A keresés eredménye

I am going to live

I am not going to die.
I go out now, on this day full of volcanoes,
towards the multitude, towards life.
Here I leave these things in order,
now that the gunmen stroll by
with 'western culture' in arms,
with the hands that kill in Spain
and the gallows that sway in Athens,
and the dishonor that governs Chile,
and I stop counting.
 
Here I will stay,
with words, and villages, and roads
that again await me, and that knock
with studded hands on my door.
 

Poem 2

In its mortal flame, the light envelops you.
Absorbed, pale mourner, thus situated
against the old helixes of the twilight
that revolves around you.
 
Silent, my friend,
alone in this solitary hour of deaths
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heiress of a day destroyed.
 
A cluster from the sun falls on your dark dress.
At night the large roots
unexpectedly grow from your soul,
and the things hidden inside you return to the surface,
so that a pale and blue village
newly born from you is nurtured.
 
Oh, magnificent, and fertile, and alluring slave,
from the circle that in black and gold follows:
proud, she tries and achieves a creation so alive
that her flowers succumb, and she is full of sadness.
 

Ode To The Lemon

From those citrus blossoms
unleashed
by the moonlight,
from that
exasperated aroma
of love,
drenched in fragrance,
the yellowness of the lemon tree
appears,
the lemons lowered down to Earth
from its planetarium.
 
Tender goods!
They filled the coasts,
the markets,
with light, with wild
gold,
and we open
two halves
of a miracle,
frosty acid
flowing
from the halves
of a star
and the strongest liqueur
of nature,
unchanging, vibrant,
unyielding,
was born from the freshness
of the lemon,
from its fragrant home,
from its secret, acidic symmetry.
 
In the lemon, the knives
cut
a small
cathedral,
the hidden apse
opened the stained glass windows of acids to the light
and in droplets
slid the topazes
the altars,
the crisp architecture.
 
So it is when your hand
grips the half
of the sliced
lemon on your plate,
you have poured
a golden universe,
a
yellow cup
with miracles,
one of the fragrant nipples
of the Earth's breast,
the ray of light that became fruit,
the tiny fire of a planet.
 

Happiness

Laughter is the language of the soul.
 

Nature

Why do leaves commit suicide when they feel yellow?
 

Ode to the Onion

Onion,
luminous flask,
petal by petal
your beauty was formed,
scales of crystal increased you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth,
your belly of dew became round.
 
Beneath the earth,
the miracle took place
and when your dense
green shoot appeared
and your stalks
emerged like swords in the garden,
the earth built up its strength,
revealing your naked transparency,
and like Aphrodite in the remote sea
replicating the magnolia
by raising her breasts,
so
the earth made you,
onion,
clear like a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round water rose,
on
the table
of the poor people.
 
Generously,
you release
your globe of freshness
in the fervent consummation
of the pot
and the shred of glass
is transformed by the burning heat of the oil
into a curly feather of gold.
 
I will also remember how
the love of salad proliferates your influence
and it seems that the sky contributes
by giving you the fine shape of hail
to celebrate your clarity when chopped
on the halves of a tomato.
 
But within reach
of the people's hands,
splashed with oil,
sprinkled
with a little salt,
you kill the hunger
of the laborer on the rough road.
 
Star of the poor people,
fairy godmother
wrapped
in delicate
paper, salts of the soil,
eternal, intact, pure
like the seed of a star,
and when the knife
in the kitchen cuts you,
the only tear that springs up
is without sorrow.
 
You make us cry without grieving.
I celebrate all that exists, onion,
but for me, you are
more beautiful than a bird
with blinding feathers,
you are for my eyes
a celestial globe, a platinum goblet,
a motionless dance
of snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
 

My Soul

My soul is an empty carousel in the twilight. 
 

Sleeping Water

I want to jump in the water to fall into heaven.
 

Sonnet LI

Your laughter belongs to a tree cracked open
by a lightning bolt, by silver lightening
that falls from the sky breaking into a cup,
splitting the tree in two with a single sword.
 
Only in the highlands of the snowy foliage
is born a laughter like yours, darling,
it is the laughter of air freed in the heights,
the customs of Araucaria, my beloved.
 
My cordillera1, vividly clear,
the shadows are cut with the knives of your laughter,
the night, the morning, midday honey
 
And may the birds from the foliage leap to the sky
when like a squandering light,
your laughter shatters the tree of life.
 

• 1. Mountain range

Sonnet LXXX (80)

From journeys and sorrows I returned, my love,
to your voice, to your hand flying on the guitar,
to the fire that interrupts autumn with kisses,
to the movement of the night in the sky.
 
For all men I ask for bread and reign,
I ask for land for the unfortunate farmer,
that no one expect a truce for my blood or my singing.
But I cannot renounce your love without dying.
 
That is why he plays the waltz of the serene moon,
the barcarole1 on the guitar in the water
until my head bows down dreaming:
 
that all the efforts of my life wove
this arbor vine where your hand lives and flies
guarding the night of the sleeping traveler.
 

