Antes que termine la música

Antes que termine la música 


Soñé 
que estaba viejo 
y lloré…
quemado de muerte, 
me quité la piel.

La colgué 
como una manta empapada 
de lágrimas. 

¿Dónde me escondo? 
¿Dónde encuentro la música 
que me da solidez?

Mi piel tendida sobre el dedo 
de mi otro yo— sudado 
y lloroso— tararea sí, sí, sí.

Adán en Mi Catre

Adán en Mi Catre

Encontré magia

oxidándose en sus ojos,

algo que podía engrasar

y lijar levemente.

¿Le tendería una emboscada

a este corazón anónimo?

Mi sangre se afina,

y afina— sepia que no se abstiene

de los dividendos industriosos,

del enfoque lento—

la manzana mordida.

Adán arduamente trabajando,

el pedernal debajo de su bata

caliente en mi catre.

La luna no se queja,

nuestros muslos resplandecen

con sudor de la noche.

Terror: a tanka sequence Published in U.M.Ph.! Prose

Published in U.M.Ph.! Prose
http://umph-prose.weebly.com/


Terror: a tanka sequence

broken images,
fragments of Boston 
coil inside...
on a crowded street
my thoughts stream ahead of me

black on gray clouds: 
when trees are wounded 
by a waxing moon
how then can I tell you
the story of men who kill?

it begins to rain nails
when the grenade explodes
a few feet away
from the belly of death...
I lie alone in my body

quiet cortège
moving slowly along the street…
this spring 
everything looks frail,
half-dim in sorrow

I dreamed

Before the Music Ends

Before the Music Ends

I dreamed

that I was old

and wept…

burning with death,

I took off my skin

hung it up

like a soaked quilt

to dry the tears.

Now where do I hide?

Where do I find

the music that makes

me solid?

My skin dangles

on the finger          

of a sweated doppelganger

humming yes, yes, yes.                              

                                                 

refugees - tanka sequence

 refugees - tanka sequence


these stories 
we never tell, words 
we never utter... 
reading in a nod a sound 
we cannot hear 

faith abides 
in the cycle of the moon, 
the heft in raising 
a body by the arms, 
the sorrow of old age 

to sit 
like a mute parrot
stand like a 
diseased tree...patience 
grows dim in my heart

Te ríes de mí

Te ríes de mí

tropiezas, envuelto

en un espeso humo

de palabras con sabor

a crisálidas.  Escribí

en espiral para arrebatarle

silencio a la noche dormida

sobre tu pecho.  Noche entre

los bosques de hielo, noche de Isis,

frente al casi amanecer

del casi sol.  Ahí palpitan

las cosas que están

a punto de florecer.

                          

Ardor de luz

Ardor de luz

circula junto a mis pies.

La tarde

se hizo noche,

la soledad comenzaba

a cubrirme con su canto de sirena.

Te olvidaste

de que yo aun era un niño

y me dejaste solo en la penumbra.

Alicaídas aves de una niñez

tempestuosa, volátil;

memoria

de emociones encontradas

licuándose hasta ser

un “te imploro”

cuyo borde ha rebasado 

una sola gota de esa liquidez

de oscuridad.

Rezo por la protección

de mi monólogo silencioso y asustado

mientras tú cenas

como el gran señor cifrado en apariencias,

estatua de cera

con un mensaje escrito en los dientes,

muere, muere, muere,

te estallará por dentro cual ráfaga

de gritos apagados,

ah, ese recuerdo

que no te deja perecer

que te amarra a una cama

con los labios resecos,

implorando mi perdón

como un recital

donde muerdes el anzuelo.

Me oyes hasta en el último rincón

de tus ojos,

boca,

manos,

oídos,

donde por esta vez,

esta última vez,

te quitarán la máscara.

La muerte

La muerte

Te fuiste separando de mí,

dejando mis heridas hambrientas de sol.   

Rododendros sobre el sepulcro

de mi niñez

color piel

se adueñaban del mármol

entre las criptas del olvido

y una criatura iba rumbo al placer y al dolor

del verano. 

