Monday, August 25, 2008

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

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

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

Saturday, August 16, 2008

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

Friday, August 15, 2008

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

Sunday, August 10, 2008

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.

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