Constanzo Allione – fried shoes, cooked diamonds

Birago Diop -Viaticum

In none of the three jugs
The three jugs where on certain evenings return
the tranquil souls,
the breaths of the ancestors,
the ancestors who were men,
the ancestors who were sages,
Mother has dipped three fingers
three fingers of her left hand:
thumb, forefinger and middle finger

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.

Birago Diop – Vanity

VANITY
If we tell, gently, gently
All that we shall one day have to tell,
Who then will hear our voices without laughter,
Sad complaining voices of beggars
Who indeed will hear them without laughter?
If we roughly of our torments
Ever increasing from the start of things
What eyes will watch our large mouths
Shaped by the laughter of big children
What eyes will watch our large mouth?
What hearts will listen to our clamoring?
What ear to our pitiful anger
Which grows in us like a tumor
In the black depth of our plaintive throats?
When our Dead comes with their Dead
When they have spoken to us in their clumsy voices;
Just as our ears were deaf
To their cries, to their wild appeals
Just as our ears were deaf
They have left on the earth their cries,
In the air, on the water, where they have traced their signs
For us blind deaf and unworthy Sons
Who see nothing of what they have made
In the air, on the water, where they have traced their signs
And since we did not understand the dead
Since we have never listen to their cries
If we weep, gently, gently
If we cry roughly to our torments
What heart will listen to our clamoring,
What ear to our sobbing hearts?

Senegalese folktale poet Birago Diop 1906-1989 educated in Dakar and related tales of the wolof people

on notable sea

tone dialing remedy

better than those gulls

filling the air with

pull of sea,

encroaching on ears

cochlea tremors

insistent and provocative,

life needed to be in boxes

without labels,

identifying was not the issue

it was separation,

the telephone a child

cradled under chin

suckling on words,

spectacles perched with vertigo

on top of a crooked nose,

lips always poised

to speak but that was of

no consequence as sound

could carry further than voice,

a scream long prolonged

that was what pain brought,

gulls worse than cicadas

blood curled into fingers

then returned leaving them white

and grasping

still nothing,

slit your veins and fill a boat

with a swilling legacy

of something that

should of been,

letting gulls fall

bathing feathers redder

freeverse, poetry , poem

dVersePoets

 

 

Charles Bukowski – Last Straw

Charles Bukowski one of his last readings in 1980