Sus manos, fruncidas por la luz que salía  

de la caja de Pandora, abrían el portón de hierro

donde un triangulo de música cauterizaba sus ojos.

Allí deje su canto recorrer

mi sombra

como un duelo distante,

una fuga de patos salvajes.

How Loud This Voice Inside: tanka Sequence

Published in Poetry Pacific 

[Spring Issue 2013]

http://poetrypacific.blogspot.ca/

How Loud This Voice Inside: tanka Sequence

reading

with the lamp on,

I see a crater

where our bed last lay…

we watch the distance burn       

you are the last ring

of smoke

to be held tight…

           we’re lucky

           we’re not art

sunken moon,

my mind upside down

in the sky…

moonlight cannot polish stone,

or pester our transparencies

how silent the trees

how loud the shots of hunters

how broken

the geese wings…how hidden

the pocket knife tearing my desire

Tu guarida favorita

Tu guarida favorita

Aparecí y ahí estabas

fumando y tomando cerveza.

Te conté que te había

escrito unas palabras

pero nunca me escuchas,

solo te desvistes en un superfluo silencio

de contradicciones,

cierras los ojos

y humedeces los labios,

mientras yo me pregunto;

¿Qué luz traes contigo,

en que tul estabas enmarañado

cuando te deje con la acuosa quimera

en las pestañas,

desnudos—tu y yo—relamiendo

llagas al tiempo.

¿Cómo se siente

ser despojo en la garganta?

Sangría

Sangría

¿En qué madrugada se destroza

tu memoria de pájaro para dejarme

libre de lamentos? 

El animal del verano se murió,

su cuerpo verde colapso

apuñalado,                            

cubierto de sombras, y el aire espesó          

las nubes que recorrieron mi infancia.

Dime si duermes bien,

si el ahogo del bocadillo no entumece

tu lengua.  Si las toallas no resecan el

aire

que al dormir transita desnudo

sobre tu cuerpo.

Dime si sangras los domingos

o si la peste a mierda

te reconforta los días de lluvia .

No seas desleal a tu silencio.

Muerde duro mi madrugada

o simplemente déjala ir.

Plena de Luz

Plena de luz 

de la casi piel

que me desnuda la mente,

enferma del dolor ajeno,

y me bautiza

diferente, ciega imagen de cera

dentro de estas cuatro paredes

que tintinean como un cascabel

abanicando mi materia gris

hasta que la máscara desaparece.            

*

Ya no te sueño

entre las venas de un atardecer

que no se suscribe a nada.

*

Más bien, te miro como un campanilla silenciosa

donde los túneles de la noche

son trenes de agua fría que

cruzan el espiral de mi infancia

como un relámpago desnudo

y moribundo.

Allí te miro caer a mis pies de cebra

donde al cruzar el desierto

de mi intimidad

me echo a reír para nunca más mirar atrás.

Sundered Men

Sundered Men


we watch the moon 
rise above us in autumn 
we lie together and 
sigh, or lie... we bend 
like question marks

we leave the page 
blotted with ink 
about unruly lovers
in spring we hang like tulips

and grin like orangutans

Ruins

Ruins

what is a day

but the furnace of my eyes

walking and dying

through mirrors 
of blood—

poor men carry coffins

on their bare backs—

what is a day

but this unique way 
of breathing

saturated with the texture

of discarded silk…

only the dead

can afford to forgive

By the Railroad Tracks

By the Railroad Tracks

that I met him in a bar

we went home together

to remember

the texture of the leaves

under the moonlight

that I saw him again

when sparrows fell

in the dark

of night, we memorized

the hum of cicadas

that I missed him

his ocean and its foam

against the sky

that there were sparks

behind my eyes

that the rain was driven,

driven into the ground

beside the broken barn

by the railroad tracks

next to the sea

Tanka Published in Skylark Tanka Journal

Published in Skylark Tanka Journal

April 24,

Issue 1.1 Summer 2013

http://skylarktanka.weebly.com/buy-skylark.html

last night
weary eyes blossomed
in the closet            
his cold cotton shirts
warmed by my hands

poem

a reprieve

in the day’s hourglass…

beneath our vanity

we love disasters that have

nothing to do with us

Poem

black on gray clouds

how can I tell the story

of men who kill

even the trees are wounded

by the waxing moon

as it begins to rain

the grenade explodes

a few feet away

from the belly of death...

