The Way to Love Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

.



Look at him as if he had
just jumped the Berlin Wall.
When he whines
about how bruised he is
don't bat an eye.
Step back and ask him
to come see you
in another eight to twelve months,
when you've forgotten about
his crummy imitation of a clown.
If he gets sick
offer to keep him company
in the emergency room,
but only if he wears a space suit
with a broadside
honoring Walter Cronkite.



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

My First Sin

My first sin was
to ridicule the ridiculer,
hate him

with clear adoration.
For in so doing,
I became the beggar

and he the overlord
of my will.
Now I know the devil,

or at the very least
I know Rome in its last hour.
A tax collector sleeps



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Published by Flutter Press

Sergio Ortiz’s debut chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk, is as much a celebration of place—the Caribbean—as the identity of a middle age gay man coming to grips with life, death, and love. His poems are street-wise and have a hard edge. They commemorate the imagination.

Available at Lulu

Flutter Press

Un Virus con Putos Zapatos

mi pobre pueblo
decenas de zapos políticos
invadieron su pozo
ahora todos nos odiamos
virus con putos zapatos
de cocodrilos



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Para Recuperar la Desnudez

Me huele a brea, y a trabajo forzoso.
Me huele a despedida, y a año electoral,
a mulato a punto de perder su reelección.
Me huele a rezo, y a incienso
y a San Antonio de Padua naufragando.



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Reseña de Eloy Anello, mi amigo del alma

Eloy Anello nació en Ft. Stockton, Texas, EE.UU. Está casado y tiene 5 hijos. Actualmente reside en Santa Cruz (Bolivia).

Se licenció por la Universidad Estatal de California en Sociología y Estudios Latinoamericanos. Posteriormente, obtuvo un Máster en la Administración de la Salud Pública por la Universidad de Puerto Rico y se especializó en Diseño Curricular de Recursos Humanos para la Salud, por la Universidad de Harvard. En 1966 obtuvo su doctorado en Educación por la Universidad de Massachusetts.

Su dilatada carrera profesional y académica se ha distinguido por sus trabajos en las áreas de la salud pública, desarrollo social y económico, así como de la educación en Latinoamérica, especialmente en Bolivia, lo cual le ha valido varios reconocimientos y premios, entre ellos su nombramiento en 2006 como Doctor Honoris Causa del Consejo Ibero Americano de Educación (Argentina).

Entre sus innumerables actividades y esfuerzos, cabe reseñar su papel protagonista en la fundación y puesta en marcha de la Universidad Nur en Santa Cruz de Bolivia, donde ha sido su Presidente durante dos décadas; su labor como asesor de UNICEF y la OMS, organismo éste último con el que colabora actualmente en el programa de la Buena Gobernabilidad de Medicinas; y su iniciativa en la creación del Centro Andino de Excelencia para la Capacitación de Maestros, donde trabaja actualmente como Coordinador Nacional. A través de este Centro está trabajando, y obteniendo importantes logros, para fortalecer la enseñanza de la lengua escrita y mejorar las habilidades de lectura y escritura de los alumnos de las escuelas primarias en la región andina.

Además de sus logros académicos y profesionales, cabe añadir sus valiosos servicios a la Fe Bahá’í en Latinoamérica. Sus servicios como pionero y maestro de la Fe, como Miembro del Cuerpo Auxiliar y, posteriormente, como Consejero Continental para Las Américas durante muchos años avalan su gran experiencia en los campos de la enseñanza y la administración de la Fe. Él ha sido uno de los impulsores de un discurso bahá’í para Latinoamérica, con especial hincapié en el tema del Liderazgo Moral.

Qué

Qué triste es ver a mí hermano cubano
sin un fusil cargado en la mano.
Coño que aguante, que bolero, que paciencia,
que leche, que hambre, que guaracha,
que solemne pérdida de tiempo.





© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

La Censura: Literatura Puertorriqueña 101

Cuando fue que los legisladores y administradores del departamento de educación puertorriqueños comenzaron a sufrir de esquizofrenia colectiva? Por que el asunto de censura de nuestros escritores a mi me parece que es síntoma de una especie de esquizofrenia colectiva, producida por la falta de identidad propia. Se me hace difícil creer que nosotros estamos tan carentes de imaginación que tengamos que copiar el modelo de gobernabilidad del partido republicano de los Estados Unidos sin examinar apropiadamente nuestra realidad. Señores no sean hipócritas, nuestros adolecentes hace ya tiempo que se están masturbando, teniendo sexo, y hablando como les da la gana. Esa es una realidad que ninguna cantidad de censura va a cambiar. Las culturas corrigen los errores que cometen de formas más creativas que la censura. Digo, las culturas que se jactan de ser libres y democráticas. Yo estoy seguro que ustedes, todos ustedes, en su adolescencia hacían y decían esas mismas cosas que están escritas en eso libros que ahora tan hipócritamente han censurado. Eso es preocupante porque eso me dice que ustedes estarían dispuestos a sacrificar el bienestar, la salud fisica y emocional, de nuestros adolescentes para aparentar ser algo que no somos, como recientemente lo hicieron en Sur África (los políticos) al querer aparentar en sus campañas de salud que el SIDA solamente se detenía a través de la abstención. Nosotros los puertorriqueños no somos castos y no es a través de la censura que vamos a cambiar. Eso se logra a través de una transformación individual que tiene como cimiento la educación que se recibe en el hogar. Si no nos gusta la forma en que nuestros hijos hablan, EDUQUEMOSLOS bien, pero en el hogar. Después de todo, ellos no nos sino el reflejo de lo que nosotros le dimos de comer.

Toilets

I’m in love
with a homeless man.

Now listen,
we’ve got a lot in common:
H.U.D., lawyers,
politicians.

We have heated discussions
about the face fucking
activity in the toilets
at el Capitolio

but when he stares
at my dick
and licks my nipples

it’s just me
and him.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Gray and Gay

I’ve thought about being dead,
watched my bloated self in the mirror,
waited for strangers
to take care of the funeral.

I’ve thought about dinner parties,
the theatre: things no longer
in the budget. Sex. Doctors.

I’ve thought about cohesion,
Clairol, Herbal Essence
and Eyeliner. Friends.

I’ve thought about outreach groups,
raisins, peaches, and kiwis.
Still-life paintings in my city.

I’ve thought about American Idol,
churches and meals on wheels.
About competition,

and another twenty years of less,
and less, and less of a line
that does not disappear on its own.

I’ve thought about mangrove crabs
living in mud holes, pushed
back into the closet.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009 First Published in the summer of 2009

Afortunados

En aquellos días íbamos a la playa
a practicar tiro al blanco, la seducción.

Aprendíamos a hablar inglés, o francés.
Leer quitaba un poco la mancha del plátano
así es que no faltaba el bestseller.
Se usaba el arte de la palabra tersa sin gritar.

Éramos los afortunados, los nacidos
después de la última guerra.
Los que desecharon la zafra. Los que no aprendieron
a matar y desplumar una gallina.

La turba de futuros empleados públicos
con palancas políticas,
desempleados.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Postcards to Willie Perdomo: November 29, 2008

1.
Willie, baby, when Eloy showed
me the wedding rings I broke out in tears.
He had to get a doctor to calm me down.
I was so innocent, didn’t even know why
I followed him to Bolivia.

2.
“Yo fui la mas callada
de todas las que hicieron el viaje hasta tu Puerto.”

The sky fell. Willie, write me a poem that will bring me
back to life, papi. Be my distraction, or I am going
to find a tall blue eyed angel
with baker hands and lips like James Dean.

3.
“A dormir se van ahora mis lagrimas
por donde tu cruzaste mi verso.”

Negro, I’ve murdered myself so many times
the effort is starting to hurt.
Someone stole my poetry. They wanted
to teach me to write on paper. Ha, as if everything
I do isn’t already written in blood.
I begged mama to help me die,
but she refused, had to slash my own wrist.

4.
“Todos los ojos del viento
ya me lloraron por muerta.”

Do you think ghosts can ask for asylum in Cuba?
Willie, take my clothes off. Look at my scars
without crying and tell me I’m beautiful. Don’t lie.

Wanting to drink a cup of coffee with you
reading me Ginsberg, Cimic, and Julia.
tuyo para siempre
Sergio



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008 first Published in Rust and Moth

Julie and Julia

Last week I went to see Julie and Julia, the movie about Julia Child chef and author, and Julie Powell, author and blogger who became famous by following Julia’s recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I can’t believe it has been nineteen years since I went to chef school and Julia Child signed my copy of her then latest cookbook: The Way to Cook. We had just returned from a trip to France at Restaurant School in Philadelphia. .

I didn’t know she was ninety years old at that book signing. She certainly didn’t look it. We were told not to bother her took much but I just had to meet her. I asked her to sign my copy of the book and she wanted to know more about me. I told her had gone to the public library and taken out Mastering the art of French Cooking every week for a year since classes started at the restaurant school. And that I was thirty-nine years old, and changing my profession. Until then, the only thing I knew how to do was teach English as a second language. She asked me how I got interested in cooking. I told her it was my grandmother. She was a great cook and I was always in the kitchen helping her.

