Thursday, December 08, 2016

The Bare Facts




The Bare Facts



What wave is it, that when hitting against the body
makes the sailor on duty pay attention,
and later say, it’s nothing, strolls around the room again,
occasionally looking out of the window
at the scattered lights of the street?
What come-and-go is spending the body of its gait
against the spotted hull covered with marine parasites?

Do you really hear that noise? Does the noise come from the corridor
or does it come from your desire?
(Some kind of noise that stumbles with the some kind of silence within you,
like someone who bumps into a chair when walking in the dark.)

Maybe they already turned on the reflector to ask for your help!
Maybe it was that woman who lit it!

But no, not yet, nobody walks down the hallway to your door,
no one stumbles with the chair inside you, your hero costume
is carefully spread on the chair, the same as your hero feelings,
ready for when you spring into action.
Resuming the same discourse,
beginning the same conjecture,
the classic flaw in the middle of the road,
the Divine automobile with the flat tire
obstructing the traffic of tears and the dead,
circulating in opposite directions.

Resuming the same interruption, the historical razz
of the flat tire, the sophism of each resurrection,
the rusty anchor of each embrace, the movement
from within desire and the movement from outside the word,
like two twins who cannot agree to be born.

(Here the wit of the phrases suddenly twang
when it notices the illusionist’s top hat;
that soap perfumed by literature
with which we wash the unreal parts of the body,
in other words, the radius of action of what we call, the soul,
the entrails of the body without a precise hint,
the dance of the seven veils
veiled by the transparency of the dilemma,
and at night, before bed,
the dentures in the glass of water,
the false wound in the glass of water,
the false desire in the glass of water.)

The signal       the signal          the signal

What comes-and-goes wears away the body's gait
against the spotted hull covered with marine parasites?

You stopped walking around the room.
Do you really hear that noise? Does the noise come
from the corridor or does it come from your desire?

Come and go, talk around a chair
where there is a strange folded suit,
go back and forth around an old, broken car
hindering traffic on the highway,
crisscrossed gestures chatter of windows and stairs
carving the Greek statue whose sense hesitates
and falls down
the path between a window and a reflector
that has not been lit, while the broken shells
of the darkness crunch and dissolve
under the sudden flutter
with which darkness drives the night.

Wednesday, December 07, 2016

Time Lapse Photography





Time Lapse Photography


I hear you come and go
in my dreams
and in cloudy camphor windows.
I hear you when I hear other steps
down the corridor, other voices
that aren’t yours. I recognize your worn
amaranth and feather hands,
here, on the shore of your wasteland.

We were to meet but you didn't show up.
An ocean more powerful than night
seized you in its hands like a scattered flower.

Your photograph looks at me from where
you are not, from where I do not know you,
from where everything is a lie
you leave your eyes to look at me.

For reasons, I don’t seem to grasp
you've gone on a trip,
and it's like you've never been here,
you’re just―so soon―one of those stories
some old maid told me in the kitchen.

The things that speak of you lie,
your last face lied to me as I leaned over it,
because it wasn’t you and I was embracing
that which the infinite removed
little by little.

Tuesday, December 06, 2016

My Little Tyrant





My Little Tyrant

You stopped to desire what you looked at,
you stopped to invent what you looked at,
but you were never at a standstill.

And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.
Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

Donald Trump


You stopped to desire what you looked at,
you stopped to invent what you looked at,
but you were never at a standstill.

You understood the docks, the places
where salt is a blind lady seated on your soul,
where foam gnaws at the base of everything,
with its small teeth resembling
the quicksand of what is forgotten,
the sites where old anchors and barges
of oversize engines oxidize in droppings
of seagulls and pelicans, the small white tumults
where peace and movement intertwine
their nets in the old-fashion-way of the sea,
the landscapes that surrounded you
without you knowing how far from your imagination,
your most intimate arguments could travel.

There is a sky full of vessels that eyes contemplate
from below tears, from where your gaze runs out of breath.

An eternity that anyone could say,
is worn out by extreme use, fondled by the dead,
softened by the complaints of the sick,
an afternoon that is sinking like a boat
in a landscape that belongs to nobody else but you.

You understood most of this,
you distrusted your desire, but it was your saliva
that shone on the teeth of your desire,
you were the doughy dough someone chewed
the dough that ended up in your stomach.
It was your hand, the one with which you said goodbye.

That is why you hesitated in the middle of the night,
you heard the trees get lost in their branches,
you felt the wind halt, as if in search of something
between the folds of the curtain, you heard the dead
laugh in their holes imitating moles,
you will discover oblivion, let it walk into your bedroom
dressed as a butler to announce what is already served at the table.

