Saturday, April 30, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 49


Requiem for Mercedes Sosa


Just in case Mercedes returns,
in case a bombó or a zampoña bring her back,
maybe she’ll return in the gallop of a chacarera,
or in the swell of a samba.
Hopefully a tango brings her back.
And if the songs she left, the palpitations,
the flora and fauna (happy
to have been conceived by the voice
of La Negra) bring her back: that is to say,
in case an airplane doesn’t,
or yet another concert, and even then,
Mercedes returns with her pure voice purer,
and the full-bodied richness of her vocal cords
capable of making bread or birds appear.
And just in case Mercedes does return,
I’m buying two front seats,
one to sit down and watch her,
another one to dance and sing. 

Friday, April 29, 2016

This tanka was just published in the

This tanka was just published in the

NeverEnding Story

First English-Chinese Bilingual Haiku and Tanka Blog

English Original

tumbling 
through winter
she knew she didn't fit...
a doll's life trapped
inside a young man’s body

Sergio A. Ortiz


Chinese Translation (Traditional)

蹣跚地
度過冬天
她知道她並不適應 ...
一個洋娃娃的生命被困在
年輕男人的身體裡

Chinese Translation (Simplified)

蹒跚地
度过冬天
她知道她并不适应 ...
一个洋娃娃的生命被困在
年轻男人的身体里

NaPoWriMo # 48


Drought


In a tree with three branches,
heaven unwinds its sea,
placid and without islands.
A group of country houses
is renewed at the same time
as dust of ghost.  A chameleon
shivers all night like a gush of
underground water. An almond
is the plain, a fire of souls.

NaPoWriMo # 47


I told you, they beat us
now come down from that cross
and follow me

NaPoWriMo # 46

Imperfect Pastoral


She began at the edge of the bed,
in the wrong city.
She had some withered roses
in a cardboard vase.
At night she weaved, with her veins,
a summer coat.
She collected bearded vultures
and words forbidden by God.
One day she touched herself,
and liked the smell of fresh ink
between her legs. She fell asleep.

When she woke
death was all of life.
There were broken books
and scattered papers,
open doors and open windows.

She was naked like the first time,
like when she fell asleep and bit
her flesh and drank her blood,
like when she was the twilight
banging on the door of her belly.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 45 Despierta Boricua, despierta!

Epistle to future poets


Poems are long avenues
where our burning rage marches.
Everywhere the crying,
everywhere a black wall besieged.
Could our poetry be a solitary column of dew?
It has to be perpetual thunder
as long as children stare
at a loaf of bread with envy.

There are higher things to mourn than lost lovers:
the sound of a society finally awakening
is more beautiful than the dew,
the glittering metal of its anger
more beautiful than sea foam.
A free man is purer than a diamond.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

This one just got published so I am putting it up again - Indigent



Indigent

I’ve squandered the rainbow,
the swallows I set aside for poems
are in the red.
The account of my sunsets has been frozen.

I owe the treasury five thousand fifty butterflies.

NaPoWriMo # 44

Letter to the drummer of my band

I want to watch that movie at the cinema
I want to see the roses and not see the roses
I want to drink café-au-lait,
and drink
and drink
drink this and that
and what you have to give
and what I have to offer
I want to go to the movies but I don’t want
to see the movie
I want you and him
but more you than him
more than you or him
I want some coke 

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 43



To the Economic Board the US Senate wants to Impose on Puerto Rico


The crime has been committed,
But you’re going to cover it up
with sheets, and sheets of paper
in television adds, and radio spots.
The thick still air, the terror, the ignominy
surrounding voices— traffic, life—
the crime / has been committed.

NaPoWriMo # 42

sorry but this one has just been submitted.

Monday, April 25, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 41

Sorry but this one has also been submitted

NaPoWriMo # 40

Don’t blame yourself

or build paradise out of your faults and miseries,
don’t ask your tired nerves for a halo erected out of truth,
or demand the unexpected serenity of a vision.
Please, try to understand, the world
couldn’t care less. Don’t mislead or deceive or fight
or turn tomorrow into an opportunity.
Don’t plan equilibrium and reason for yourself
—always a good shadow. Pay attention to your obsession
with the imaginary moon, silver-plate your phantom’s song.
Any day’s a good beginning.
An hour can be agreed upon.
Don’t hurry, it’s like a scuba-diver
groping the waters of the sea.
Without fear but with the passing grace
of a man who has never known
to where he is going.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 39



