Poetry

migrations

poetry_of_swans

How they got into thought

– the swans –

nobody knew

how they would echo through logic

like a kite in the wind

and

like little girls

they would comb their feathers

with infinite time on their hands

– these swans–

had a sense of mission

but they are complex

creatures with sin as a stain

on their coats of snow,

who knows if they’ll go back

to the nervous quivers of the pond;

for now, they’re stuck

like a satellite

to the cusp of an hour

and I’m embarrassed

to admit

that I stare at them

all the time

as they sleep between

the chunks         of words.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

and the emptiness of

poetry of despair 2013

A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock

after death

love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand

every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol

of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic

mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes

love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand

those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;

the forgotten
labyrinth of him.

Contemporary Poetry

rockn’roll

dream_poetry

I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.



Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Tripartite
		

	


			

			
postmodern_poem_2013


Hello.

Anybody here?

Heylooo?


A priest

and a prostitute

enter a bar.


They come up to the counter.

The bartender: what canna getcha?


The hooker smiles,

same as yesterday, Sam.


The priest, swollen

and sweating smiles,

I’ll have a dark century, Sam.


The clouds moved through

my notebook, anxious

as snails along rugged time.


Someone?

Anybody?


The prostitute shows

the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.

$15 a boob job.


Alfred white as a number says, OK.


I drew a whole city in my notebook

and

in one corner

I built a home

yellow with a mountain of beauty

inside the living room.


Knock, knock.


Alfred was gratified, the stars

trembling in his dark glassy pupils.


That’s $15, she said.


Half the pages are torn out,

theoretical mistakes I say;

but the bulk of my notebook

has black markings


like the shadows of birds

in a mile of snow.




Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			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

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			us
		

	


			

			
postmodern_poem


They told me to squeeze

structure

into home

and open windows

to air out essence

see I have been obedient

shedding coats of laughter

like films of light over

a miracle of corner,

and this thing

consciousness is hanging

like dust


in the atmosphere

but we’ve

made arrangements


and passion is hard

like furniture,


mahogany and steel

like dream and real


together bound

in braid


somewhere near

the end of this


and the world

tiny pretty thing


climbs into the air

like a moth


to disappear

over the object

and become invisible

like the rest of


us.




Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			Memory has become an uncomfortable lump in my consciousness.
		

	


			

			
poetry_of_memory


It quivers

constantly and endlessly

ripens into new peculiar

shapes.


Needless to say

it increases weight

every minute,

often requiring immense

exertion to fit it in a corner

so it does not overshadow

the timid appearance of

the present.


It branches out

like a gluttonous tree

in all directions,

wavering disparate aspects

of itself without logic

or internal organization.


A primeval adolescent kiss,

a manure fight in the fields,

a quote from Montaigne

the location of masking tape

in a storage room, all mingle

shamelessly like an orgy

of bacteria in the Petri dish

of my mind.


Language is forced to perform

extreme feats of lucidity

to convey the peculiar manifestations

with which memory

fuddles the intellect.


I imagine a day

when consciousness of the present

will be completely drowned

by the swelling tsunami of memory,

leaving the brittle instant of now

floating like débris

on a flood of lifelong reminiscence.


 




Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			19A
		

	


			

			
Avant-garde-poetry


A saint is a stain on white monotony

aloud he thinks: I

am a strange dot among the government of lines;

a mystic is a calm slip into abyss

all joking aside he says:

above the city leaps into tower;

a shaman is a subject under the tyranny of wholeness

aware of segments he asserts:

a fraction is mind lost in the order of totality;

alone in the world every man wonders:

afraid like a leaf in autumn my life

amidst the rain;

a poet is an absolute ark of air

abstruse and above all

a little puddle of reflection

at the end he writes:


a full world and its aura

asleep inside a shoebox

an allegory for barefoot monks.


 


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

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			BASED ON
		

	


			

			
bukowski_burning_in_Water_drowning_in_flame


‘in the madhouse a man kisses the walls


and dreams of sailboating down some


cool Nile’


I have this book open at page 93.


I don’t know why.


It could have been another page


even another book.


if it belongs here


IN YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS (you fool)


should you consider


finding a knife


and begin carving the letters


of the thing of tomorrow


on that table in front of you


we are all arms around the world


and we share the flesh


and it’s going to be hard to explain


why bukowski decided to write


‘the dark is empty;


most of our heroes have been


wrong’


it is opposite of the page: part II


of his book Burning in Water


Drowning in Flame


was he dissatisfied with the idols


that humanity has been able to cough up so far


was he frustrated with the incomplete answers


that savants have left after more than


2500 years


we are left in the dark


as to the reason he decided to title


part 3 of that book:


At Terror Street

and Agony Way


imagine writing


‘it was a splendid way in Spring


and outside we could hear the birds


that hadn’t been killed


by the smog’


as a subtitle to your third chapter


was he implying


that it’s a miracle


that the morning is not stained


with our mumbling


that the evening is not polluted


with our parades


 


the last page


the last three lines


state unequivocally


I will never understand men


but I have lived


it through


 


AND I UNDERSTAND HIM


BECAUSE HE NOW SLEEPS


LIKE PLASMA IN A


CLOUD OF  MEMORY.


ANTIPoetry