The movie was excellent. It showed a woman with the determination of bear. I remember Ms Child telling us we had to love cooking or we would be on our way out of the business in two to six years. She was right. After about two years I started teaching French cuisine and by the end of another six years I was out of the business. Eight years, last two I knew I would not be cooking for the rest of my life. So if you’ve got a chance to go see the movie, don’t miss it. Meryl Streep is fantastic in it. As are all the other actors. It’s great!

The Martyrdom of Quddus

The Martyrdom of Quddus


One hundred and thirty-six mirrors
whirled around him
like a hurricane, the reflection
of his heart on the Hand
that shapes existence.
Mountains gathered around a line
of blood—radioactive chain reaction
dripped from his open wounds—and I
despaired. He left me dressed
in shades of purple, aflame,
lowered back into my coffin.

© Sergio A. Ortiz 2007

This is the song that best describes my life experience

I love this song!!

Haiku - Remembering Woodstock

stone aging
Cheech & Chong
happiness

free Tibet
excuse me while
I kiss the sky

rucksack wanderers
hookers gave them a calling
avoid the draft

heading for Woodstock
one generation got old
one got soul


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

The Smell of Sulfur

The Smell of Sulfur
By Sergio A. Ortiz

The odor of sulfur was as strong
as the company brought to the podium of Titans.
Gaia and Ouranos spat angry epithets to each other
in the oval office of the armory on Boulevard
where the effigy hid bottles of gin.

On television the rib-tickling, righteous Titan
got an opportunity to explain the notion
of drowning in the desert to the nation recently targeted
by terror. The program furthered the graven image’s intent
to build a large metal barrier. Who knew if it was to keep
some out, or trap some in?

Women tip-toeing north through the desert
left an uncomfortable trail of blood too long to ignore,
rivers of pearls buried under the roots of ancient
saguaros on Cristero soil.

Words pronounced by shebang smoking idols
didn't mean a thing to thirty million butterflies.
They were there first.


Copyright © 2009 Sergio A. Ortiz

Collective Madness

Collective Madness
Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone'
Birds At Winter, Thomas Harding



Collectively we are
over exposed driftwood bewitched by the
light, pretty
little cento, an
eclipse enchanted with a rainbow. Our
childhood memories linger like pastoral
triolets about rolling meadows. Luck has nothing to do with
interpreting the
veils with which we choose to cover our faces.
enlightenment happens after we fall.

Madness comes in the form of eyes
appended to blood dripping rocks when our
demons fail to cross the river.
never is where we usually drink tea and
endlessly suck on lemons.
smiles are inevitable when we
spar with strangers yet fail to bring about change.


Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz Published in Kritya

Silent

Silent


A chorus of genuflections filtered through the kitchen
ventilator and knelt beside my bed around midnight.
I knew Georgina was dead. My rocking chair peeled
its mahogany finish in her honor.

There were loud knocks at the door: my neighbors standing
outside packing axioms and any other thing they could find:
guns, crucifixes, shovels. “Hi, we were wondering
about the odor?” It’s not coming from here,
I’m not quite dead yet. Occasionally, I see apparitions
of myself standing by the window, behind the shower curtain,
but I still go fly fishing.

Mother came to me in a dream last night, gave me the password
to a house where boas reincarnate into possessed lizards
catching mosquitoes on maracas. She said: everything spoken
becomes water, blends.

She had me thinking about my space. I am going to stop
talking for seven years, but first let me repeat this a few more
times: Harmonizing the sacred. Harmonizing the sacred.
Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus

Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz Published in Flutter

On the Day of the Dead

On the Day of the Dead


On the day of the dead, Pablo put on his pants
one mummified foot at a time. It wasn't
his fault, rain was the true culprit. Clouds
followed his feet for years, poured whenever
he tried to cut bread in the City of Glass.
His soles cracked, sprouting roots.

Julia entertained on her balcony, levitating
intimate secrets. People on 42nd Street
attributed her faculties to a santero visiting
her family on the day she was born.
She stood tall and elegant like the mountains
to the south of Black Island, Pablo's home.
Her face had all the traces of unforgettable pain.

They married; Julia, carried down the aisle
by old lovers, found the last bottle of rum
hidden in the trash before the wedding.
She bled life into a gutter, no one recited her verses.
No one knew she was ambassador to the Island of Poetry.

Pablo was one mummified foot at a time closer
to banging pots and starvation, medicine denied,
orders from the dictator. They are gone
but I keep their marriage vows to read out loud
on the day of the dead.


Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz Published in Literary Journal

Intimate

Intimate


You saddle the other me,
the one you empty
each disappearing dawn,
the bulldogger with a bitten lip.

I am crowned with psychedelic
corollas, dreams beyond dreams.
I learn to forget by forgetting.

There is nothing left of my ecstasies,
or the color of my obsessions,
not even the seize of your mouth
on my words.


Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz Published in Origami Condom

A Reverie of Horror

A Reverie of Horror


He finds the hallway leading
to death's wrinkled, Garbo legs.

Children standing by their mother's
broken mirror have their own
boleros to remember.

Spiders weave the stench of sour jungle,
a vile outbreak of colloquial monsters.
My father sings a duo with my father.


Copyright © 2009 Sergio A. Ortiz

Outfits

Outfits

I stopped pushing salvation
on inner city streets after the funeral.
Maples lining the road home took me to the kimono
and the baby, anniversary gifts from Tent.
Rubin changed clothes as soon as we got home
from Sunday school: toreror, mariachi, prime ballerina.
It was difficult to keep a straight face in the middle
of an argument with a little cross-dresser playing
in front of you.

The beginning of autumn, that’s when he started
collecting the feathers.
My baby, fourteen, lifeless.
We found the first one outside a Mud Wrestling
Bar & Grill. It had the Lords Prayer written on the barbs.
Soon enough, they were coming from all over the world.
He loved to collect them.

Close, Tent was very close to his son.
Closer than the rope he used.
He couldn’t take the impact of Rubin’s passing.

I needed to look in the mirror,
put on the kimono, cover my arms with the red
yellow leaves of the sash, and hide the teeth marks.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

At the Church of 80% Sincerity

At the Church of 80% Sincerity

it was no crime to be born a delicate
male, but reaching puberty
while you're opening up a frog
in biology class ruined
your sex life for good.
Games were another gray area.
No such thing as “hard” contact
during basket-ball practice was allowed,
and it wasn't because of the balls,
or the running style.
So, I took ballet three nights a week,
studied sincerity percentages.
It was not easy.
Everyone I knew hid 20%
of their life at the Church
of 80% Sincerity.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008 first published in Children, Churches, and Daddies

India

India

I did not fail to see your shroud cover my hands,
like a mother greeting a son with garlands.
What was this light you possessed
that guided me out of the dark,
wheeled my thoughts in navy blue, tendered
my voice, and spiraled into a dance?

The hands holding up invisible walls,
carried my sail to streams untouched.
Hands that fenced passions and cushioned
the blows each time I fell.

Chant a bhajan melody while the fingers
of my right hand form a crown lotus soaring
in mid air. My left hand imitates
a wave caught in the vortex of fate.
My eyes look away from physical forms
as if all the toiling in the fields
had set them on fire in celebration.

Clattering kartals accompanied
by humming drones, and chiming manjiras,
sitars and nals, complete the circle swaying
rhythms in perfection. Why do you till my eyes
in your fields of saffron?


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Searching

Searching

We are both close to fear,
my brother and I, boom babies,
witnesses to an age saturated
with violence. Him, a virgin
at twenty-five. Me, used
and afraid by sixteen.

I want to hug my brother
tell him how much I’ve missed him.
Night has not been the same
without a sentinel looking out
the window, searching.

Thank you for understanding
what it is to be a man
without the bling hanging
on my neck or a gun in hand.

I want us to see the dawn
while our faces turn
to each other, and the clothes
we wear burn off.



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Peak Oil

Peak Oil


We read about the old dying
from the cold. Fifteen days later

there was no food.
When it happened a third time

politicians got mobbed on the streets.
As if law makers could keep away cardinals

perched on the outstretched arms
of concrete scarecrows.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

On the Brink

On the Brink

Merchants of war, you hide in what you wish
were called, “the Mansions of Heaven,”
while a trigger is squeezed to death on the street.

I have a bird that whistles, but it doesn’t stop
me from crying. I heard some students
were crushed for walking in each other’s dreams
at a love-in. Too bad I couldn’t be there with them.

I’m a dada bird on the brink of extinction,
need to get away from Oxford,
Harvard, Yale, and Princeton.


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Tanka- Jump in Water

when dawn
remembers to seize your dreams
jump in water
even if you can't swim
or wiggle your ears

Sevenling: Beautiful Ruins

I see a cloud
so old it wants to sail
across the moon and rain.

I tend my garden:
the water, marble,
forgetting which runs into which.

Where is Eden? Is there a hammock there?


