Tag Archives: scrittore
apartment to let
vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete
Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien
Martin Adan – Sea and Shell
A woman and a ball: out of a sudden agreement
the world forms, in its inane rotation.
It begins with the fish, which inhabits the wasteland.
A curve sighs. Nothing swells immediately.
A mathematical point: the sphere,
void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.
If the chimera doesn’t declare itself
in service and pure verse,
it will wail its words of truth.
The world revolves in an animal rush.
The most humble fish, of all the mud,
mired in the eye, bearing the colure.
A leg, or terror, arises, expands:
the air is the passion of the bather:
light, in recess, flashes and dies out.
A woman and a ball drop from a bristle,
a thin line of ice in which everything concludes,
matter the hand raises into view.
World in the air, simple being and aspect:
algae rising boldly within the descent.
A fish that bites its own tail bleeds mud.
Fabio, this passage and flow and writhing I’m thinking of
is the world: element, eruption: everything, nothing,
in the immense power.
From the rhythm: figures and the first creed,
and happiness, a lesson for the universe as it rolls
into time, pulling along its shell and ancient verse.
translated by Katie Silver and Rick London
Leon de Grieff – Song of Dinarzada / Canción De Dinarzada
You were mine, burning Dinarzada:
your whole being handed my supplication
your whole being is important to me Nothing!
everything your fire melted into my fire!
You were mine, burning Dinarzada!
Because I care what the grim blind course!
fire for me is desolate
barren plain! Lightened sailed
under the disheveled storm!
All your fire melted into my fire!
Your big heart, your ecstatic soul,
your fine spirit, I beg
surrendered: Nothing donáronse my!
Overnight: give me your arms only,
Dinarzada subtle, dream night …
You were mine, burning Dinarzada!
Everything your fire melted into my fire!
and in original Spanish
Tú fuiste mía, ardiente Dinarzada:
todo tu ser se le entregó a mi ruego!
todo tu ser se le rindió a mi Nada!
todo tu fuego se fundió en mi fuego!
Tú fuiste mía, ardiente Dinarzada!
Ya qué me importa el torvo rumbo ciego!
Es lumbre para mí la desolada
llanura yerma! Alígero navego
bajo la tempestad desmelenada!
Todo tu fuego se fundió en mi fuego!
Tu grande corazón, tu alma extasiada,
tu espíritu finísimo, a mi ruego
se rindieron: donáronse a mi Nada!
Noche: en tus brazos únicos me entrego,
Dinarzada sutil, noche soñada…
Tú fuiste mía, ardiente Dinarzada!
Todo tu fuego se fundió en mi fuego!
Mario Benedetti – Little Stones At My Window
Once in a while
joy throws little stones at my window
it wants to let me know that it’s waiting for me
but today I’m calm
I’d almost say even-tempered
I’m going to keep anxiety locked up
and then lie flat on my back
which is an elegant and comfortable position
for receiving and believing news
who knows where I’ll be next
or when my story will be taken into account
who knows what advice I still might come up with
and what easy way out I’ll take not to follow it
don’t worry, I won’t gamble with an eviction
I won’t tattoo remembering with forgetting
there are many things left to say and suppress
and many grapes left to fill our mouths
don’t worry, I’m convinced
joy doesn’t need to throw any more little stones
I’m coming
I’m coming.
gardens in a candlelit room
i take a hammer
and a nail
to my brother and sister eye,
one gazing south
to shared sand of desert and sea,
other north
through motorcycle lens
to fields of open pleasure,
my visceral concern
is not getting lost between both,
naked to contradiction
my form is seen
bare paleness of a wanting moon
sand still tasted between teeth,
without movement and sound
to the board of memory
each eye nailed
swiftly
so there is no gelatinous collapse
blinking obscura of pain,
i now want
flesh cold
still pale
not written upon by her lips,
hammer has fallen
indenting ground
taking root
Andrew Wyeth Man and the Moon
velvetmedia 