Cover - A Tribute


We got there late. Me to your dream
and you to my best hour, merman hidden
in the cornfields of my body.  Later
we lost sight of each other amid the tumult
of adolescence. We broke up, widowed
before the marriage ever consummated.
Fifteen years later we saw each other,
me the bard, you the juris doctor.
An avalanche of love made me call you
the next day. What superhuman beast
(perhaps accumulated courage) possessed
my body, what lie? What did I say my Troy,
my Caesar, my taurine lover, that made you
look my way. I can’t remember, 
but out of the sea inside my chest, 
my abyss, primitive animals emerged 
singing: purple rain, purple rain…

Saturday, April 23, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 38

The First Sacred, Joyful, Mystery


I didn’t use to smoke
but one day Our Lady of Sorrows
put her hands on my back,
approached my face,
and whispered in my right ear:
go ahead smoke,
give Our Heavenly Father some smoke,
and may nobody
be warned of his presence.

Friday, April 22, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 37

Death hits me

“It’s true, death hits me entirely on my sex”
Alejandra Pizarnik


Castrated cadaver # 1

Beware of me my love
Be careful of the silent one in the desert
of the traveler with the empty glass
and the shadow of its shadow

Castrated cadaver # 2

Now then: who will stop sinking their hand in search of the little girl’s tribute. The rain will pay. The cold will pay. Thunder will pay.

for Aurora and Julio Cortazar

Castrated cadaver # 3

he says he doesn’t know about love’s death
he says that he’s afraid of love’s death
he says that love is death is fear
he says that death is fear is love
he says he doesn’t know

Castrated cadaver # 4

“It’s true, death hits me entirely on my sex”

NaPoWriMo # 36

Now this is something completely different from what I have been writing.  It's a political poem.  I hope you enjoy it.


You already built that Wall



Forgive me Mr. Trump
I will not shake your / hand
you are not my friend / I
cannot welcome you / you
are not welcomed /
nobody from your party 
is welcomed / to this
presidential race


I want you
to say you’re sorry / we are not
rapist / we only flee / injustice.
I have my hammer. I have tears. I have a backbone.
The only thing / I am giving you / is my

disapproval. I’ll turn my back 
and walk away now.

Lady Gaga - "Til It Happens To You" Full Performance | Women in Music 2015

when doves cry-prince & revolution

Thursday, April 21, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 35

On a whitewashed wall in the fortified city of your body



I come to you slowly. You say something I don't understand. You laugh. Write your name on my abdomen. I walk from the edge of my body to yours. Sleepwalkers like us don't distinguish between reality and desire. To us reality is wider, more tangible, more corporal. It’s a garden in the bedroom, a thick weave of braided hair, an endless hieroglyph tangled in our legs, and rarely can we find someone to decrypt, read, or write it on our bodies.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 34

The inaccessible 


I entered 
the uncomfortable night
of your body
tu amurallada ciudad
with moistened footsteps,
and the long creak
of the catwalk was lost
amid the shouts of stevedores
and sailors.  

It was midnight
before I found your labyrinth.
You would be talking to me
about the fleeting language
of a broken clock, the wings
of your Moroccan city,
the life of its cobblestones,
when suddenly you become
the quiet rage, the trembling
conversation of doubts:
the inaccessible power 
of an orgasm. 

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 33

Sorry but I have submitted this piece, I have to take it down.

Monday, April 18, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 32

Sorry, I have to take this one down. I am submitting it to a journal.

NaPoWriMo # 31

This is also Feminist Erotica


Today, I allow you
to hold my hand in public.
But tomorrow,
nobody should be surprised
if Salome asks for your head
on a silver platter,
and kisses your mouth
with her cold lips from hell.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Na PoWriMo # 30

Sorry! This one just got submitted to a journal.  I have to take it down.

Friday, April 15, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 28

Two aging men together


Suddenly, two elderly men
cornered on the love corner
of their sixty-something
bankrupt dreams are witnesses
of the epidemic spread of fear
and rejection. They are 
together. Giving each other
what remains of their dignity,
pillaging death, and salt.

They’ve learned to queer it up
without a map, without a condom,
with no more radar than their intuition.
They distill with patient certainty
the fact that there is no better tomorrow
for those who seek to be sanctified
by the light of the phallus.

A hand strings together their grey hairs,
their star of David. Who cares if you’re young,
you’ll get there too.