Unintentionally you will dine with great appetite and at the end,
leaving the napkin on the table, you will praise the menu.


Monday, December 05, 2016

Infinita llanura




Infinita llanura


cordillera helada,
tumultuoso rio,
navegación por el mar 
de colores apagados
o deslumbrantes

desierto de oro
y noche,

litoral que alarga al horizonte
hasta hacerlo parecer el horizonte,

terminas tocándome
aunque no tenga rostro.

Mirando a un gorrión




Mirando a un gorrión


Racimos trémulos
de desnudas soledades,
estéril desierto de pensativa
escarcha, mi vida
sin recuerdos. El otoño
no quiere mirar tus ojos,
estás muerto,
brisa triste entre
narcisos pálidos.

Sad Song for an Unavoidable Goodbye




Sad Song for an Unavoidable Goodbye


Saw myself crying on the hardest stone
at the crossroads where the wind begins to blow,
crossed the sea with oars of dewdrops,
chastened by the resonance of
I’m leaving you.

Night's agony passed
dying in the heart of a rose.
Dawn lifted itself up
on my mountains,
a humid gust hoisted my eyes.

Two centuries of auroras
making love to the landscape.

Infinite plain





Infinite plain


frosty mountain range,
tumultuous river,
navigation on the sea of dull
or spellbinding colors,

golden desert & night,
shoreline that stretches the horizon
until it looks like the horizon.

You end up touching me
although I'm faceless.

Sunday, December 04, 2016

No existen patrias para débiles ancianos




No existen patrias para débiles ancianos


Le prendí fuego a los mares,
laceré el sol con mi navaja de afeitar
para escapar del tiempo.
Estoy salvando mis abismos,
no quiero disgustarme con la muerte.

Esta patria no es lugar para ancianos,
ridículas colecciones de partituras anticuadas,
pájaros trinando sobre el árbol otoñal,
música sensorial que aparenta ignorarlo todo,
harapientos abrigos doblados encima
de un bastón torcido.

Dos adolescentes parados
sobre el fuego sagrado de Dios,
se ríen de mí y preguntan:
¿Acaso, tú eres el educador
de la nueva trova,
y su aliento arrugado?

No Country for Old Men





No Country for Old Men
The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song
Sailing to Byzantium
By William Butler Yeasts


I set the rain on fire, lacerated the sun
with my straight razor
so I could part company with time.
I'm saving my abysses,
to scamper away from the cold
so as not to be disgusted with death.

This country is no place for the elderly,
the ridiculous collections of antiquated scores,
birds bebopping jazz on the autumnal tree
of sensory music that ignores everything,
a ragged coat on a folded cane.

Teenagers, standing on God's sacred fire,
turn to me and say…
Stick to being the educator
of your wrinkled breath.

Saturday, December 03, 2016

Letralia, Tierra de Letras publica mis poemas

9 de noviembre del 2016, Letralia, Tierra de Letras publica 5 de mis poemas.



Sergio A. Ortiz



Mis poems seran publicados en; Literariedad / Apuntes de Peató

El poema Mi queridoRenier y otros 9 poemas míos van a ser publicados en la revista Literariedad:Apuntes de Peató mañana.



Sergio A. Ortiz



Friday, December 02, 2016

It’s not the First Time I Wear a Cummerbund





It’s not the First Time I Wear a Cummerbund


I am the glow of a fixed star, the timeless echo of a plea that always returns.

You seduce my rest, and climb my geography.
Does the mirror fade like a refined emotion in your hands?
Don’t answer, I need your silence to be wild.

The sun shatters into rainbows. It makes me sweat.
I lie near a turtle on the floor of a botanical garden
hoping the stillness that dwells in my imagination
-the crossdresser singing boleros to the stars- calms
down and erases my fear of being marginalized.

Not all silences are the same,
there is no such thing as a perfect stranger.
Not one is as perfect as his shadow.

In the lake of Close Indifference,
where the bed creaks like a bag full of rain,
we were all size 30 once.

The Clear Dampness of your Sex






The Clear Dampness of your Face


Are you willing to fill my white spaces? 
Can we conspire, can you force me 
to exhale my infinite hunger of you? 
Must you radiate the thirst of my skin 

through the endless latitudes, the nectars 
of your sex? Am I losing my footing
inside the ruins of this sinister hotel?
When are you hiding these overcast words 

and their meanings?  Who can ignore 
the fear of men knee deep in the turbid 
waters of an ocean guided by the intuition 
of drowned colors?

Ay, mi soledad, 
riddling conundrum 
for the absence 
of figurative speech.

Carpenters - Superstar

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Another poem up at Chachalaca Review

Another poem up at: Chachalaca Review.  You will have to download the PDF file to read the issue. 

