Olga Orozco- No Doors

With burning sands styling a number of fire over time,

law with a wild animal lurking danger from its burrow,

with vertigo looking up,

your love is kindled but a lamp in the middle of the night,

with small fragments of a world consecrated to idolatry,

with the sweetness of sleep with all your skin covering the cost of fear

in the shadow of leisure tenderly opened a range of celestial meadows,

did everyday loneliness I have.

My loneliness is made of you.

Take your name on your side of stone

in tense silence where they can play all the melodies of hell;

walk beside me with your empty step,

and has, like you, that look that I’m going to look farther each time,

yesterday to a glare that dissolves in tears, in ever.

The doors to my left as one leaves the heir to a

                   [Realm of anyone who goes out and never comes back.

And it grew by itself

feeding on these herbs that grow on the edges of memories

and on stormy nights produce mysterious mirages

scenes with the best bonfires fed fevers.

Well I’ve seen people with blurred malls who sacrifice love

-Invincible characters marble, blind-absorbed as the distance,

or deploy in the middle of a room that rain falling seaside

away in another part ¨,

where you will be filling the bowl with water a few years of neglect.

Sometimes blowing on me with a south wind

a stormy song that suddenly breaks into a broken throat groan of bliss,

or try to delete a piece of ragged hope

goodbye that you wrote with the blood of my dreams in all crystals

to smite everything I watch.

My loneliness is all I have of you.

Howl with your voice in every corner.

When named with your name

grows like a sore in the darkness.

And a sunset up in front of me

that cup of sky was the color of wet poplar and in which

                            [We have drunk the wine of eternity each day,

broke and not knowing, to open the veins,

for you were born as a god of his splendid duel.

And he could not die

and his look was that of a madwoman.

He opened a wall

and walked into this room with a room that has no outputs

and where you’re sitting, staring at you in another life like my solitude.

Ferenc Juhasz – Birth Of A Foal

As May was opening the rosebuds,

elder and lilac beginning to bloom,

it was time for the mare to foal.

She’d rest herself, or hobble lazily

after the boy who sang as he led her

to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.

They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,

the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.

Then the mare lay down,

sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.

The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows

surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.

Later, when even the hay slept

and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,

the foal was born. Hours the mare

spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.

And the foal slept at her side,

a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.

Straw never spread as soft as this.

Milk or snow never slept like a foal.

Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,

waved at the world and skipped away.

Up staggered the foal,

its hooves were jelly – knots of foam.

Then day sniffed with its blue nose

through the open stable window, and found them –

the foal nuzzling its mother,

velvet fumbling for her milk.

Then all the trees were talking at once,

chickens scrabbled in the yard,

like golden flowers

envy withered the last stars.

URL: http://able2know.org/topic/16231-1

Gyorgi Petri – Hanging Question

Here I’m sitting on the bed,
I can see all the way out to the doorway,
I can see
my wintercoat, my hat,
my scarf
on the hanger.
Why not
my wintercoat, my hat
my scarf
sitting here on the bed,
and me hanging
on the hanger?

Would they watch me?

burning crooked roses

coyotes yip !