I lie alone in my body

Published in KernalsOnline.com
April 17, 2013, Editor's Choice
http://www.kernelsonline.com/EC-TANKApage.html


I spring forth
from the ecstasy of being
a lotus . . .
become legend as you hide
in the bosom of another


For this Editor's Choice, I've selected a tanka by Sergio Ortiz of Puerto Rico which is one that also includes elements familiar in old court poetry: association by nature, juxtaposition, meeting, parting, longing and the beauty of thought. It contains self but only in comparison to a lotus in the way perhaps that an old or past love has moved on to another's embrace by choice, or maybe even returned to because of obligation. Either way, the poet/lover has become legend now and what springs forth for readers, is the ecstasy of once being.

Dengue

Dengue

Cerberus licking

his stone wrinkle genitals…

A fever of 103

I survive the lecher's kiss,

Continue to swim in light

Pure? What does it mean?

Sharp as the tongues of Paradise

Are sharp

Sharp as Hiroshima rain

Radiation turned them red

Eleven days and nights

Water dissolving my liver

I barely consume any food

It’s the pain of having lost my humility to love

That keeps me from a hospital

Yet Paradise is not an option

The fever subsides like an old whore

Counseling a virgin

And I go to see a movie

Then rush back home to bed

Haiku

Chinese New Year 
a woman I don't know 
gives me ghost money

Poem

broken images,

fragments of New York 
twirl inside...

on a crowded street
my thoughts walk ahead of me

Three Tanka Published in Breath & Shadow

Three Tanka 

by Sergio Ortiz
Published in Breath & Shadow
Spring 2013
Volume 10 Issue 2

http://www.abilitymaine.org/breath/spr13e.html


Benghazi at dawn
recalling
a peaceful dream
the autumn wind moans
through a crack in the window


learning
to say goodbye…
a fraction
of myself touching you
in secret places


burnt bodies
inside a gutted Toyota . . .
butterflies
spiraling upward
haunt the summer fields



Sergio Ortiz is a retired educator, poet, painter, and photographer.  Flutter Press released his debut chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk, in October of 2009. Ronin Press released his second chapbook:  topography of a desire, in May of 2010. He is a three-time nominee for the 2010 and 2011 Sundress Best of the Web Anthology and a 2010 Pushcart nominee. He was also commended in the 2012 Polish Haiku Competition.

two haiku

camellias pushing up waiting for a cold snap

maple syrup moon all the love I missed

Misty River: Heather's Song

http://youtu.be/id5jYgUjgQo



MISTY RIVER
HEATHER'S SONG


THIS IS A SPECIAL LOVE SONG
FOR ALL THE YOUNG PEOPLE IN THE WORLD,
HERE'S HOPING SOMEONE KIND
WATCHES OVER EACH AND EVERY ONE,
BECAUSE IN EVERY YOUNG FACE,
NO MATTER HOW ANGRY OR SAD,
LIES THE BLOSSOM OF A PURE HEART,
NOT EVIL WRONG OR BAD.

SO IF YOU HAVE A YOUNG CHILD,
BE GENTLE WISE AND KIND,
AND TREAT THEM LIKE AN ORCHID,
SO RARE AND HARD TO FIND,
YOUR LOVE WILL BE LIKE WATER
TO ALL THE SEEDS YOU SOW.
FOR THEY ARE THE FAIREST FLOWERS
IN LIFE¹S GARDEN WHERE THEY GROW.

AND IF YOU KNOW THE OLD FOLKS,
BE GENTLE WISE AND KIND,
THEIR SOULS WILL SOON DEPART US,
AND LEAVE THIS WORLD BEHIND,
THEY'VE GIVEN US THE FUTURE,
THEY TAUGHT US WHAT THEY KNOW,
TO SOON BECOME A PART OF
GOD'S KINGDOM WHERE THEY GO.

