Sunday, October 31, 2010

Ku: Sorcerer


Sorcerer



let's loot this autumn night 
hide it in the mind’s eye

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Herbario ii: Herbarium ii





Herbario ii


Eres un verso que va hacia el alba bailando con mis cabellos
        una noche de herbarios y ruidos
        un amante a la luz de un puerto perdido
        oscilando con el viento
Eres un verso mudo que se enrosca como la ira en mis dedos
         el alma de una pavo vieja callada
         observando desde el parque comprimido
         las narices aplastadas
         de los niños sobre cristal opaco
Eres un viajante de jardines
         que abre mi herbario riendo





Herbarium ii



You are a verse that goes toward dawn dancing with my hair
            a night of herbariums and noises
            a lover in the lighthouse of a lost port
            oscillating with the wind
You are a mute verse curled like anger around my fingers
            the soul of a quiet old turkey observing
            from the compressed park
            the noses of children crushed
            against an opaque glass
You are the traveler of gardens
            that opens my herbarium laughing

Friday, October 29, 2010

Salome: Dear John




Salome


El aroma
a tu más o menos
cuerpo desnudo
en esta ciudad donde reencarno gris
libre 
sin luna
o gobierno
ocluye el deseo a saborear tu cabeza en bandeja de plata





Dear John





The fragrance
of your more or less
naked body
in the city where
I reincarnate gray
free
without moon
or government
occludes the desire to savor your head  on a silver tray

Joaquin Sabina Cristales de bohemia

Blue



Blue


He brought seashells.
I painted myself blue
to enter them. 
My, my blue sparkled.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

sleep



sleep,
oh my mirror
yet awaken when
the last tear
dries.  where does love

await?  sleep
in gardens safe 
from torturous words,
casual rays of sun, 
or sneaky butterflies.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Me despediré: I'll say good-bye




Me despediré
              Tributo a Federico García Lorca

entre selvas de relojes,
no en la encrucijada. 
Volveré por un minuto eterno
a la infancia, la sombra,
y la flor.  Sus huesos, General,
son una inmensa telaraña
la verdadera esfinge
del reloj con el espejo.





I'll say good-bye
            Tribute to Federico Garcia Lorca



among the forests clocks,
not at the crossroads. 
I will return for an eternal minute
to my infancy, the shadow,
a flower.  Your bones, General,
are an immense web,
the true sphinx of
pendulum with the mirror.  

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

At the funeral



At the funeral
"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." George Santayana

of the great illusionist,
Roy Cohen, rituals

were dedicated
to Saint Michael.

A pentagon guard
cremated his wigs.

The nacre sequin dress, pea-
cock feather fan,

and voodoo dolls
were all donated
to the Reagan
museum.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Postcards to Michael

Postcards to Michael


i.
Dear Michael,
The secret love
only you and I know about
worries me.  It cruises
through Amsterdam’s canals lost;
it’s in the slow demolition
of the ceiling; the naked children
shaking in the morning dew;
whales coming to die in New York City.  
The hunter’s arrow pierces
my most silent sensibility. 
My inconclusive poems
are dying of neglect;
and I have a throbbing
headache.  Please,
come back home
as soon as possible.

ii.
I’m tenderly
picking you up
from the floor
like a delicate
feather,
putting you
between two sheets
of my favorite
book,
whose pages
I’ll gradually
close and
put away
forever.

iii.
You’d disappear into a cobweb
and not even my mouth,
        who played
        with your groin
        and your abdomen,
slid down your hair, your neck,
                                            the surface of your skin,
could bring you back.


iv.
Michael, your departure
was an unexpected silence
in the middle of Waiting for Godot
that Constant Craving in K. D. Lang’s music
a lecture on God by Nietzsche…
the existential drinking spree in The Metamorphosis
your collection of Jacqueline du Pré records
eating fish and sticks at dawn
                           a warm drunk embrace
                        at the train station on Broad Street


v.
I’ve hacked father to pieces,
although at his age, I could have waited
sat by his side
and answered every question; didn’t need
a stenographer, his actions were drenched
in gold
and I made sure it was polished.
As usual, he had no difficulty
being tempted
by the beauty of my sarcophagus.
There will be no food
or water for his passage.  