as i walk through baby cyclones

up the stairs to the sky

as she remained

on sweating rocking horse

deeply sea pearl glint in eye,

oh is there anything else other

than immortality,

reward and wisdom,

have i become the dog

that runs through muddy rivers

to wash the gasoline of brutality off,

i will never see an algae

covered stone coffin,

horse keeps rocking

travelling this

unremarkable earth machine,

stairs behind me

as are leaking babies

and crushed beercans,

no cloud castle

old vagrants song rings softly,

weeping in whitman’s embrace

i have left human shape

finger shadows reach

as frozen spider would,

my once and fevered love

rides on

a file cabinet on the east bound state road

six drawers of the universe

filled with life he could not leave behind

twenty year commitment gone,

thick neck and morning lit face

parked up station wagon

silver leaf scars rusting

doors with rattling windows,

behind a marriage gone like perspiration,

a third from the sun creature

pushed into the office

low humbled

shoulders shrugged into body,

grasped that file cabinet

dragged it to the door lifting carpet tiles,

tailgate flipped open,

company property someone shouted

another mentioned 911,

all other lives abandoned

this was all he had,

one last look

eyes like roses on granite,

pulled away

smearing rubber traces,

freeway surrounded by suburban houses

urban outcrops to his canyon

that became a void,

cassette music kept the corpses away

those corpses of the past

that seem to claw and linger,

a siren

was it for him,

tailgate flipped lock busted

as file cabinet slid progressively out,

braking hard

it dropped on blacktop

engine stalled

a dead bronze beetle

car horns swarmed about,

grunting stood upright that grey oblong

last piece of life

scuffed and scraped,

small key on his chain unlocked top drawer

took out a warm shaken bottle of whiskey

and the gun he kept here since his wife

became afraid,

sucked in air

climbed on top and sat crosslegged,

heaven had shadows that would not conceal him

as he waited,

bullhorn call on gentle breeze

curved outline of the day a flat surface,

and a smile so human appeared

http://dversepoets.com/

 

 

 

Charles Bukowski – Last Straw

Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980

Vasko Popa – A Forgetful Number (Zaboravan broj )

bourbon flavored font’s

two glasses unwashed

sat upended fragile in their shine,

opened bourbon

a long mouthful held then swallowed

his bourbon her breakfast,

moving from one room to another

morning cool on skin

she wore only panties,

typewriter on oak

bold keys hold promise

again it was his

the cat shared moved onto lap

as sitting down,

chatter of keys as poetry flowed,

to him she was a disposable muse,

she did not care

being on all fours

fucked from behind

staring at cotton bed linen

her mind could think

without his face ,

all he needed was the mirror to pose,

weave of cotton held a story

as she thought of next poem

he too had release,

it was a kind of love,

they used each other in

different ways

ink stained finger pedigree

kiss and whisper in her ear

hair dyed nocturnal sheen,

this clown without sanity

also had no morality,

for him love was the crazy light

of all dead angels,

his heart navigated slums of heaven,

babylon a drink to satisfy

and of those there where many,

at the door watched as she

burned on the brazier of sweetness,

leaving behind

he would go now and

make seven nymphs homeless,

in his mind words dwell,

a mirrors reflection

shows glance of vain apathy

downstairs and out

he went walking brisk

on soft sprung sidewalk,

there will come a last day

where pages no longer speak,

she was far behind

no turning back,

sorrow clung to his own breasts form

blood of his lust drained

pausing to turn into the bar

instead of heading home

will wait on tonight

my lungs and the ashes they scatter

boy scout knife

cuts knot of dignity

buried in thin soil

warming under a march sun

a first moth touched skin,

shiver to the marrow,

her anatomy before me to explore,

transparent eyes

cast shadows on high cheekbones,

i am not that sad memory

of your brothers eye

but a rare specimen,

no longer chain smoking

or drinking dark bourbon,

hair dyed blonde under

my fingers made me think of

sails on a 1655 vessel

cast onto an ocean

with crew of silent men,

your face i could borrow

and place as a mask

on that clock in the hall

the one that never expels

the right time only a false line

of narrative,

either my retina is damaged

or i am truly seeing you now,

guess how long you  have been lying here,

mind let thought liquify

into a silenced reservoir ,

i made an oath before holding those hands

fingers more suited to beer bottle necks

than a piano’s gentle ivories,

grubs now crawl about us

fat juicy bodies leathery to touch,

a handful wriggling

over us so harrowing,

will we ever return to the bar

where we met or will it be just me,

your thigh humility’s myth

a touch would alert the sky

and rain would fall,

standing aside i look down,

i had possessed with my freak show nature

letting go would be hard,

i could not go further or police would question me,

whispers and a tiny breath

you are on your feet

in my embrace

lips still scarlet not turned blue,

back seat vinyl

tattered blouse and jeans,

a bad trip i explained

drugs have that effect

beguiled and confused

i lifted you back into a relevant world

of love and truth,

the electricity of this terrible road

had ended

into a city of one hundred years