Sorrow’s Home

Sorrow’s Home

when I was a child

I knew encyclopedias

and dictionaries—

wire clothes hangers

beating on my skin

I looked the other way

as long as my playmates

groped me as if I were a girl

and I was nurtured

with wanderlust

I sought adventure

in the dark closet

where my stepfather

littered my pride and pain—

my old poverty

I was hopeful

for my people were λ children

floundering in dark clubs

trying hard to fashion

a better way

war raged

and peace burst out of flowers

we made love

on tropical nights

in palm jungles near the beach

driftwood

taken down for publication.

Haiku

waterwings...
the cold kiss   
of marble sheets

poem

submitted for publication

Poem

down for publication

Tanka

snow wolf—

a divide between us

and the other

albatross flying at an angle

under cloudy skies

(for Gabriela Mistral)

tanka

was submitted for publication.

Haiku

afterthought...

a mongoose slinks

through the fence

War tanka

Kite Runner—

a horse in a carousel

spins thru the air…

before the bomb goes off

tearing into the manikins

Mariah Carey & Whitney Houston - When You Believe

http://youtu.be/CxIN79n4jVo

Tanka

a sunset 
paints the moon... 
looking for a way out
adrift on the sails
of a song

Two of my tanka published in this issue of Notes from the Gean

Two of my tanka published in this issue

haiku

seated

in the corner of a café…

Eros’s knotted roots

antique case...

I learn to download

my Dylan tapes

A found tanka poem

A found tanka poem

rough seas

when it seemed the Lord

was sleeping…*

a dissident nun hiding

under the cover of rapture*

___________________________

*A found tanka poem:  Pope Benedict bidding an emotional farewell at his last general audience

* Unholy Women BY chris abani

Haiku

Indian summer

clouds chase clouds

through the puddles

cicadas…

the imprint of things

already gone

skinny dipping

on an abandoned beach…

the moon’s gaze

frozen in its tracks

a hunted deer blends

with the frost

hungry

…a magician

in her kitchen

the call

of a cuckoo

my body grows old

one point on the horizon she never reaches moon calendar

tanka a el gobernador de Puerto Rico

hablan los temores

como ríos que cruzan el mar

mis vestimentas

te saludan como desiertos

que huelen a llaga

llaga que huele

al naufragio de mi cansancio

al pasto resucitado

entre las llanuras de un pueblo

que no ha llorado a sus muertos

hablo desde el temor

de un aeropuerto sucio, vandalizado

por la madrugada

de un acuerdo que se ríe

del verdor de nuestras montañas  

Tanka

if a rainbow

knew loneliness and fear

could it be a rainbow,

am I just another faggot

drifting toward the edge

tanka

why share you?

I spring forth from the ecstasy

of being a lily

and become a legend while you hide

in the bosom of another

tanka

the end of questions…

you try to run your hand

over my face 
but you’re fattened with betrayal

wavering among the bamboo

tanka

I live on an island 
stained with dry blood… 
a man-moth 
filled with battered moonlight 
cutting through palmettos

tanka

you grasp my hand

steer it to a place

beyond maps…

I am scared by the shock of arrival

the raw landscape 

tanka

I am the map

of a wet dreary town…

we exchange secrets

in whispers

lilies bend beneath our bodies

tanka

I am what is left

of his life

the black map

describing his voyage,

of deep descent into himself

tanka

my hair

scratches his dreams…

among the ribbons

a tongue bitten

by the language of assault 

haiku

my body grows old

the call

of a lonely cuckoo

Haiku

hungry

…a magician

in her kitchen

Tanka

  if my life were a map

  it would be one of a man

  in the snow…

  picking mushrooms

  at the edge of dread

Tanka

there's not a single wind

that doesn’t know my shadow...
dead butterflies
     overpower the dawn light
on my eyelids

haiku

skinny dipping

on an abandoned beach…

under the moon’s gaze

haiku

pizza...
I can’t resist 
a third slice

Tanka

I pray I won’t die

alone in some dark corner

of a hospital ward—

singing an opus

of horseshit and pearls

tanka

I've been wondering:

Do things happen

when you drink too much.

Or is it just me

and my twisted fishnet imagination.

December Lights

December Lights


Back then, under a cold
December sun, you’d arrived naked. 
I’d ask for permission
so you could to stay under
my shadow.

