poet

Lonely Fisherman

geometry of our world

Have you ever felt that things are not going right
traveling on a train, hours turning long and hollow
the geometry of our cities, bizarre and strange
grey clouds manifestations of our discomfort
  A world asphyxiated by man-made senselessness
 
From a lighthouse humankind is a lonely fisherman
pulling up his nets from the side of his boat
hopelessly unaware of the colossal orb and suns
encompassing his insect-like labors and concerns
  Our insignificance engulfed in an universe of mystery

Behind the Chaos of Creation

 

 

I was dark as a gigantic shadowed mountain

I was impenetrable like a frozen ocean

I was silent like cactuses in a desert of nothingness

I was absent as the cold sleep of death

I was static like an atom between galaxies

But I was not alone, not abandoned

We were lovers, young and passionate

We made love, through and through

Our bodies flew away in the agony of pleasure

Then we both, in the horizon of thought

Disappeared like gods behind the chaos of creation.

Who am I?

If an apple would expand to the size of the earth
One atom would be the size of the original apple

If my brain would expand to the size of the earth
What portion of land would hold my consciousness?

If an atom would expand to the size of my room
The nucleus of the atom would be the size of a speck of dust

If my neurons would expand to the size of the earth
Would I find myself at the level of continents, rivers or trees?

If the veil is lifted and the cosmos exposed
Will weight disappear,
     and matter and I,
                    become undistinguishable?

Immensity

 

Feel free to venture into it,
Those lands of lucid revelations
Upon the contemplation
                        of a tree
                            or an ant
The formation of a cloud
                        or the wind in skies
Submerging into the intimate universe
While our sight becomes a tongue
in warm moist contact
With the immensity that surrounds us

 Oppose it no more,
Engulfed in the tenderness of the night
Surveying the voids of the galaxies
Stand maskless on the precipice of every moment
            In a frightful convulsion of disbelief
Powerless: halfway between wonder and adoration

Hopeless eyes

From this region here to that other geography
From this sober dream to that brittle philosophy 

From this silly present to that uncertain future
From this strange human to that evolving creature 

From this labyrinth life to that simple death
From this fleeting day to that final breath 

What consoles my hopeless eyes?

Confession of Horror

 

I am afraid of the world

I am terrified by its size

                   Its unpredictability

I fear its mouth

It’s going to swallow me whole

 

I am surrounded by a wasteland of panic

I am going to perish in agony

                             Alone

 

What can I do but wait

                   Endure

Survive the intense torture

 

This is rape!

The world is raping me to death

 

I am paranoid of the Chaos

                   I have no control…

Cloud of Haze

 

 

If the world has no love
No sweetness nor sorrow
If the days would rain
Like featureless water
Bountiful and boundless
What purpose shall we serve
In this cloud of haze –
In breathing without air
Dreaming without dreams
We find ourselves choiceless
In this flame unlit
With nothing here
                       Nothing indeed

The Perfect Death

Sleep is the perfect death
How I enjoy to fall asleep
‘Tis as-I-leap and fall
into that gentle abyss
So gentle a Death
that it does not kill me
for I still am
        yet I know not
                     where

The Mold of Reality

THIS IS HOW I SEE IT…

Artists, poets, musicians, philosophers, scientists – in short, anybody who creates becomes a sculptor of human reality. They all exhibit aspects of human life that are present – or possible. One life is not enough to survey all the possibilities that can be brought upon the living experience; we must share with each other the Spectrum of the Possible, because we need more than two eyes to visualize the totality of human existence.

 

In a world where most men and women are concerned primarily with “making a living”, that is, having enough money to buy stuff and have sufficient comforts for raising a family; in this world the prospects of poetry, pure science, art, philosophy become irrelevant, if not insignificant, at least, secondary.

 

But my view is contrary to this widespread carelessness. I conceive life as this:

 

We are a crowd of gazing eyes all found in the depth of a lush valley. Most eyes are focusing on the ground, ensuring that each step is safe, reasonable (and profitable!). But amongst this majority of conformists there are a few visionaries that focus on more than just the flatness of the ground. These few are studying the trees around, gazing at the stars, describing the colors of insects, monitoring the motion of the wind, and endless observations take place that are ignored by the mass of robotic somnambulists. All these irrelevant and beautiful things the minority gazes at are equally real as the beaten path most walk upon.

 

To end this metaphor I kill everyone and then ask the reader to capture what human life would have been without these few wanderers:

it would only be a muddy track of monotony.

 

 

 

No complex forms of nature (trees), no immensity of space (stars), no microscopic detail (color of insects), no invisible mystery (motion of the wind), etc.

ONLY A
MUDDY PATH…

This is the importance of the poet of human existence, of the artist of human potential, of the musician of the human imagination, of the genius of human exploration. They give depth to human life, they bestow on reality a wider dimension.

 

Some come upon this rotating planet to fill the mold,

                                                                Few others come here to fashion this mold.