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

Monday, November 21, 2016

Alexzander Hamilton’s Broadway Dispute




Alexzander Hamilton’s Broadway Dispute
What deepening twilight—scum floating atop of the waters

To the States, by Walt Whitman



bien-pensants
with fingers in your ears
and fears unheard ...
our founding fathers
are unapologetic

As If from Nowheren - accepted for publication at Whisper and the Roar writers collective



As If from Nowhere


Miguel Angel's sentences 
have the shuddering
of what is about to fade.
Memories haunt him like a baggage car 
that does not quite fit.
But let's talk about his voice,

somewhat faded by the years.
As if words were spying on him.
As if there were no throat
only a guitar of spoils

among the stones and snow
of New York City.
He talks about his mother
who is in her 90's and lives
on the beaches of Rincon.
Talks about the wife
and grandchild he’s left behind.

Suddenly, death is him
and this is the ferry's last stop.
Miguel Angel from nowhere,

the world becomes numerous,
but the cold keeps its stories.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Los momentos desvanecen sin saber porque





Los momentos desvanecen sin saber porque


Tu y yo
dentro de un espacio ordinario
debajo de una pila de hojas muertas
El silencio taconea      a través del desorden
pescado blanco             cruciforme a la deriva            en un paño de té        
finalmente
no tengo bálsamo para decir lo que las cosas aparentan

Sin ti aquí
me olvido de no querer tocar bronceados de peón agrícola en flor
tatuajes en la clavícula
flequillos oscuro
a través de ojos extraños

Sin ti en casa
este amor es un tirón estirado hasta que se afloja
aunque soy el punto quieto alrededor del cual tú marcas
tu travesía

Nunca es sólo tú el que vagabundea

Saturday, November 19, 2016

The Sand and the Forgotten on this Side of the Border




The Sand and the Forgotten on this Side of the Border

Fuck A Wall 
America should build a big mirror
Anonymous Protester



We hope the dead reconcile
with the dead, so they may achieve
a position among their peers.

May the student and the lady in a Stetson
make the same mistakes.
And the victim cross the street
side by side his eternal executioner
without recognizing him.
Shadows or ghosts, both shall pass.

On the sidelines, the feast of the living
is still happening. Listen to the slight music
of the mountains of exile in silence
and don't look back.

This, and not another, is our story:
The time contemplated in the fissures of the sand,
The slow ripening of deserts without limit.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

He’s NOT my President




He’s NOT my President


I eat breakfast,
think of the mother
of Mondays
in front of a broken well,
clean dry leaves off a plank 
on top of the bed
calm as the man who washes
gold dust in the privacy of his house.

The wind reaches
into the pockets of night,
sails through plazas
I can't recognize, deserted
avenues I've never seen,
stores where promises are paid
with promises.

It rests in the fury of keys,
draws two lines of fire on the counter
of a bar near my house,

builds nationalist utopias
& banishes women in burkas,
in front of the white house
by the lake.

My job is my father's old job.
I care for the salt, measure the crystals,
frighten away white precipice birds.

A Thousand Darknesses - In memory of Holocaust Victims




A Thousand Darknesses
In memory of Holocaust Victims and Celan


We went to Mirabeau Bridge
and paid your promise.
The hours passed
on the Seine, our lives
increasingly smaller grew confident
a suicide chose 
the side of the Tower
where nothing ends up falling.
We threw our coins in the water.



Precipice birds




Precipice birds


arrived with the sea's pendulum
engraved on the feathers
covering their heads.

Reptiles followed their flight from below 
with deadly splendor.

The birds delayed the snow
to visit my house
and gifted me the crumbs
of a closed political paradise
whitewashed with decrepit lies.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

The Outlaws of Canon




The Outlaws of Canon


two men coming down 
on all fours
from their presidential palace,
licking hands and legs,
dying, poisoned
by their own decision
            and will.

Not one of them rests
and as a pack they chase
            exotic reindeer
screaming,
fire in the News Room.

Depraved, language perverts
howling in the chicken coop
of news anchors.
Ha, their fame demands a change
in personnel.

Yes, outlaws of canon,
with accumulated miles
of prostitution and falsehood,
fleeing their brothers,
forgetting their parents exile.

No, we will not forget
our stay in this country.
Nor the years of delay
we gave up to let them prosper.

Listen to how frozen hurricanes
emerge from the dew!

At the Margin of Things





At the Margin of Things


These days
behind what I write
there's always rain.

Music opens a sphere
and unheard of ghosts
come and go as they please
singing,
dance me to the end of love,
but I can’t.

The insults, the injuries
made at the margins  
are unsafe halfway houses of terror,
where naked orange clowns 
grow balls, and file their nails.

Gravity ceases
under their wet boots

and it rains
all over
my margins.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

The Drowned




The Drowned


I want to clarify
that it was not in a river
but in the very ground
in front of President's Park
where I drowned.