You’d close your eyes
and open your skin,

to walk me through brief appearances
of galaxies, infinite transit of heartbeats, death
strolling down our legs.

Tanka

sparrows peeped

as I walked to the drugstore…

searching for the day

when nothing remains

but a quivering mayfly

http://www.poetserv.org/SRR36/ortiz.html

Published in Salt River Review

Sergio Ortiz Topography this is my story and place of birth a wheelchair a body wrapped in a sack a childhood jerked around like an unwarranted curse and the stubborn useless desire for a pair of tailored hands climbing up my thighs  Timeless You, in my gravest hour, perfumed with silence—what images caused your fruit to fall?  You left me shooting cannonballs at non-existent stars. Nothing ever removed the water you gradually painted on my lips, no theatres, nightclubs, tuxedos. Not even jetliners or churches.

http://www.thiszine.org/poetry/good-morning-gulliver

Published in THIS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Good Morning Gulliver
by Sergio Ortiz

Welcome to my day Gulliver, the dogma of “no strings attached” embellish my
fingers and toes.  Welcome to the nausea tranquilized by the calla’s bribe
allowing the animal beneath the skin to sleep.  Welcome to my Mapplethorpe’s
finger fuck, three dimensional and stepping-off what’s left of hair, lips,
eyes with all of its deleterious offspring fastening a rope around my neck
to asphyxiate the desire to hate or love.  Welcome to the libretto of my aging
crevices touching and melting no one.

http://shamrockhaiku.webs.com/currentissue.htm

Published in the current issue of Shamrock Haiku

last summer day –
her parasol blackens 
the rose

-- Sergio Ortiz (Puerto Rico)

tanka

listen to me,

seagulls that cry

like a great sad wheel,

the day mother died

I rode a horse for hours

Tanka

a fire blows

smoke into a man’s silence

as he rests

in the arms of a woman

... a city in terror

tanka Sequence

 tanka Sequence

reading

with the lamp on

I see a crater

where our bed last lay…

we watch the distance burn      

you are

the last ring of smoke

to be held tight…

we’re lucky we’re not art,

I’m a full cup of water

how silent the trees

how loud the shots of hunters

how broken

the crow wings…how hidden

the pocket knife tearing desire

sunken moon

my mind suspended

in the sky…

moonlight cannot polish stone

or pester our transparencies 

Turn Me On ~ Norah Jones

tanka

they played    

on the edge of the roof

concealing

what is practiced in war games…                           

gangster love

Tanka

release my ashes

into the Caribbean,

each wandering speck

            blending

            with the world

tanka

elephant family killed 

for ivory—

homeless man

gives kiss of life to a bunny

thrown off a bridge

Tanka

For my aunt Ruth, 86 years old


she bears her decline 
with a toothless grin, 
silent 
under a barrage 
of unkind words 

haiku

winter fog

looking for a needle

in a haystack

haiku

watching

the rain arrive

street by street

haiku

whiskey over ice…

the nudity      

of men

haiku

she calls me

by my dead uncle’s name

whispering wind

Seventy Eight

Seventy Eight

He was about mother’s age and stature

when she died four years ago;

stout and short but graceful,

with the buoyancy of fresh foxglove

bursting forth in summer.

He’d hang a hammock

and go for a walk on the beach.

Wading his hips as his feet

pressed the wet sand;

salt seasoned the expression

of joy on his face.

Two bongo players

about his age

and black as his shirt,

struck a harmony of rhythms

he could not ignore.

The sun reflected

on his face emanated

the happiness of an old

freedom-song recaptured.

For a brief moment,

he eluded winter,

but soon it would be time

to return to the retirement house

and dream about a good

dance partner.

Rezo

Rezo

Señor,

te espero

en los espacios

más resecos

de una línea

de piel que aun

recuerda

la humedad

de cultivos

amorosos.

Señor,

vamos a jugar

a lamer

las serpientes,

disecar

la respiración.

Señor,

el cansancio

de dos siglos

se deshila

en soledades

cotidianas

y los erizos de calle

pierden el miedo

y te escupen.