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Gypsy

Gypsy


Linda prepared for bed confident
she could not receive
bad news.
It was Thursday, bad news
was announced in dreams on Fridays,
After walking over to the drawer and taking out
the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors,
on the side of her neck for good luck.
Gypsies don’t read
each others palms.
They understand war casualties, letter writing in the fog,
black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think
about the fuzz on his back, think about how it spread
to his buttocks.
Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil.
She was so thin she was starting to look like phyllo.
The señora wants me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Puttock
will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable.
Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain
about not telling me who the father is?
No señora, it doesn’t matter. He is an important man.
He won’t care of my baby. Teresa your pulling my hair,
how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter.
You will work here until you’re due.



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Copyright © 2008 Sergio A. Ortiz

For Michael Jackson

encore
the King of Pop's
blazing moon dance


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009
June 25

Haiku

el silencio no murmura... grita... penumbras


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Haiku

penumbra
sobre los sahuaros
bosque de espinas viejas


© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Haiku

lindero
coqui al otro lado
del charco



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Haiku

coqui
salta el charco
jibaro exilado



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Después de Cruzar la Calle

Después de Cruzar la Calle


loco con tu piel
pero luego, luego te pienso
mas mío mas tiempo mas silencio

manantial de planetas cósmicos
todos prestándole luz a mi sendero
salpicando de alegrías
mis estrellas rotas o tal vez la nuestras


aquí estamos
tu sentado en mi roca
yo recostado sobre tu pensamiento
a punto de comenzar a conocernos



© Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Where

Where are those hands
traitors to their trade,
asleep beside another
singing songs of mystic praise?

I traveled through centuries
on a ray of sun
and knew our end
in advance:

You, murdered
by envy,
I, a dervish
hidden in Turkey.

Where are the hands
that leaned
on my shoulders
to write poems?

Shady Checo Man

Shady Checo Man


fuiste
crueldad
armonizada,
apego,
deseo
de
ir
hacia
ti.

Perfil

Me encuentro atrapado en este mundo oriental
Cegado por la incapacidad de entender
O recorrer los acontecimientos históricos
Que me siguen trayendo al manantial
Donde toda mi existencia se desdobla
Para reflejarse en proyecciones humanas.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated by Rania S. Watts

Attente

Les yeux cherchent un sourire,
aidez son abdomen.

Les genoux se frottent le froid
quand il n'est pas près,

et ses mains sont
armes de paix
sur ma peau.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated by my sister Rania S. Watts

Beauté américaine

Acheté moi-même quelques hauts talons
croyez qu'ils semblent bons avec l'Armée du Salut
Le costume je me conserve dans les toilettes pour les occasions spéciales.

Damnez le droit, je le fais à la discussion
directement après les gamins
Arrivez à la maison du hockey.
Petite femme les aime les chaussures.

Mon miel, n'oubliez pas d'éteindre la lumière
Quand cela vit dans le mari votre
venez recueillent le bébé.
Oh, et n'oubliez pas de prendre votre fusil.

Tanagra

Tanagra


bañado
en niebla púrpura
de abrazo, el silencio
escondido de verde pregunta
a mi mancha. ¿Llegara Juno
con sus manos abiertas?

Duelo

Duelo


En el día de tu partida
te soñare perfumando el alba
vestida de rosas,
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.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated into French by Rania S. Watts

Remontée en surface

“Je suis fière de toi,”
encore tout je voyais jamais
sont des métaphores gracieuses
soulevant du soleil
jusqu'à ce que nous soyons déshabillés.
Je me demande de votre contact,
et si votre peau va
mon espace vide.
J'ai des visions de chuchotements
tattooed sur mon revers
pour vous pour adorer,
où la gentillesse est
un jour silencieux
complet de notre rire.
En outre, il y a des secrets
le brisement de mes lèvres
pour votre confort.

Written by Sergio Ortiz, translated into French by Rania S. Watts

À travers le Mur


Vous étiez le facteur
c'est venu une fois par semaine,
aliments apportés et fleurs.

Sur la vieille route de soie
la neige ne s'est plus fanée
les couleurs sur mon colorant de lien.

J'étais le facteur
avec le sourire de lune en porcelaine.
J'ai traversé le mur câblé

le jour après que vous avez apporté
réglisse et lacet.
Nous avons écrit l'été sur le sel,
et le miel sur l'hiver.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated into French by Rania S. Watts

Bengali Rouge

Dites-moi la mère, qui accueille l'aube
dans le riz paddies de l'affection
comme un enfant suant des diamants ?
Qui tombe sur la poussière dans le Godavari,
et les danses avec les ténèbres
jusqu'à ce que vous ordonniez au feu de crémation de brûler ?