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Jacqueline du Pré Cello solo

Jacqueline du Pré - Kol nidrei Op. 47 - Max Bruch

Elgar Cello Concerto 1st Movement: Jacqueline du Pre

Postcards iv





Postcards iv


Michael, your departure
is an unexpected silence
in the middle of Waiting for Godot
that Constant Craving in K. D. Lang’s music
a lecture on God by Nietzsche…
the existential drinking spree in The Metamorphosis
your collection of Jacqueline du Pré records
eating fish and sticks at dawn
                         a warm drunk embrace
        at the train station on Broad Street

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Another Pushcart Nomination


St. Somewhere Journal

 

http://www.stsomewherejournal.com/


has nominated another one of my poems for a Pushcart Award.  It will be announced on their site tomorrow. 


Dear God, thank you for such a wonderful year!

Postcard to Michael iii




Postcard to Michael iii


You’d disappear into a cobweb
and not even my mouth,
        who played
        with your groin
        and your abdomen,
slid down your hair, your neck,
                                            the surface of your skin,
could bring you back.

Friday, October 22, 2010

wet stones




wet stones


no one understands him as I do
i hear fervid winds in the stillness of his hands

[no one rubbed my narrow walls as he did 
we danced to death's song without any
recollection of another life]

i claim two sighs and a large garland 
but if he's never to return we'll drown this grief together 

wet stones
orbiting restless echoes in a drop of rain

Postcard to Michael Ondaatje ii




Postcard to Michael Ondaatje ii



Michael,

I’m tenderly
picking you up
from the floor
like a delicate
feather,
putting you
between the two 
sheets
of my favorite
poem, 
whose pages
I’ll gradually
close and put
away forever.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

This is Where the Poem Ends



This is Where the Poem Ends


Today I’ve chosen to humidify 
my homage with stale dust.
The results of my death are not in, 
yet I shall wait for that coffin 
in silence. I still have half an empty 
bottle of Nitrostat. Julia, my twin sister,
writers die the same in an Earthenware 
bottle on a city street, or a Newport 
smoke museum inhabited by paper 
unicorns with gigolo faces. 
This is where this poem ends,
but no! It’s like being on a pulpit 
spitting out some moral answer.
Not every frog looks the same,
although they are all called frog.
The most incredible thing about death
is that disappearing act and total silence, 
except in the case of poets.

Postcard to Michael Ondaatje - 1




Postcard to Michael Ondaatje - 1


Dear Michael,
The secret love
only you and I know about
worries me.  It cruises
through the Amsterdam canals lost;
it’s in the slow demolition
of the ceiling; the naked children
shaking from the morning dew;
whales coming to die in New York City.  
The hunter’s arrow pierces
my most silent sensibility. 
My inconclusive poems
are dying of neglect;
I have a throbbing
head-ache.  Please,
come back home
as soon as possible.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Letralia 240 | Letras | Poemas | Sergio Ortiz

Letralia 240 | Letras | Poemas | Sergio Ortiz

Cinco de mis poemas publicados en español

Cinco de mis poemas publicados en español en Letralia.  Estan bienvenidos a leerlos.  


http://www.letralia.com/240/letras11.htm


Sergio 

Mis gavetes



Mis gavetes




He caminado 
con gavetes sueltos
arrodilladome 
en lugares sucios 
Los bárbaros van y vienen 
ya se ha dicho
mientras te quedas sentado 
en tu oficina 
recordando todas 
tus perversas 
dudas

Words



Words


words
waver through my branches
with mirrors
captive in time
crying night dew

words plow my perception
angels of darkness
after whose stroke
the sun rises
like a demon

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Herbarium





Herbarium


Hitchhiking in the dark
could not have been as shocking
as they say.  Traveling from garden
to garden.  The passenger takes out
his book of fragrances and twirls
on this road show. 

Old nightingales perch on his arms
as he compresses the tears shed
for those souls whose faces begin
to disappear against the colorless glass
of so many years.

The traveler opens the book crying,
and the footloose fragrances
initiate their dance as he stares
out the window at the city lights.

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