• 1. A gondolier's song

The IV Sonet

Remembered, the beautiful creek/valley1
where mesmerising scents arises,
from time to time, a bird
longside water and slowliness: brought the winter.
 
Remembered, (shall be) the goods upon tis' earth:
Fiery scents , gold gems,
the grass neath the bushes, thy wild ways ,
riddle thorns alike swords.
 
Remembered , may be , thy sculpted legacy,
legacy of peace , and water of quietness
legacy alike a gem.
 
And that moment, perish alike split seconds::
we move on there,... where nothing is expected,
and found is , all that's to be explored.
 

• 1. Personal Adaptation/Translation/ Work allowed under the moral and written rule , found under the section of 'Website Rules---Adding a translation----Paragraph no 10 'As translations can be a mean of knowing and understanding a new language, it's better if you keep at least a colloquial (Though YOU'RE FREE to keep an informal tone in certain contexts) language that's easy to understand - and you may use footnotes to add general explanations and comments in certain parts of the translation.' So that being said , my profile is the place for the non-literal translation's and adaptation so people may like it or not , still that won't ever change a thing , so like they say in our dear America : Deal with it !!!

Poem 12

For my heart your bosom is enough.
for your freedom my wings are enough.
From my mouth, what was asleep on your soul
will reach up to the sky.
 
In you is the hope of each day.
You come like the dew on the corollas.1
You sabotage the horizon with your absence.
Perpetually breaking away like the wave.
 
I have said that you were singing in the wind
like the pines and the masts.
Like them you are tall and taciturn.
And suddenly you become sad, like a journey.
 
You are as welcoming as an old road.
The echoes and nostalgic voices inhabit you.
I woke up and the birds that
slept in your soul sometimes migrate and flee.
 

• 1. The petals of a flower, typically forming a whorl within the sepals

Poem 8

A white bee intoxicated with honey buzzes in my soul
and you swirl in slow spirals of smoke.
 
I am the desperate one, a word without echos,
he who lost everything, and he who had everything.
 
The last attachment, my ultimate anxiety crushes you
In my desert land, you are the last rose.
 
Oh, quiet!
 
Close your intense eyes. There flutters the night.
Oh, undress the frightened statue of your body.
 
You have intense eyes where the night flutters.
Arms of a fresh flower and the lap of a rose.
 
Your breasts look like white conches.
A dark butterfly has come to sleep on your belly.
 
Oh, quiet!
 
Here is the loneliness from which you are missing.
It rains. The wind from the sea hunts roving seagulls.
 
The water goes barefoot through the wet streets.
From that tree they groan, like they're ailing, the leaves.
 
White bee, missing, you still buzz in my soul.
You re-awaken in time, slender and quiet.
 
Oh, quiet!
 

Poem 1

Body of a woman, white mounds, white thighs,
you look like the world in your attitude of surrender.
My savage laborer's body weakens you
and makes a son spring from the depths of the earth.
 
I was just like a tunnel. Birds fled from me
and in me the night's powerful invasion came.
For my own survival I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, like a stone in my sling.
 
But the time of vengeance has come, and I make love to you.
Body of skin, of moss, of milk, avid and firm.
Ah, the vessels of the breast! Ah, the eyes of emptiness!
Ah, the roses of the pubis! Ah, your voice lingering and sad!
 
Body of my woman, I will persist in your charm.
My thirst, my limitless yearning, my unsettled course!
Dark channels where eternal thirst follows,
and weariness follows, and infinite pain.
 

Absence

I have scarcely left you
When you go in me, crystalline,
Or trembling,
Or uneasy, wounded by me
Or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes
Close upon the gift of life
That without cease I give you.
My love,
We have found each other
Thirsty and we have
Drunk up all the water and the blood,
We found each other
Hungry
And we bit each other
As fire bites,
Leaving wounds in us.
But wait for me,
Keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
A rose.
 

Your Laughter

Versions: #2
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
 
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
 
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
 
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
 
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
 
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
 

Epithalamium

Remember when
in the winter
we came to the island?
The sea raised
an ice-cold drink towards us.
The vines on the wall
rustled, dropping
dark leaves
at our footsteps.
 
You were also a small leaf
that trembled on my chest.
The wind of life put you there.
I didn't see you at first: I didn't know
that you were walking with me,
until your roots
pierced my chest,
they merged with the strands of my blood,
they spoke through my mouth,
they flourised with me.
 
That was your unseen presence,
an invisible leaf or branch,
and suddenly my heart was full
of fruits and sounds.
You occupied the house
that waited for you in the darkness
and then you turned on the lights.
 
Remember, my love,
our first steps on the island?
The gray stones recognized us,
the gusts of rain,
the howling of the wind in the shadow.
But the fire was
our only friend,
together we held on to
the sweet love of winter
with four arms.
 
The fire watched our naked kiss grow
until it touched the hidden stars,
and it saw the birth and death of pain
like a broken sword
against an invincible love.
 