Plans de mouche de doigts
comme le lotus céleste,
et les créatures trouvent le sens caché
dans tous.
Moi est perdu dans le sang
des échos de grand poids
frénétiquement la danse avec les épées.

La mère, où peut je vous trouve
exécution des miracles ?
Il y a un arbre enroulé gonflé à bloc
sur ma langue,
extase d'indium de rouges.
Il est cloué au revers de mon rompu
cou, baisers rêveurs.
La mère, qui empoisonne
notre patrie avec le métal
géants crachant le feu ?

Angel of Shiraz

7:30pm, Saturday, 23 of October, 1982.
Four armed guards pushed their way into her house.


Graceful emerald with crystal pearls
wrapping the warm embrace of children.

Chasing hammer, cup bur-singing
seventeen sonnets of love,
so young it pains the curb.

Three tic tacs felt like years
looking around drawers.
Closets gripped the guards’ hands
as joyous temperatures rose to their ruby peek.

“Loop lady, don’t say the emerald
is only seventeen.
Children follow what she speaks
like roses marching straight to Zion.”

I would die for You.

“Furkhundih, azizum joon mama.
Don’t worry. They are my brothers too.”

There were no good-byes
in that blindfolded prison of Sepah.
Leaf Mothers rushed
from their heavenly chambers
in anguish to safeguard
the emerald of Shiraz.

…insults, interrogations,
bastinado…

The angel begged the noose
to let her be the last.
She said; I chant the winds of change,
where one is all in nine.
I will die for You.

The Silent Beauty of a Mother Bee

It was from the core of the earth
That His heavenly waters rose to the sky
Like an ocean flooding hearts.
Had it not been for His eternal fishing net,
Countless would have perished.
His salvation, a divine plan,
Was our most precious gift.

It stands as a mother
With the silent beauty of a bee
And a two-fold mission; to germinate
New flowers for His sacred garden,
And pledge alliance to every son He has ever had.
Come, wade in the ocean of His word,
Learn the meaning of water.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated into French by Rania S. Watts

Le Filet du Pêcheur

Nous avons été faits pour traîner
le poids d'ornements.
Dans la danse d'un martyr nous avons brûlé
prêt pour une autre chasse
le fait de gagner la force de le
amulettes de sang
le fait de protéger notre village.

Des terres à l'abandon ont été promises,
et tattooed sur notre
peau collective.
Les visages ont brillé rouge
calmer la soif.
Nous avons dormi dans le confort, en serrant
ceintures avec la main gauche.

Était cela à cause le de long oublié
shillelagh, les épines comme frais
comme le dard d'un scorpion,
ou le cendrier d'art déco
meurtri dans un film porno
où les étoiles,

Migrants bulgares,
soyez attrapés dans la circulation criant
quelque chose de l'uranium,
et la tempête de feuille spiraling
où nos cultes prolifèrent ?

Ramona a trouvé l'amour
sur un plateau africain.
Nous toujours massacre
en toute impunité,
un poisson de l'eau.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated into French by Rania S. Watts

Une étoile est née des ténèbres,
les mains et les pieds, exemplaires
l'atome étant donné prendre.

Je ne dépends pas de l'amour, mais dans votre cas
Je ferais quelques concessions. J'habillerai le lit,
vous apprenez aux enfants à décider.

Il y a juste une autre chose à laquelle je demanderais de vous.
Ces histoires que j'écris, vous pourraient pardonner
les mots je choisis ?

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated by Rania S. Watts

Nature morte

J
'
a
i
m
e

les nuages changent ses couleurs
a

v
i
l
l'eau il semble
e

q
u
a
n
d

i
l

p
l
e
u
temps son pouls

Another poem will be placed here in a day or so.

I needed to take this poem down for a few months. Please forgive!

Sergio Ortiz

En Principio

En Principio


las líneas no concuerdan
los puntos no siguen una secuencia
continúo ahogado en pétalos marchitos
mis arterias se endurecen
con tu desierto de luz

para perderme en el verde matinal de tu hojarasca
escucho al río pronunciar mi nombre así
rompo las cadenas que me atan
al concreto sobrecargado
de sonidos mecánicos
que interrumpen la memoria



© Sergio Ortiz septiembre 2008-09-14

Hermano

Hermano


¿Quién eres tú para olvidarme;
silencio, amigo, o muerte?
¡Si eres silencio grita,
pues no escucho!
¡Si eres amigo muéstrate,
pues no te veo!
¡Si eres muerte, envenena mi muerte
pues solo en su aliento me encuentro!



