periodizing memory

tribal myths
of urban erosion,
human decay and devalue
enlightenment forbidden
left to the poet of society

paint flakes
as fingernail connects
a worried sore of what
is left behind

concrete and brick convey stories
only as far as we allow them,
corridor routes to many rooms
as with memories

how can this be a composition
construct of words and thoughts
when it rambles
on moth wings
escape can be a broken window

table and chairs
foam guts spewed
he had broken vows faith trust
here eager in his own involvement
thought theory and contradicts

bruised face spittle dampened
punished and beaten
because of an instinct survival brings
hungering lust
to nest burrow forget

she was resolute
evaded and survived
he had been
twisted by triggers of pain
another room
dabbing spittle off his chin
lifting spoon to weak lips

as with muscular distress
he watched her consume passion
with one who cared
his brutality had brought him
to this

left to collapsing rooms
becoming fabric of the dust
a horror myth
of haunting and fear
for others not her

moth had found a window
grease streaked broken
jagged edges did not connect
with fragile wings
bruises heal
fading as time can

obliged to function

[create a dream]
repetitive symbols and allegories
a habitual state of mind
within the complexity
of a certain strangeness,

it was a kiss/

significant to the external world
and not the four walled habitat

[interior body]
hearts and ideas created verses
spontaneous kiss
and delightful flesh
without absent things to deny,
music filled the simple sense
isolating the event
captured in his mind,
temptation a language of it’s own

an act of kiss/

[pure,impure]
moment cracked with resonance,
her eyes had claimed the
measurements of his passion,
without verbal matter to form
a leaf litter sheet

[fell upon her]

you discover in a kiss/

all named sciences describe
needs and imaginings ,
and in ache of after limbs,
aesthetic conditions
and those rules of attraction
will provide possibilities
for them

ROBERTO BOLAÑO – LISA

When Lisa told me she had made ​​love
Another, in the life of that phone booth
Tepeyac store , I thought the world
He had for me. A tall skinny guy and
With long hair and a long dick that did not wait
Over an appointment to penetrate to the bottom.
There is something serious , she said , but
The best way to get you out of my life.
Parmenides Garcia Saldana had long hair and had
Been the lover of Lisa , but some
Years later I learned that he had died in a psychiatric clinic
Or that he had committed suicide . Lisa and I did not want
Go to bed with losers. Sometimes I dream
With her and see her happy and cold in Mexico
Designed by Lovecraft. We listen to music
( Canned Heat , one of the preferred groups
Parmenides Garcia Saldana ) and then we
Love three times . The first came inside me
The second came in my mouth and the third , just a thread
Water , a short fishing line, between my breasts. And all
In two hours, said Lisa . The two worst hours of my life,
I said from the other side of the phone.

Piedad Bonnett – Circle and Ash

Your mouth comes to me, only your mouth.
comes flying
dragonfly blood flare
that lights my night this ash.
entire sea salt dwelling in her,
the whole sound of the sea,
all foam.
Boca drawn for kisses ,
where tantalizing your tongue sleep.
entire world wine is in your mouth,
all the sin
and all innocence.
Boca shut up and when he says, hidden.
Capable of your mouth the whole truth,
the whole truth and lies.
Laugh your mouth and wake up the day.
(Lightning snow there in your laughter.)
As a herd of ponies run over me
kissing your delicious mouth,
your mouth, butterfly wrong,
your mouth others that is blurred
in my circle night and ash.

Mario Bojorquez – Award

As the last day does not return You’ll never be that high voice Tundía under the breath of infinite almonds A lullaby to his chest You will not have to be that That shade of a poplar Rent the air with scattered notes The subtle scent of an afternoon on the river There will be no day you return to your expense Filled with memories of the dark obsequious Solar excessive idleness Cerns perfect As the last day does not return You never on your own steps A walking path open for you In the garden that keeps your memory Not even in deserted Frond you will have to tread To you because transit between fig fruit Pomegranates, flowers at your feet You’re just now that you did not want You’re the one who did not know what he wanted to say Greedy mouth no fruit chews That spoiled, bitch, feast and festival You’re the insaciado looking with envy The overwhelming joy of others Whoever hurts to the bone for the innocent laughter It will cloud your eyes with anger It will swell cruel hands remorse It poisons your blood What fire, what abandonment How miserable are the shores of life As the last day does not return No back in you will concoct bells Holidays in flowered fields Neither your hands browned wheat of eras Nor whiten your snow on your mill As if you had closed universe In a thick fog that prevents you Learn what the rock crevice That must be the source where you drink As if the universe against you Injected into the air that poison Bending your knees So as the day turns A spin on its hinges hours and passes And overhead the sun will go down Lost to So you lose So as you lose you lose The scent in the air that always blows hard You’ll miss so terribly That to your eyes can recognize your own skin Neither your ears hear your voice As if talking on another that you Not even your blood It will respond pálpito And the tongue utter A language that is unknown to you today. Do not grieve Hurt to lose. You call Bitter, in your gums It will bloom a garden of tree-scale And in your head start seborrhea high tufts Niagara mist in your eyes You call without reproach wounded The living skin ulcer land where you step Without faith you call And there will be another you Built in penalty That round will infect Leprosy is righteous It must distinguish in the market The mob cried He will announce you arrive The stench of your acids The clear bell is anticipated And you wondered why back Why and what And what return If the return would smell bouquets awaiting your step If yes minor fronds fruit curds, cheerful blooms, light concrete and acid, And back with an army of sources nymphs dancing for you If I go back in the water, ductile, light, fluent, if in the air If you awaken in the back you are, if you come back spin, spinning, start from yourself If you become, if you founded back, come back without hesitation Although recent days should not happen again

