Sunday, January 22, 2017

By all that is Holly




By all that is Holly


Kiss the other,
let her sink
through the sacred grounds
of a frozen forest.
Then / burn
your inner self
with the language
animals use
during intercourse.
The sincerest words,

a response to desperation.

A Grammatically Correct Biographical Note




A Grammatically Correct Biographical Note


Who do we
believe we are,
if all we do
fits into a couple
of lines?

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Invisibles - tanka




Invisibles stirred
the cauldron of history
over the flames
where their legends burned ...
now the cooling hands of women

Cannons





Cannons


        Invisibles jiggle
in the cauldron of history.

Those who do not remember
the name of their president

hide in their houses
between pages of deleted files

in the Networks where they trap
their own legends. Tomorrow

is the last day of the arid void
of their deserts, tombs

where animals that do not know
how to become extinct lie preserved forever.


        Invisibles stirred
the cauldron of history

over the flames where their legends burned ...

now the cooling hands of women.



Friday, January 20, 2017

The Hinge


Lithograph by Franz Cižek



The Hinge 


        Forgive
the craft
of pouring myself
into pitchers.

Water
cannot tolerate thirst
for long periods
of time, the thirst

that invaded my home
during the years
of submarginal
words.

Burglars
burned down
the charity bazaars
and school libraries.

Now my son
will inherit
a handful of ashes.

Only "The Imprint of Reticence"  
remains.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Llegue en Segundo lugar en una competencia de poesía en España




Uno de mis poemas acaba de llegar en Segundo lugar en una competencia de poesía en España. Les dejo saber más dentro de poco.

I am as Lonely as Falling Drops of Rain




I am as Lonely as Falling Drops of Rain


I am the poem that began at dawn.
One day all the sand of Abyssinia
sprouted from my eyes
and all the perfume in Paris originated
from my fingers. Another day
I saw the moon rise on a river
in the Far East, saw her drown herself
completely drunk on life.
I also remember that long night
when I wept bitterly the wrath of God
in the dying eyes of a sad alpaca.
And that other day when I opened
two hundred and eighty-three doors
looking for a letter that said:
We learned to challenge darkness
with more darkness.
I am that poem that began at dawn 
but soon ended.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Siete poemas publicados en Brazil y otros lugares de Revistas Literarias en Latinoamérica desde el 2013 al presente

by
Frida Kahlo



Adiós
“Cuando te hablen de amor y de ilusiones,”
                                    José Alfredo Jiménez
                    

Soy melodía
de un amor que no es mío,
álgebra del aire remoto
que asciende desde
los sepulcros.

Quiero
ir perdiéndome
en aquel espacio perfecto
donde la piel      
termine de pudrirse. 






























Sal

                                                                                  
Caes más allá de tu savia
como un pálido recuerdo
trocado en blasfemia
de lágrimas.
Y en ti mi corazón
es un círculo de fuego
que se torna en sal oscura
sobre tus playas.
Soy naufrago de sombras,
sueños confusos que guardan
el recuerdo silencioso del agua.
































Cruzando el Mar


Me vi llorando
sobre la piedra más dura,
en el rincón más perdido
donde comienza el viento …

Cruzando el mar
con remos de roció,
abandonado, derribado
en las sílabas de un “no te quiero”…

Y pasó la agonía de la noche
muriéndose en el fondo de una rosa…
Y pasó el alba aupándose  
sobre mis montañas…
Y fue tan solo una ráfaga húmeda
que se izó en mis pupilas.

Dos siglos de auroras
tirándose al paisaje.
























Esto Quiere Ser


La Imaginación

Este masticado agri-dulce ajo / esta asimétrica
pierna de Greta Garbo / esta gruta de silencio involuntario /
este inédito presagio de beso rígido / este anticiclón
en la topografía de un suspiro / este gentil lubricante
de orgasmos bovinos / esta obsesión kyriopascha
de convertir lo abstracto en lo concreto.


Las Palabras

Estas cartografías oblicuas /estas canciones corales
con destellos lejanos / estos guantes de cesti
del Foro de Augusto / estos pequeños momentos
de nuestras “visiones del paraíso”.


Lo Imposible

Esta bolsa de lona desnutrida /
este pintor de dientes rellenos de cemento / este gato
algebraico resuelto / esta tarjeta postal invisible
para el hombre invisible / este retumbe
que aterroriza la boca de un niño / esto
/ todo esto / quiere ser un poema.


