© Sergio Ortiz Septiembre 13 2008

Fado/ Eco De Lluvia

A Julia De Burgos

Fado: Eco de Lluvia

¡Nadie te comprende como yo,
que escucho en el silencio de tus manos
aire férvido que dentro de mi llanto sigue navegando!

¡Nadie pisa mi luna como tú,
la estrechez de mis paredes se derrumba!
Bailamos con la muerte

sin recordar que nos prometió la vida.
Vida, reclamo dos suspiros
y una guirnalda. Y si él no regresa

ahogaremos nuestras penas,
piedras mojadas, girando sobre el eco
conturbado de la lluvia.


© Sergio Ortiz Septiembre 14, 2008

Poem Written by Sergio Ortiz and translated by Rania S. Watts

Le fait de tomber

Nous séparons un petit mon garçon,
nous nous désintégrons, si nous ne faisons pas
touchez chacun d'autres les coeurs
quand nous mesurons qui nous sommes.

Quand notre regard n'est pas concentré
sur nos yeux - nous sommes troublés
par quoi nous voyons. Nous tournons
'autour et 'autour comme les congés tombant.

En reculant est le meilleur
quand le temps a mal compris le reste.
Nous séparons un petit mon garçon,
nous nous désintégrons.

Otra

Otras


Otra, tal vez la ultima... mentira
escondo bajo la luna de mis uñas.

Otro, tal vez el único... recuerdo
pierdo en el eco de los hombres

Otra, no está traicionera vida... camina
mareada por el desvelo.


© Sergio Ortiz Septiembre 15 2008

Desprecio

No tocare el sueño
Me acostare inmóvil
Hasta que llegue el día.
En mis pupilas escondo
Todo lo que he deshecho.
No volare al cielo
Lo han convertido en lodo.
Desde ese lodo escucho
Uñas rasgar mi pecho.
Tirare mis piernas al mar
Para ver como me hundo
Cuando abra los ojos comprenderás
Que estoy tuerto de sol y luna.
Así soy yo de sangre fría.
He pervertido hasta el desprecio.


© Sergio Ortiz

Brave

The tree I choose
is not afraid to breathe
when he stands alone under
the pouring rain. From his bark
you’ll hear this song: Papi,
si no es tuyo, don’t touch.

Two kids crossed my path,
curious, innocent new trees.
Their care needs to be constant
but they’re already full of understanding.
Estos los chiquitos de mi gente:
Papi, si no es tuyo, don’t touch.

Don’t give them drugs,
or cause them pain, their hearts are tender
and trust is difficult to gain.
Papi, si no es tuyo, don’t touch.

The Portrait

The Portrait

Night winds coiled the sunless hours
as day twisted out of darkness.

A kingly fez curved by a green white turban
spun round his hallowed head.

Humble, my beloved, though the painter
did not raise an eye, he took his hands
so blessed,

and smoothed the crests on his garb
while on the knees he rested.

The painter had no choice,
he bowed ashamed.


© Sergio Ortiz

Published in Issue Ten, Recession, August, 2008, Cause & Effect

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated by Rania S. Watts

faucon de moineau sur la course
mes sourires suffisants incitent
votre liberté de chien de meute
dérange le bandeau
vos ailes ne peuvent pas
possédez — mon vol est plus haut
chanson elliptique

vous saignez emprisonné
dans un complet de comète en état d'apesanteur
des aubes perforées—
mes périodes d'alphabet
votre misère constante

— le trou
d'où vous moussez
maladif-prévisible

Je vole au-delà de votre portée
un aigle

Copyright: Sergio Ortiz, translated by Rania S. Watts

One of my poems will appear in an Anthology

I must thank Alessia Brio, editor of the soon to be published Anthology: Coming Together: At Last, where one of my poems will appear.

Sergio Ortiz

Four Saints and a Demon Chewing Tobacco

These are the troubled times
of tortured folksongs,
before the last war
ended
and I am not yet reincarnated
into Dylan Thomas.

This is when I and I get married,
age together, die in Montevideo,
before the last war
ended
and I discover the secret
of life reincarnated as Allen Ginsberg
at the wake for Sal Paradise,
tobacco and Sunday paper in hand,
before the last war
ended
and I, considering implants,
reincarnate as Gertrude Stein.

Nature wins the war, fifty years
after my last reincarnation,
when you think you're doing me
but I'm on top.

Published in the July, 2008, Cause & Effect copyright Sergio Ortiz

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, tranlated by Rania S. Watts, Wild Poetry Forum

"Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves
Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant."
Charles Baudelaire's "Les Sept vieillards,"


Aujourd'hui le soleil
n'a pas brûlé,
il a souri et la neige
à ma nuque faite fondre.