Sergio A. Ortiz

I have a poem up at: Whisper and The Roar, Feminist Collective

I have a poem up at: Whispers and the Roar

The Shame and Fear We Sow 


Sergio A. Ortiz

Si Ulises muriese un día martes cualquiera




Si Ulises muriese un día martes cualquiera


Es el calibre del agujero que deja,
la intensidad de la herida,
la cuenta bancaria (dentro de mi corazón)
donde guardo las páginas
agotadas de mi vida.

Es imaginarme lo inimaginable,
la lánguida calle lateral,
mi Ulises sin su Dublín.

Es el clima tácito al que nos referimos
cuando no hay campeón,
ni comodidad alguna dentro de mi bungaló.

Sé qué textura
tus muslos se ven obligados a rendir
en mis sueños.

Soy quien no quiere clausura, que tu voz 
no desvanezca sobre un horizonte separado al mío.

If Ulysses should Die on a Tuesday



If Ulysses should Die on a Tuesday


It’s the caliber of the hole,
the intensity of the wound,
the hideout (inside my heart)
where I bank the depleted
pages of my life.

It’s imagining the unimaginable,
the languorous side street,
my Ulysses without his Dublin.

It’s the tacit climate we refer to
when there is no champion,
no comfort inside my bungalow.

I know what texture
your thighs are compelled to surrender
to my dreams.

I’m the one who doesn't want closure
with no vested interest in hearing
your voice fade into a separate horizon.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Kala Namak, Black Salt




Kala Namak / Black Salt


You fall beyond your sap / abated remembrance / vile fear of tears // In you my heart / is a circle of fire / black salt on the river banks of your Himalaya // And I am shipwrecked / confused tangle of dreams that mocks the cacophonous memory of the water.


Kala Namak / Sal Negra




Kala Namak / Sal Negra


Caes más allá de tu savia / recuerdo apagado / vil miedo de lágrimas //  En ti mi corazón es un círculo de fuego / sal negra a las orillas del río de tu Himalaya // Y soy naufragio de sombras / enredo de sueños que se burlan de la memoria cacofónica del agua.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words




Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words


the lighthouse of the indefinite
trafficking voices of absence,
skeleton walls smuggle freedom.

My country: a poem under an illegal shade.
A sun full of cameras rides
my skin like ghosts
who claim what is rightfully theirs.

I lead the echoes of my flight
to a heart masked
as theatrical delirium,
my wrinkled memoir  
dancing to Etta Jones’s 
Don’t go to Strangers.

I touch your lips
with my revolutionary blood
and leave my confession  

on your cinnamon eyes.

Caminé sobre el limbo de la palabra perdida



Caminé sobre el limbo de la palabra perdida


Soy faro de lo indefinido 
y traficó voces de ausencias,
murallas de esqueletos
que contrabandean libertades.

Mi tierra es el poema
que da sombra a ilegales pensamientos.
Soles llenos de cámaras transitan
sobre mi piel como fantasmas
reclamando lo suyo con evidencia.

Caminé al frente de los ecos de mi huida
hacia un corazón disfrazado
de delirios teatrales
con mi historia arrugada.

Recorrí tu cuerpo
con mi sangre revolucionaria
dejando huellas profundas
sobre tus ojos color canela.

Monday, November 28, 2016

With No Punctuation





With No Punctuation


You insist on dealing with my silence
making sure no one rises to my defense

Between the lips of my vulva
scented flowers
open locks
to holes that listen
to what belongs to me

No endless
distances
no monsters
nothing of the low note
minced
by my voice

To be able to sing
with amazement
to sing
with no punctuation
or alarm

I won a poetry contest.

I won a poetry contest. Yes, I'm the winner of the Spring/Summer 2016 contest at The Song Is... I had already been nominated for the 2016 Best of the Net award by this same journal. The poetry judge was Catfish McDaris, Lynne S. Vitijudged prose. "Requiem for Mercedes Sosa" was the winning poem. 

Sergio A. Ortiz

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Sin Puntuación




Sin Puntuación


Insistes en lidiar mi silencio    
procurando nadie surja en mi defensa

Entre los labios de mi vulva
perfumadas flores
abren cerraduras
orificios que escuchan lo propio
lo mío

Nada de distancias 
interminables
nada de monstruos  
nada de la nota baja
entrecortada finamente 
por mi voz
resquebrajada

Poder cantar
poder cantar con asombro
poder cantar
sin puntuación ni alarma 

About Reparations to Eros




About Reparations to Eros
        there will be no reparations


May my silence never walk
on the dormant back of a heron.

May it leave a homeopathic drop of luck
on the waters of my trembling body.