NaPoWriMo # 27



For this one you need to know a little Chicano folklore.  More specifically El Coco, something similar in English would be, The Bogyman.




For my profile at Grindr.com


From man to man, from my place to yours,
I follow the lewd riverbed of your venomous snake,
but if I find out that you're worthless, I’ll ran away.
And the search cycle starts all over again

To penetrate your depths is, friendship,
provocation in this virtual hubbub.
From leisure masturbation
to be with you is better, come I'll show you how.

I frantically invoke your buttocks,
and I enter and go and obey the command
of the full-grown mask of your glans.

I put my whole humanity inside you,
and so as not to make to story long
you’ll even stop fearing el coco.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 26 sorry but I have to delete this one too, I have submitted it.


Esta larga espera

Esta larga espera
es como si hubiera muerto un niño.
¿Quién me atrapa
el corazón y lo levanta
sin apoyo alguno?  

NaPoWriMo # 25




Sorry.  This one entered a competion so it has to be removed

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 24

Letter # 3
April 13, 2016


I’ll never hear from you again,
I knew that
from the time we met.

This certainty was so powerful
that it’s as if
I got news from you
at every moment.

Post Data:

I propose a banquet 
for when I’m dead.
All you have to do is eat me.
This is my response to love.
I beg for cannibal communion,
a genesis in the other.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

NaPoWriMo #23

I say I am Pessoa or Pound


A faceless woman
sings
while standing
on my soul.
A drowned siren
begs for alms.
A child,
a beaten dog beneath the hail,*
cries.
An unforgiving hand
tortures my wrist,
e isso me leva à morte.*


*Canto LXXXI
BY EZRA POUND

*And it takes me to death

Monday, April 11, 2016

tanka

mi pasado
escombros, fragmentos,
delta que me hizo
seguir hacia adelante… yo fluyó
en más de una dirección  

NaPoWriMo # 22

Love bit me with its sweetest tooth


They are three
They are together
Present in one
The Black
                   The White
                                          The Red:
The Moon

for my concubine
this slow dawn that lengthens
with the rooster's crow
this crescent moon whose sharp tip
has begun to tear the dark

love bit me with its sweetest tooth

Sunday, April 10, 2016

NaPoWriMo # 21

Look at my mouth full of vitriol,
and my throat full of poison hemlock
look at the partridge
dying in Rimbaud’s thyme desert
look at the trees
nerves tightened by the light.
This is what I see in the smooth April hour,
this is what I see in the chapel mirror.

NEW GUIDELINES FOR UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW

NEW GUIDELINES FOR UNDERTOW TANKA REVIEW


1.    We will only be publishing 5 to 25 tanka, so send the very best. We're going to be very selective.
2.    Please don’t send traditional 31 syllable tanka, they will be rejected.
3.    We are looking for avant-garde, surreal, light-verse tanka poems.
4.    We are also open to haiku, the same amount will be selected for publication, we prefer modern haiku, nothing traditional.
5.    We are open to submissions year round, but will publish poems online three times a year starting May, 2016.

Submission Windows

From Oct. 15 to Dec. 15 for Jan. issue
From Feb. 15 to Apr. 15 for May issue
From Jun. 15 to Aug. 15 for Sep. issue


ANNOUNCEMENT:  We have a new assistant editor, Rajan Garg rajangarg.thapar@gmail.com
Sergio Ortiz, editor undertowtanka@gmail.com

NaPoWriMo # 20

Why is there so much life


Maybe tonight is not a night,
it must be a dreadful sun,
or something else, anything.
I don’t know.  There’s a lack of words,
a lack of candor, a lack of poetry
when blood cries and cries.

There’s something tearing my skin,
a blind fury runs through my veins,
Cerberus of my soul.
Let me go beyond your smile!
I could be so happy tonight!

There are lingering dreams,
and so many books, and so many lights,
and such few years.  Why not?
Death is far away. It’s not looking at me.
So much life, dear God.
Why is there so much life?

Saturday, April 09, 2016

- NaPoWriMo # 18


I'm wiped out 

by gales and rain 
like an elegy 
on an alley wall 
... yet I dare to love

- NaPoWriMo #17

Dark waters


I swim in my waters
wait for language to give me form
think about the wind coming to caress my face
a stranger to myself, I've walk
all night in the rain
I say:  you been given a silence
full of forms and visions
and I run like a heartbroken panther through the jungle


Thursday, April 07, 2016

- NaPoWriMo # 16

This compulsion to become an ageless angel,
without a death in which to enjoy myself,
without pity for my name
or for my weeping bones.