The only river I have
in my memory
is a shudder where small things
sink but never disappear.

Sometimes, I sink before
the river passes.
And my request for help
is always late.

Free Verse and Other Ways of Cursing


                         



Free Verse and Other Ways of Cursing


Imagine that when the time comes
the seconds of those hours’ return
with the misfortune of gravestone
lethargy & that the stubborn hands
of that unworthy artifact
get stuck & again our eyes
return to the offensive insistence
of that presidential election.
Imagine the clock of death,
endless centuries, seasons,
geological ages, species, mutation
of these species, other galaxies,
worlds, abysses, impossible
universes, everything that could,
in short, have a name, wailing.
Imagine that for us it was always
that moment, forever the moment
of racist bigotry and misogyny …

Monday, November 14, 2016

A Wolf



A Wolf

                     I know there’s something better down the road. 
                     We need to find a place where we are safe. 
                              Praise Song for the Day, Elizabeth Alexander



passed by my eyes
leaving his footsteps
in my veins.
Stealthy and hungry,
he stacked the city
scrutinizing the future.
Today the shutters are closed
because in this poem
there's a wolf
coming to get me.
Even when I try to be quiet
he jumps the words,
a memory rips out a howl,
and devours me.

The Damage



The Damage

Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
The Gift Outright, Robert Frost


The results came in,
maybe life gave us too much
at the beginning
and we kept looking

for a path that maintained
enough of a balance
so as not to become
this pestilent air.

Maybe life did not belong
to us anymore,
maybe the things we believed in
were part of the damage,

part of that petulant wind
knocking down the walls
of our nation.

And if we had known the outcome
would we have put our hands together
or looked elsewhere,
renounced everything to stay still
so as not to cross the days that agonize?

This is so immense
it doesn't fit into tears.

We heard the results later.
There’s no greater nostalgia
than that of the future.


Sunday, November 13, 2016

Let’s go get a Drink




Let’s go get a Drink


May all the gods
examine your body
with their kisses
making your love a moan
heard throughout
the Greek islands.
May they kiss you in raving.

What is the use of waste
if he doesn't love you?
How can you enjoy good fortune
if his eyes do not look at you,
and your afternoons do not ignite
with his aroma?
Come, my Catullus friend,
do not suffer when he does not look at you.

I understand your misfortune.
The flower of my delights
is resting in the arms of Zeus.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

The Wound of Hate - for the president elect



The Wound of Hate


Your smile hurts,
so does your voice
and the sea
in which you bathe,
your ashes and your body.

The mourning seed
I feed with fire
that is my currency,
this long, amorous nightmare.

And, how to tell,
                                    tell you
that I have closed eyes
if at the end of eyes, I keep
the almond and the broken election.

How do I keep quiet
when there are halved doves
on fields and fields of blood.

Friday, November 11, 2016

Another political tanka



look! the ruins
of a broken castle ...
the throne
emanating splendor
no longer there

A political tanka




decanter in hand 
a first hour sigh conceding 
defeat ...
oh! the moon, you'll search
but never find it

Roberta Flack singing a Leonard Cohen song, Hey that's no way to say good-bye.mov

Thursday, November 10, 2016

The Mind is its own Place - for Trump and Hillary - Published in Yellow Chair Review 11/11/16 today



The Mind is its own Place


We all yearn to go back
to the edge of that fire and kick
that fucking election, the religion, the race
of an entire nation in the balls
so everything breathes
at the rhythm of our lungs.

But none of that worries us now.
We worry about the detonator of tomorrows,
the almond beyond the shell,
the shiny nugget, and the damn heat
even when we know it’s November
and an eerie cold is fast approaching.

We want pleasure to surround
our waist.  It can be you, or anybody else
who embraces my body
already lightened
from the burden of the world.
Yes, you can take me
to the sea inside
where there is only the sound of blood
running like a flowered beast.

And so, I go back to my room
tell myself,            
fuck it, it’s better this way! 

Wednesday, November 09, 2016

To those citizens of the US responsible for this atrocity!



White, US citizens just elected a clown to the presidency. They deserve every insult they get every time the CLOWN embarrasses them internationally!


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San Juan, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico
Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. 2nd place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz annual poetry competition, sponsored by Alaire Publishing House. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sergio A. Ortiz es poeta puertorriqueño que escribe en inglés y español. Actualmente trabaja en su primera colección de poesía, Elephant Graveyard, Cementerio de Elefantes. Ha sido nominado al premio Pushcart en dos ocasiones, al Best of the Web en cuatro ocasiones, y al Best of the Net, 2016. 2do lugar Premio Ramón Ataz de Poesía, 2016. Sus poemas han aparecido, o están por aparecer, en revistas literarias como: Letralía, Chachala Review, The Accentos Review, Resonancias, por mencionar algunos.

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