Eggs….

I broke an egg

soft boiled

watched the yolk

spread

in the whorehouse

of my soul

i thought

of my yolk

spread

over your breast

as I kneel

and urge

over

your sleeping

shape

my mess

your anger

limp disaster hung

itself

on my brittle facade

you left

exit by the door

i now look at

knowing

this egg will

not taste any better

 

beat me at the 4a.m read

i see a page that gives
words once as progeny
becoming blue scented nothing,
perched over it
in a damp saffron autumn
umbrella a discreet protection,
i had bathed in those dreams
yearning to be magellan
seeking
beyond the evil trolls,
petals in the forest
delicate uncut,
giving kisses on the souls
which resonate to those who are dead,
strawberry meadows
by the river
tiny seeded red,
dont go asleep
or you will miss
the elephants post themselves
about the pillar,
returning the hopeless
as is the passionate,
consuming beyond sainthood and glory,
arriving back
to a turned page
with fingers that have ancient tremors

je suis charlie

in those glancing shadows
of inky truth and pattern
there would be no ennui,

condemn not capitulate

to the bugle call of atrocity,
it is only anarchy
not religion,
that has to be illustrated

by pencil sharp sword

render and portray
a prophets wisdom abused
to generate and perpetuate
a list of abhorrent terror
activated by those
with misguided sense of being

steady hand describes

that no single act
will be unaccounted

a channel for truth

that should not be
a satirists end

#je suis charlie
#je suis ahmed

sunday whirl

Denise Levertov – Olga Poems

denise levertov olgas poems

dancer 95

violin bow cu through gelatin
as outstretched arm
folding it under her chin
tremor of strings felt in her loins
of love beyond passion
love beyond denial,
for this man much older
who watched damp eyed
each point and step
holding pose for sulfur flash
yet moonlight and day
better illuminated
caught in a dark place
yet so natural
she would ascend
imprinted and recognized
after camera covered away
she danced
knowing now also caught
on paper in charcoal
it may of been the end
but she reached to the future
moving expressively
beyond fantasy

art, photography

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas

Degas self portrait 1895

Degas self portrait 1895

composer, music

Ernest Chausson

Helen Hahn performs Ernest Chausson Poeme Op 25

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.

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?

Oliver Girondo – Even Dying Her

EVEN DYING HER

The palpable the morbid
the conch bold bed the sodregs
the taut deep probes the ebbs waves of the flesh
its nubile contractile pistils
and its annexed nests
the fervid languiforms innumerable subsubornings of touch
its naked blue must
each lode
each vein of blood’s echo’s dream
somniloquent nights of high celestial croaking that animaplunge us vertigo
soliloquy
how much it sticks without coasts to the flow the pulse to the red cosmogone
its emptied faces
and its channels
even biting the earth
terra incognita notorious pickaxe eyes for sore sight the bony the impacts of
awe of more slack
any being on the sore spot
the gifts given gone where orbits sobs of euphoria fog among themselves
whichever vigil attentively veiled expected skeleton spouse
daft barren wake
the microchance of germ motive encounter
already fugitive thens
selfsearching for free
the fantaseeds
even ingesting the earth
any porous way
the sole wide well of the pit immersed inside
sectarian thirst for thirst finite embraces
each mouth
therefore the sum
such stubborn love
hightide loving the brimming lovepandemic totem sprout of love of love breaking out
the pockmark
new gorgon love medium olavacobraniagara erect entire swoon
that ululululululates and arpeggiosipiderscratches the ego breath core
even exhaling the earth
with its trine astroids its species and names multiflames mires and excrecredences
its lassos buzzards love nests of complex incests among loose bones currents without
drains
its neighboring corpses of memory
its light of naked crop
its axillas of nap
and its gyre in dough not less less than other related cogyrators
even the feeble weaning
even the neuter untempting
even dying her

 

Oliver Girondo 1891-1967 an Argentinian poet who rejected academia and academic poets touching on surrealism and create new sounds of poetry, listening to phonetics and often an existentialist , breaking limits of punctuation and word boundaries like Borges published in many magazines as well as his books

Adela Zamudio – Man Born

MAN BORN

Much work she spends

By correcting the awkwardness

Of her husband, and at home,

(Allow me to gawk).

As inept as fatuous,

Follow him being the head,

Because it man!

If some verses written,

In any such verses are,

That she only subscribes.

(Allow me to gawk).

If that one’s not a poet,

Why such an assumption

Because it man!

A superior woman

Do not vote in elections,

And vote the rascal worse.

(Allow me to gawk).

As long as you learn to sign

You can vote an idiot,

Because it man!

The folds and drink or play.

In a reversal of fortune:

She suffers, fight and pray.

(Allow me to gawk).

That she will call the “weak”

And he be called the “be strong”.

Because it man!

She must forgive

Having being unfaithful to her husband;

But he can avenge.

(Allow me to gawk).

In a similar case

You can even kill him,

Because it man!

Oh, mortal privileged

That perfect and complete

You enjoy certain popularity!

In any case, for this,

You enough

Born man.

 English translation of the Bolivian poet Adela Zamudio 1854- 1928 she was a complete artist , poet, writer breaking convention often , and looking deeper into the soul of mankind she also used the pseudonym Soledad, Bolivian Womens Day is on October 11th the date of her birth