Remember,
oh, asleep in my shadow,
how the dream grew
from you,
from your naked chest
open with its twin domes
towards the sea, towards the island wind
and how in your dreams I navigated
freely, in the sea and in the wind,
but still submerged and bound
to the blue volume of your sweetness?
O sweet, my sweet,
springtime changed
the walls of the island.
 
A flower appeared like a drop
of orange blood,
and then the colors discharged
all of their pure weight.
The sea recaptured its transparency,
the night in the sky
highlighted its clusters
and now all things whispered
our name of love, stone by stone
they spoke our name and our kiss.
 
The island of rock and moss
resonated in the secret of its grottos
like the song in your mouth,
and the flower that was born
between the crevices of the rock
with its secret syllable
said your name as you passed
by a flaming bush,
and the sheer rock raised
like the wall of the world
recognized my song, dearly beloved,
and all things spoke of
your love, my love, darling,
because the earth, time, the sea, the island,
life, the tide,
the seed that half-opens
its lips in the earth,
the devouring flower,
the movement of spring,
everything recognizes us.
 
Our love has been born
outside of the walls,
in the wind,
in the night,
in the earth,
and that is why the clay and corolla,
the mud and the roots
know your name,
and they know that my mouth
joined with yours
because they planted us together in the earth
without us even knowing it
and we grew together
and flourished together
and that is why
when we pass by,
your name is in the petals
of the rose that grows in the rock,
my name is in the grottos.
 
They know everything,
we have no secrets,
we have grown together
but we did not know it.
The sea knows our love, the stones
from the rocky heights
know that our kisses flourished
with infinite purity,
like in their crevices a scarlet
mouth awakens:
thus they know our love and the kiss
that reunites your mouth and mine
in an eternal flower.
 
My love,
the sweet springtime,
flower and sea, they surround us.
We did not exchange it
for our winter,
when the wind
started to decipher your name
that is now repeated at all hours,
when
the leaves did not know
that you were a leaf,
when
the roots
did not know that you were looking for me
in my chest.
 
My love, my love,
springtime
offers us the sky,
but the dark earth
is our name,
our love belongs to
eternity and the earth.
Loving each other, my arm
underneath your neck of sand,
we will wait
as the land and weather changes
on the island,
as the leaves fall
from the taciturn vines,
as autumn escapes
through the broken window.
 
But we are
going to wait
for our friend,
our friend with the red eyes,
the fire,
when the wind once again
shakes the borders of the island
and ignores everyone's
names,
winter
will look for us, my love,
always,
he will look for us, because we know him,
because we don't have him,
because we have
with us
the fire
forever.
 
We have
the earth with us
forever,
the spring with us
forever,
and when a leaf
falls from
the vines,
you know, my love,
what name is written
on that leaf.
A name that is yours and mine,
our name of love, one
being, the arrow
that pierced the winter,
the invincible love,
the fire of the days,
one leaf
that fell upon my chest,
a leaf from the tree
of life,
that made a nest and sang,
that grew roots,
that bore flowers and fruits.
 
And so you see, my love,
how I walk
around the island,
around the world,
secure in the middle of spring,
crazy from the light in the cold,
calmly walking in the fire,
lifting your petal weight
in my arms
as if I had never walked
except with you, soul of mine,
as if I did not know how to walk
except with you,
as if I did not know how to sing
except when you sing.
 

I Am Afraid

I'm afraid. The evening is gray and the sadness
of the sky opens like the mouth of a corpse.
My heart has a weeping of princess
forgotten at the bottom of a deserted palace.
 
I'm afraid. And I feel so tired and small
that I reflect the evening without meditating on her.
(In my sick head a dream may not fit
just as a star has not fit in the sky.)
 
Even so a question exists in my eyes
and there is a shout in my mouth that my mouth doesn't shout.
There's no ear on earth that hears my sad bemoaning
abandoned in the middle of the infinite earth!
 
The universe dies from a calm agony
without the feast of the sun or the green twilight.
Saturn agonizes like a sorrow of mine,
Earth is a black fruit that the sky bites.
 
And through the vastness of the emptiness go
blindly the evening clouds like lost boats
that would hide broken stars in their holds.
 
And the death of the world falls over my life.
 

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.
 
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
 
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
 
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
 
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
 
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
 

Poetry

And it was at that time...Poetry came
to find me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they weren't voices, they weren't
words, or silence,
but from a street, it called me,
from the boughs of the night,
suddenly amongst the others,
between violent fires
or returning alone,
it was there faceless
and it touched me.
 
I didn't know what to say, my mouth
didn't know what
to call it,
my eyes were blind,
and something was beating in my soul,
a fever or lost wings,
I just kept going,
analyzing
that burning,
and I wrote my first vague line,
vague, no substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
from which one knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the sky
uncovered
and open,
planets,
throbbing plantations,
the pierced darkness,
riddled by arrows, fire and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.
 
And me, a tiny being,
inebriated by the great void
filled with stars,
in the image and likeness
of the mystery,
I felt I was a part of the pure
abyss,
I wandered with the stars,
my heart was unleashed in the wind.