Duelo
dedicado a mi tía Ruth Ester Rivera Sobá


El día de tu partida
te soñaré perfumando albas
vestida de orquídeas híbridas
frente a la casa vieja,
a corta vista de la abuela
Gacela que por las venas recorres
el mapa de mi escuela
sentiré furia de olas
batiendo la arena capital
de mi memoria
































putos zapatos


mi pobre pueblo
decenas de ranas y reptiles
políticos invadieron su pozo
ahora todos nos odiamos
virus de zapos con “putos zapatos”
de cocodrilo





































Poema  # 1


Infinita llanura,
cordillera helada,
tumultuoso río,

navegación por el mar de colores apagados
o deslumbrantes,

desierto de oro
y noche,
 
litoral que alarga al horizonte hasta parecer el horizonte,
terminas tocándome

aunque no tenga rostro.




























Poema  # 2


¿He construido mi casa como quien hace
gestos correctos en lugares errados?

Mis lágrimas caen sin duelo,
desechando la corrección de la hojarasca,

sugiriendo un nuevo disfraz,
guardando el secreto de su frescura.

Lo irracional es siempre lo más bello…
Un cuaderno abierto de aventura y libertad.






Tuesday, January 17, 2017

We, the poets of the Waka tradition



We, the poets of the Waka tradition

sometimes get married
and when our demanding spouse
puts us through the rag
we flee from the conjugal house,
with the healthy purpose
of walking the dog,
or filling the kettle with evening water
from the river Placid.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

No Time to Lose - This poem was just published with four other poems at Anti-Heroin Chic





No Time to Lose


It's cold here.
Its color, a ninja turtle orange,
and only 5 days left
for el Presidente Electo
to inaugurate his burned hair,
his head of a hijo de la chingada,
his midget politician tweets.
People say it's worth traveling
to this Swearing In,
that this kind of shit makes you grow.
The thing is my body
cannot stand another Jetblue seat,
another Greyhound cafe.
Besides, winter hurts.
Its whiteness rusts the snow.
Its racism confuses me,
makes me feel small,
like a very distant echo.
Fuck it, if I go back to D.C.
it's because I want to visit
the Smithsonian's
African American Collection.
Where merchant ships loaded
with shipwrecked slaves
cry out my name.

No hay tiempo que perder




No hay tiempo que perder


Aquí sigue haciendo
un frio color ninja turtle naranja
y solo quedan 5 días
para que el President Elect
inaugure sus cabellos quemados,
su cabeza de chingada madre,
sus tweets de político enano.
La gente está diciendo
que vale la pena viajar
a la juramentación,
que esa mierda te hace crecer.
Solo que mi cuerpo
no aguanta otro asiento de Jetblue,
otro Greyhound café. Además,
me duele el invierno,
me oxida la blancura
de la nieve. El racismo
me confunde, me hace sentir
pequeño, me escucho
como un eco muy distante.
Al carajo, si vuelvo al D.C.
va a ser para ir al Smithsonian
donde buques cargados
de esclavos náufragos
me llaman.


Indigo Bunting tanka





a male Indigo Bunting
has been feeding on my eyes
in the morning dark ...
death,
you hurt in my thinning hair

Saturday, January 14, 2017

On Becoming Eloquent





On I Becoming Eloquent


I had to 
            come into a lighter shade of café au lait
            from my father’s side
            be designated the boy
           
Mom had to
            take on all other roles
            ensure my teeth fell before they grew crooked
            confirm I passed my courses at the university
   so I wouldn’t have to become a farmer

I had to
            reject Mom’s dream
            of me becoming a lawyer
            and major in English
            with a minor in Acting


Dad has to
            not faint
  when he sees me
  at Trump’s Inauguration  
                   wearing my bright black stilettoes 

When Darkness Falls




When Darkness Falls


He got there with a nugget for a tear
and a face full of pity, the transvestite asking me for heat
                          and then he wanted to bang me in the fanny.

The girls dance alone, like their mothers.
The boys look at them sitting in their lofts.
They imagine the girls kissing
and when they get excited they begin to kiss each other,
rub their beard and lingual barbells to the rhythm of techno pop.
Some are journalist. Some are strictly DIFFERENT but EQUAL.

At five in the morning they kiss and touch
then high speed out of there and
… craaaassssh.
Night ends in tragedy. And what do they do?
They return whenever needed.