May my skin bear no resemblance
to the unshakable epidermis
of a frozen pachyderm.  

I confess, 
I'm in debt to a slave driver's arms.
I tasted his fruit, 
and I couldn't distinguish
the sour from the sweet.

Sobre eso de la deuda



Sobre eso de la deuda


Que mi silencio
nunca camine sobre
la espalda dormida
de una garza.

Que deje una gota
homeopática de suerte
en las aguas temblorosas
de mi cuerpo.

Lo confieso, estoy endeudado
a brazos esclavistas.
Confieso, que probé la fruta
mas no distinguí lo agrio
de lo dulce.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

Paying for a Whim




Paying for a Whim
...at the age of sixty-five


Besieged
between my buttocks

the foam you break
from the Pacific
my open sea

prendre plaisir selfish giant
of my tale
and awe

enter without haste
without Customs
as if you didn't sneak   
into this banquet

paint my gray hairs purple patina 
fill me with wrath
malformed ravens
via crucis
cemetery breath

demanding you stay glued
until I finish

Friday, November 25, 2016

Disturbed "The Sound Of Silence" 03/28/16

Upended



Upended


Far from all forms of charity,
I am the prophet, the retired apostle
of faith in myself. 

My friends‒escape artists,
foreshadowers of verses,
sunk in the quicksands of language.

They believe in the melodies I babble
exalting legendray elephant graveyards
& mystic monsoons.

We witness the paradigms of a century fall
while celebrating a Wimbledon match,
a joy much greater than a revolution.


Thursday, November 24, 2016

my taste - tanka




my taste,
that he take everything
from me ...
bamboozle me on the cross
of oblivion

Marathon Runner





Marathon Runner


A marathoner with black eyes
gazelles his girth forward.
My eyes have an owner.

In his face,
a man with many beds,

one who follows the nape
of old gay swans
like a male about to thrust.

My taste, that he take
everything from me,
when Jews grind their matzo.

Marathan man,
bamboozle me on the cross 
of oblivion.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

The Shame and Fear We Sow




The Shame and Fear We Sow


It’s no longer Build the Wall
or Lock Her Up, now it’s Shoot the Bitch.
and Hang the Nigger.

Outbursts, newsworthy metaphors,
one more fire under Nowhere Bridge,
a contemptible distraction
to my support of The Water Protectors?

I’m done listening to loudspeakers
announce our descent into hell.  It’s a show
of strength to be a powerful woman,
a successful black man. Why run

through the corridors
of the West Wing cherry-picking slogans
for a lynch mob?

In the Clear Age of Water




In the Clear Age of Water


The work of this day consists
in carrying a bag laden with rain
from here to there.

Once done, it's lift the bag 
with our tired eyes,
bury it in the lake of indifference
where sad conversations rot.

Let’s stamp life with graffiti.
After all, we are just the so-and-so's,
the whatshisname's,
the Tom Dick or Harry's of life

and rain is nothing more
than corrected, repetitive poetry,
a new pair of shoes
wanting to be so joyful
happiness tires
and refuses to do any overtime.

2016 has been an incredible year for me


This has been an incredible year for me.  After spending four years writing, editing, and publishing Tanka, I returned to longer poems.  Much to my surprise, I was nominated for a Best of the Net award for the poem, Requiem for Mercedes Sosa. I started working on my first full poetry collection, Elephant Graveyard, and it's almost finished. I tried my hand at writing political poems, and over the last two weeks 10 of those poems have been accepted for publication.  My life couldn't get any better.  I want to thank you all for reading my poems. Let's break a leg together.

Sergio

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Poema en disputa




Poema en disputa


Pobre señor de los insultos, quiere robar la miel de mi desierto. Mi petróleo es inofensivo,
 excepto por el rastro de pobreza que deja atrás. ¿Por qué no te miras desde el fondo del río?
A la noche le hace falta lluvia, algo que limpie los restos del pasado, que limpie, incluso, la
violencia viciosa de las palabras, que libere a la piedad de los dioses que perdieron su orgullo.
No tienes derecho a abrir la ventana de tu alma para renovar tus desechos. En el día del destierro,
te quedaras desnudo, nadando en las tuberías oxidadas de aguas residuales.


Blog Archive

Followers

About Me

My photo
San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is an educator, poet, photographer, and painter living in San Juan Puerto Rico. He is a four-time nominee for the 2010-2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology, and a two-time 2010 Pushcart nominee. His collections of Tanka, For the Men to Come (2014), and From Life to Life (2014) were released by Amazon and Createspace as well as his full print collection of poems: At the Tail End of Dusk (2014). His collection of poems in Spanish, A La Orilla Lenta De Un Ocaso, was also released by Amazon and Createspace (2014).

Typying