the flame
as heresy from our pedestrian slopes

factories puffing shades
roaring with flags and chords
of iron ringing
in the suburbs

it is pronounced that this age
will collide with the pillar
stumps of science

and melancholy is a growth
like tumor
in the heads of those
that gaze             with wonder
from above.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

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

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

nocturnalist

poetry_of_time

There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
himself mad
speaking loudly
and evening
with lawlessness
into rivulets a feather
nobody wings
possibility’s a stream
hours whirl
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
upon memory’
he listens
apparently
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
about time.

Contemporary Poetry

eleven short cantos

contemporary_poetry_blog

I

Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
the chord
that screamed for more.

II

Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.

III

Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.

IV

The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.

V

The mirror is red with rage.

VI

The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.

VII

I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.

VIII

The streetlight turned red.
Grass burning
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.

IX

No one dead has come back
to tell us
anything.
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
to that.

X

How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
in memory.

Xi

When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
soft sorrows.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

how to write a poem

contemporary_poet

The trick is to close the eyes.
To look for the thing
crawling below the carpet of darkness of the lids.
Remain still like a hunter. Do not stir
even if a sliver of light echoes through the emptiness.
You’re looking for a boom.
It starts with a swirl of symbols
curling around each other
in wild experiments of mutation.
You’re looking for a spark, an isolated
hazardous word that will scale
up the fence of perception, to consume
the whole plantation of thoughts.
Venture into this plague of accidents,
advance as a whirlwind upon the dunes of ash.
Soon the darkness begins to burn bright,
you are a sun leaping into a single atom
witnessing a birth to the naked eye.

 

Contemporary Poetry