Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Letralia 292 | Letras | Tres poemas | Sergio Ortiz

entre el viento y la cortina desde un mar sereno y la oquedad nocturna de la mina desde la profunda quietud de tu silencio detrás de un mundo liquido en calma desde otra realidad de ecos de campanas o el enmarañado tiempo que me llama   a la orilla lenta de un ocaso

my shadows crowd you with tears . . . the last drop of the fluid soul before evaporation

a woman without shadow or voice burning inside her . . . quicksilver tears

this frozen dullness of days… to breathe a blue beyond belief, nothing to do but be nowhere to be but gone

Llegaste.  Eso es todo. Una garza en fuga acortando distancias. Llegaste. Intima de atardeceres. Lo lloro. No lo olvido. Lo sostengo. Llegaste. Tan definida que asombra. Sin nada de intentos, presente. Desprendimiento. Llegaste. Y en mi solo hay silencio. 

Amor,  tú conoces mis recintos— Polinizado por un dolor secundario marcó el camino para salir de la soledad

¿Cómo menstrúan los hombres? Temerosos del rojo vivo De su sangre. A gritos en galleras y palenques   Donde sus poderes se transfieren A espuelas con atribuciones fálicas. ¿Cómo menstrúan los hombres? En las celdas de una cárcel con su negritud Adormecida, triturada, y expulsada por Las venas endurecidas y callosas De noches sin luna y días sin sol.

love, you knew my precincts— I'm pollinated by a secondary grief marking the path out of loneliness

lifting stars rise like a thing beyond words— you will know nothing of what has been dark

in Fiji our bodies bronzed like gods. . . two boats marooned by a waterfall

red lilies on my mother's grave— I distort the world with Photoshop

http://www.unitedhaikuandtankasociety.com/37=134.html In  Darkness  and In Light: A Colaboration Sergio Oritz , Puerto Rico Sonam Chhoki, Bhutan I was the sin, a wild horse galloping from the horizon— everything I saw was spoken into her ear she was a tightrope walker, the enduring smell of a snuffed candle— facing a certain wind she was always in danger now that I'm done with the malicious idea of what is eternal, it is easy for me to look back at what’s destroyed we stand in a hall full of exits reeking of invisible tremors and bloated corpses birds covet the seeds of the honey locust— I don’t protest as she lays me down on the cold, bitter ground certain losses are irreparable— hard seeds in a field made fallow by a fire set long ago wounds hollow and unrecognizable— the husks of ships, sheets of dark water ghosts of what has been lost leaves shift as we fade into a pattern of grass and shadow, return elated and haunted to a dark sunrise by the ocean ...

my mother  passed away that March— a loon  followed me down  the curved river road

little blue mirror naked white river face that turns black when night seeps into your bed

Where do children play? Their names carved in the keel of the vessel in which they travel; their margins, our boundaries, their songs, pushed to the center of what matters in our fallible and sensitive lives, seeking responses to the unknown.  Position yourselves next to the mystery of their music. Where do children play? In time . . . that abstract glimmer that does not bond to anything;  the school of a submissive homeland?

¿Dónde jugarán los niños? Sus nombres labrados en la quilla de la nave en que viajan. Sus márgenes, orlas de un confín. Sus canciones, clavadas al centro de lo que importa en nuestras falibles y minúsculas vidas, en busca de respuestas frente a lo desconocido. Ubícate al lado del misterio de su música. ¿Dónde jugarán los niños? ¿En el tiempo, fulgor abstracto, inasible ? ¿En la patria sumisa?

A Poem for Uganda:  Our Wealth It is now illegal to be a homosexual in Uganda.   We went underground to escape the mist of colonialism.  I take off your shirt to tattoo a prism, a machine gun, and a dove dripping blood from its heart.   be a rainbow in the gale of life free of heavily-lidded eyes on the battlefield “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.”* Do not answer that middle-of-the-night-knocking at your door without resistance.  We are no longer children of the half-light. artless fog man-on-man smithereens in a moment  black-on-black blemish without a purpose ·          John F. Kennedy

cold air fills the city spring is at the end of a line where lovers search for joy like peacocks  

http://neverendingstoryhaikutanka.blogspot.com/ One Man's Maple Moon: Map Tanka by Sergio Ortiz English Original if my life were a map it would be one of a man in the snow…       picking mushrooms at the edge of dread Lynx, 28:2, June 2013 Sergio Ortiz Chinese Translation (Traditional) 如果我的生命是一張地圖 它將是一個男人 在雪地裡 ... 在恐懼的邊緣 採蘑菇 Chinese Translation (Simplified) 如果我的生命是一张地图 它将是一个男人 在雪地里 ... 在恐惧的边缘 采蘑菇