Léopold Sédar Senghor – Elegy Of Midnight

 

Summer, splendid Summer, nourishing the Poet on the milk of your light
I who grew up like the wheat of spring, which made me drunk
From green water, from the green steaming in the gold of Time
Ah! no longer can I tolerate the midnight light.
The splendor of such honors resembles a Sahara,
An immense void, with neither erg nor rocky plateau,
With no grass, no twinkling eye, no beating heart.
Twenty-four hours a day like this, and my eyes are wide open
Like Father Cloarec’s, crucified on a boulder by the Joal pagans
Who worshipped snakes. In my eyes the Portuguese lighthouse
Turns round and round, twenty-four hours a day,
A precise and restless mechanism, until the end of time.

I jumped out of bed, a leopard about to be snared,
A sudden gust of Simoom filling my throat with sand.
Ah! if I could just collapse in the dung and blood, in the void.
I turn around among my books watchilng me with their deep eyes
Six thousand lamps burning twenty-four hours a day.
I stand up lucid, strangely lucid. And I am handsome,
Like the one-hundred-runner, like the rutting black stallion
From Mauritania. I carry in my blood a river of seeds
That can fertilize all the plains of Byzantium
And the hills, the austere hills.
I am the Lover and the locomotive with a well-oiled piston.

Her sweet strawberry lips, her thick stone body,
Her secret softness ripe for the catch, her body
A deep field open to the black sower.
The Spirit germinates under the groin, in the matrix of desire
The sex is one antenna mong many where flashing messages are exchanged.
Love music no longer can cool me down, nor the holy rhythm of poetry.
Against this despair, Lord, I need all my strength
—A soft dagger in the heart as deep as remorse.
I am not sure of dying. If that was Hell: the lack of sleep
This desert of the Poet, this pain of living, this dying
From not being able to die, the agony of shadows, this passion
For death and light like moths on hurricane lamps at night,
In the horrible rotting of virgin forests.

Lord of light and shadows,
You, Lord of the Cosmos, let me rest in Joal-of-the-Shades,
Let me be born again in the Childhood Kingdom full of dreams,
Let me be the shepherd of my shepherdess on the Dyilôr tanns
Where dead men flower, let me burst out applauding
When Téning-Ndyaré and Tyagoum-Ndyaré enter the circle
And let me dance like the Athlete to the drum of this year’s Dead.
This is only a prayer. You known my peasant’s patience.
Peace will come, the Angel of dawn will come, the singing of birds
Never heard before will come, the light of dawn will come.
I will sleep at dawn, my pink doll in my arms,
My green- and gold-eyed doll with a voice so marvelous,
It is the very tongue of poetry.

—Translated from the French by Melvin Dixon

(from Nocturnes, 1961)

Frances Chung – Chinese New Year

Jean-Claude Pirotte – Poème (2006)

Jean-Claude Pirotte – Poème (2006).

consistency of skin

the rain was inexhaustible,
drawing his jacket
closer about his chest,
pacific rain and bothered grey
clouds added to urgency,
trees in their reach
did not create a canopy
dense enough,
unable to hear the helicopter,
footprints dissolving into mud,
but his scent would illuminate
nostrils of eager tracker with
muted eyes,
lowering himself
more towards the bushes,
water ran over his face,
he still felt heading north
was an objective,
finding the cabin
would of been easy
had summer still been here,
pausing for the slightest breath,
looked up at limbs
grasping from the trunk,
and wondered would it be worth it,
there would be no more marvelous
sensations,
yesterdays vividness had given way
his futile hope screamed,
kneeling said a last prayer
and waited

http://dversepoets.com/

Alfonsina Storni – Running Water