They wait and hope morning doesn't arrive.
They return to the corner where the travesties do their rounds
for money and pleasure.

They throw in the towel for the speed of a gesture.
For the volatile in their emotions. A few brushes against each other
are enough to tighten their waist and make them feel the pain
of hard-hitting dolls. The solitary beat of the rhythm
will make them rape the rapport between their eyes.
They don't play slow music.
You see, they're not playing the blues anymore.

Hell, is where things buzz to the rhythm of a Cuban Son.
They have not had time to decide if they want to give to them in the rump.

Will they want to finish the dance, will they want to embrace fat bodies,
― I don't mean to offend ― walk in the park, and throw pigeons crumbs?
How late do birds stay up to sing when they hear blood flowing?

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Abysses




Abysses 


I live between two abysses
         The staggering patience
  of him who walks far too long
            to lean on the rail of a footbridge
            ―my only afternoon ceremony―
            to watch the waters roll by
            And the enormous impatience
            of him who wants to reach
  the end zone at all costs
            but only sees the size
   of his insomnia
            and jumps off the bridge
          into your bosom 

Witching the World






Witching the World


Real loneliness is like a window
from wherein you cannot hear a thing.

My loneliness is the tracks
at a train crossing, a damnation

of gunfire and impact. In silence
my name: the instant at which the gods

finally forget to call. I keep thinking,
sing to yourself and survive. Expand

to infinity like a deaf man expands
his voice in a dream.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Carmela, para Maya, poetisa del haiku






Carmela
para Maya, poetisa del haiku


Cáncer de mama, licencia indefinida.
Eventualmente algunas de las camareras
recolectaron dinero que no estaban gastando
en la cerveza de sus novios. Se maquillaron,
después de una noche lenta, y aparecieron
en el apartamento de Carmela
con flores que olían a grasa de cocina
y cigarrillos sin filtro, labios manchados
con brillo de fresa. Y estaba feliz de verlos,
aunque lamentaba no tener sofá, sólo un sillón
reclinable donde dormía y una lámpara.

Las flores se marchitaban en un florero
entre la televisión y el sillón reclinable
de Carmela donde la quimio hacía su trabajo.

Así que le conté todo lo que pude
del establo de mis padres en Juana Díaz
y como montaba caballos de paso fino
a galope sostenido en evento tras evento.

Estoy despierto tratando de consolar
a un amigo que está recién soltero
y casi borracho y enviando en mensajes
de texto sobre lo mucho que duele la vida.
Sé que mañana ambos
nos sentiremos menos cansados.

a dog named pink



a dog named pink


is it safe here
are there others like me
should I assume the worst
yes
comfortable others like me
of course there are
sensitive
maybe a little defensive 

To the Two of Us





To the Two of Us


There will always be a departure between us,
you, the mirage, a helix of feral dogs, in the desert
I, the patriarch of a horde of slaves
in search of a million masculinities.

There will always be a melody between us,
you, the laughter of a child
after placing his own foot in his mouth,
I, all the noise that can fit
into forty years of private reflection.

There will always be names between us,
I, the surgeon’s lamp in a psych ward,
you, the first entry in a diary.

Monday, January 09, 2017

I remember - tanka



I remember playing 
"Paint It Black," Live
the day before you fell, Mom ... 
I pointed at the songs 
you did and did not like

From the Food to the Playlist





From the Food to the Playlist


I remember putting on
Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out live
the day before you fell, Mom,
I indicated which songs you did
and did not like
while preparing Creole Chicken and Rice.

I don't know why I insisted you eat the beetroot.
You didn’t want to eat
beetroot and carrot cooked without seasoning
―as if with that mixture, I thought,
while I bringing the food to your mouth
and listening to The Most Beautiful Thing by Eros Ramazzotti,
I could heal you.

I wake up in the middle of the night
and head to my brother's bedroom,
turn on the light,
ask him to play Julia from the Beatles
loud enough for Mom to hear.
Without saying anything he jumps out of the sheets,
takes the guitar from the case and plays Julia.
Then he pushes it back in the case, 
and turns off the light switch.
I stay for a few minutes in the dark.
Walk down to the first floor
and microwave my Jumbalaya.