Oh, le Bleu de Rivière pardonnent
l'enfant innocent
cela lévite
vos eaux d'été.
Honorez-le chaque août,
car c'était alors il a trouvé

mort. Aujourd'hui je suis sorti
de l'obscurité, a marché
dans la mer rêveuse,
et dansé
avec le vent sauvage de la ville.

Untitled written by Sergio Ortiz, translate by Rania S. Watts, Wild Poetry Workshop

Il n'est pas nécessaire de savoir
l'heure précise pour partir,
le moment où il est préférable de pleurer.

Le silence s'est déjà levé
de la table.
Je ne me retournerai jamais pour voir

les couteaux couvrent la table.
Cette compétition est finie.
La glace a fondu.

Ce n'est pas nécessaire pour vous
se soucier. Je garderai ma dignité,
non nécessaire de désarmer,

courir avec les bras ouverts
dans une tempête de zéphyr.

Poem written by Sergio Ortiz, translated by Rania S. Watts

De nouveau, la mort doit ici visiter.
Sa main prête à réviser les déchirures
de quoi j'ai perdu entre les lignes
de mon dernier chant.

La mort, où vous a faits cache la voix
cela durcit mes mamelons?
Vous vous êtes déshabillés pour me montrer la virilité
avec lequel vous espérez arracher le soleil
le feu, humilié par le contour de mes veines.

Cet arbre est prêt pour sa nouvelle croissance,
encore je ne veux aucune limite à votre contact.
La mort, je sais que vous voulez que je revienne
la visite, mais je ne dors pas bien dans les bras
d'une disparition.

Nota Sobre la Mesa

Quiero que lo sepas:

Amor que ricos estaban

Los mangos que dejaste

Sobre la mesa, tan frescos,

Dulces, maduritos.

Gracias por el café.

No olvides que Enrique y los muchachos

Vienen esta noche

A tomarse unas cervezas,

Con las chicas.

Ángela llamo, dice que Miguel

Salio bien en todos los exámenes.

Parece que ya no hay

Que preocuparse por

El cáncer.

Necesito de ti

Necesito de ti

tu mirada más tierna.

Pues no puedo vivir

sin poder describir

tu sonrisa de reina.

Yo no quiero acabar

cabalgando a oscuras.

Mientras juntos, mi amor,

cosechamos ternuras.

Los retoños felices,

que del vientre afloraran,

hoy son nuestra dulzura,

nuestras joyas doradas.

Necesito, mi reina,

tu mirad más tierna.

Necesito de ti.

Tegucigalpa

Llegue volando, desde el gris de la memoria,

a los pinos más hermosos que continúan pintando

la sal de mis perladas nubes.

Todavía no he podido dejar de inhalar tus fragancias;

la Catedral donde cante villancicos

en francés mientras brisas soplaban

alegres, acogidas a manos inocentes.

No he dejado de despuntar el revuelo

de las aves marcando tu alba,

y el crepúsculo, con su trova.

Allí supe cuando el sol cristalizaba, cuando la luna hechizaba

mi vasija rota, acostada sobre el mirador de la melancolía.

Morning Tension

The moon got lost

between our sheets.

The sun found us

borrowing its time.

You sang, asked

me to repair .

Caribbean Seafront

Paseo Caribe

There’s a coiled tree all fire up

in my head and pieces

of concrete on my arms.

I am hurting. Creatures

are lost in the blood dripping

from the lips of echoes

dancing with polished swords.

Who poisons our homeland,

steals its shores, and clobbers

our heads? Father, who weeps

in this city?

Nadando

¿Qué investigadores se encuentran

detrás de ocaso? Palabras

ásperas no pueden atribuirse el saber

sin ponerse ropa de clase obrera. Con solo

nadar frente en la aflicción desamparada

uno flota hacia a la palabra.

Beating Heart

Beating Heart

Oh, that I could silence
this beating heart. Oh, that I could
throw rocks at the waves
Oh, madness be still
or go away.

Never

Blind causality found new shoes,
and while treading soft, left prints
near a heavenly river, never spoke
another word about its pain. Never.

Yasin or Yansan

POUI - CAVE HILL Literary Annual NO. 7, Decemeber, 2005

The poem that was published in thes Journal has the title of Yasin or Yansan A Publication of the Department of Language, Linguistics and Literature, University of the West Indies, Cave Hill Campus.
CONSULTANT EDITORS:

Kamau Brathwaite
Nailah Folami Imoja

EDITORIAL BOARD:
Jane Bryce
Hazel Simmon-McDonald
Mark McWatt

COVER ART:
Paul Gibbs