Who does not possess a fire, a death,
a fear, something horrible,
even when it has feathers
even when it carries a smile

Sinister delirium to love a shadow.
A shadow does not die.
My love
only embraces what flows
like lava from hell:
a silent loggia,
ghosts with sweet erections,
priests made of froth,
and above everything else angels
beautiful angels like blades
that rise at night
to devastate hope.

Escombros



Escombros


El mundo está distorsionado
y existen cerraduras
por todas partes
pero no llaves
y existe la angustia
pero no el llanto.

¿Qué hare conmigo mismo?
Ocultarme en el lenguaje
ahí no tengo miedo
ahí está mi cara de ausente
ahí está mi abrigo de cría de foca.

- NaPoWriMo # 15

The devil that died in his blue jeans
sings steeped in the drunkenness of the sun.

There’s a blue jean in his song,
a white horse, and a red heart
tattooed on his chest.

Despite the green fog on his lips
and the cold gray in his eyes
his voice corrodes the distance that lies between
thirst and the hand looking for the glass.

He sings.

Wednesday, April 06, 2016

- NaPoWriMo #14

Weeping at the many funerals of my birth


1.
I’ve left my body next to the dawn
and I've sung the sadness of what is born.

2.
now then:
who will stop digging their hands
in search of the child’s tribute? the cold
will pay. the wind will pay. the rain
will pay. thunder will pay…

3.
for a short-lived minute of life
for a minute of viewing the brain
for little flowers dancing like words
in the mouth of a mute man

4.
he’s afraid to undress in the paradise
of his memory
he’s ignorant of the fierce destiny
of his visions

5.
illumined memory, where the shadow
of what I wait for roams. it’s a lie
he will not return. it’s a lie he will return.

6.
there’s a weak wind
full of bent faces,
cut-outs of things I want to love

7.
now
            at this innocent hour
me and the one I was sit
on the doorstep of my gaze

8.
afraid of being two
on my way to the mirror:
someone inside me
eats and drinks me

9.
you’ve built a house
you’ve added feathers to your birds
you’ve assaulted the wind
with your bones
you’ve finished (all by yourself)
what nobody started

10.
I’ve been born so many times
and doubly suffered
in the memory of here and there

- NaPoWriMo # 13

One night I told you 
whoever doesn’t keep a secret
will never have pity.
It was raining, but you opened the window.
The storm was blue in the forest.
The red stain coming from the roses
spread throughout the gardens
and the world was the creation of another generation
like the time we were in an abandoned house
lighting an old fire.

- NaPoWriMo #12

When we lose a friend


Everything I was with you
was necessary,
what I am with you
on the right side of pain is necessary.
To know, and later keep on living,
to see how much deaf darkness
besieged you, and later find
the broken-hearted air
you left for dead.

two more poems by Ezdras Parra translated by Sergio Ortiz (me) into English


Ezdras Parra was a transgender Venezuelan poet, fiction writer, essayist, editor, literary and movie critic. She published:  Este suelo secreto (1995), obtaining the poetry prize;  II Bienal Mariano Picón Salas. y Antigüedad del frío (2000). In fiction writing she published: El insurgente (1967), Por el mar de las Antillas (1968) y Juego limpio (1968).




You
who are never quenched
nor know who you are
nor exist for a certainty
you who can be many
when dreaming you are right
or thinking you must conquer that nothingness


que jamás te sacias
ni sabes quién eres
ni existes para la certidumbre
que puedes ser muchos
soñando que estás en lo cierto
o pensando que debes
conquistar ese nada.



the poem Que -That

That this place does not leave me, this garden,
this spread out sheet used to engross the horses
circle the immobile panorama   
its smell distributed over pastoral objects
and wheels torn to pieces
because of its self-indulgence
that the visceral ivy does not leave me either
stowed away on the equestrian lands that I trample
nor this prehistoric city that consumes
the anxiety of living on its knees.



Que este lugar no me abandone, este patio,
esta sábana extendida para atraer a los caballos
rodeo el panorama inmóvil
su olor se distribuye sobre los objetos rústicos
y las ruedas hechas añicos
a causa de tu intemperancia
que tampoco me abandone la yedra visceral
arrumada sobre las tierras ecuestres que pisoteo
ni esta ciudad prehistórica que consume
de rodillas su ansiedad de vivir.

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