Sunday, January 08, 2017

Amazing Forest



Amazing Forest


Eloy put a few seeds in my hand.
Thirty trees tomorrow, a forest fifty years later,
birds find the south in those trees,
wolves find shelter. And the ants grow
like a body between blind and sleepy roots.

At some point a house and another house
will be built by those woods and winter
will be lowered inside sediments.
Autumn with its total boredom
will put its heavy feet on the thick trunks
and will not conquer them.
Nothing will make them break.

And in a hundred years a hundred men
will be happy men loving their husbands
under those broad roofs, a perfume of forest
will still be floating in the children
who will arrive into their lives.

The world will be the world and night will still be night.
Owls will have bigger eyes and they will eat sparrows
as well as scorpions. And the mouse will be as minimal
as a strange insect, his pale hair will make him invisible
from November to February, and he will have no enemy.
Neither the eagle nor the man, if any, the serpent.

Thirty trees tomorrow,
lavender and red flowers grow in that forest ... .
Yesterday, some seeds that Eloy put in my hand
that I threw to the sky.

Saturday, January 07, 2017

Death does not let you say Goodbye





Death does not let you say Goodbye


Let no one come tell me I am guilty of this or that.

True, the noise of knees falling on ground
embellishes the soul, the noise of teardrops
on blackened grass paves the way
to what is always a return.

Let no one come with his bouquets
of dry flowers to leave on the grave
where there should be a corpse, but there is no corpse,
only eyes who know how terrible it is to look at nothing.
So, let no one come to reveal what was disclosed before.

Don't come to build walls around the house of the one
who before being young was already old.

Let no one stir the evil word whose center is an abyss,
whose edge is a storm.

Don't try to close the sutured wound, or bring evil violins
to sweeten the unhealthy melody recognized
by my agonizing chest: the asthma where my winter rears
its dark birds, grows its fields of fog, 

that night and day
can no longer wait, it wants to be closed.


The Man on the Beach




The Young Man on the Beach


Without touching the ground
his feet almost water, glide, very slowly
on the brown sand's tinted foam.

It is almost noon, above him the gulls
sashay sweetly. The sea that created fury
on the stones, does not dare do the same
on his feet, it recoils, it does not return
but in slow drops of dew, a less greedy blue.

The wind plays its music, its cooing and turns
into an impossible lover who finds in sadness
the precise reason for attempting to put him sleep,
to charm him, to make him its dream, its delight.

Fragile as a branch about to break
he clings to the old trunk, that way the wind
binds to his deepest root, his hair waving
like the flag of an exquisite country.

Svelte as the air walking on tiptoe
through tall palm trees, minimal as the cold,
as the heart dawning in his most intimate light,
immense as the sky that dwells in his pupils,
becoming the word that day whispers
to the ancient centuries. The name of his pride.

In his bathing suit, so naive, so simple,
without suspecting what happens on his thrown,
or noticing, if anything, the warmth of water,
the slow gulls that wander sweetly above him.

Thursday, January 05, 2017

The Cold








The Cold


The first suitor gives you a bird
with yellow plumage, a gray and sharp beak.
The tone of the feathers dazzles you, amazes you.
Its texture caresses you already.
You find the color, you don't really like, exquisite.
But you think you might love it, enjoy it.
A beautiful animal, but its song is brief,
almost like a chirp and it never stops, it distresses you.

A second suitor places his hand on your cheek.
Then your exposed skin gathers a tremor
without anguish on those fingers, a desire that changes
on that hand to the shape it cannot change to on the lips.
You look into each other's eyes and an insane
embarrassment fills your cheeks with purple feelings.
Your hair fenced with implacable relentless hairpins
flaunts you differently: you're not a girl anymore.

You drink from the glass set before you at the table,
with fineness, with firmness, with hunger.
The drink tastes flavorful and you enjoy it.
It's sweet and haunted with a volatile liquor
that will transform your breath into perfume.
You talk and the wooer sleeps to dream you're talking.

Naive, whatever you believe, is nothing more than an illusion.
The words you hear are new dresses for very old fevers.
Your beauty does not matter because that does not matter,
or it only interests as long as it persists or is sufficient.
Your treasure shines like a trembling light.
Insects surround its immediate heat.
From afar I watch you. Callous. I do not participate.
The cold that bristles, are my folded arms.



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San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two time Pushcart nominee, a four time Best of the Web nominee, and a 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have been published in hundreds Journals and Anthologies. He is currently working on his first full length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.

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