Thursday, August 24, 2017

of halfened heightened happenstance,
the joy of you is lost
with tenth sixpence
a shillings spent
you heart cast lot to frost

but joy removed from happy tune
is joy found way beyond
when reached for own
be kept from loan
forever be your song

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

We are the poetry of one who longs for us

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.” 
― Hermann HesseBäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

Friday, June 9, 2017





Compromised 
at the prospect 
of extended stays, 
gifted beyond 
with intended parlay:
parlay beyond 
this blessed extension
parlay beyond 
the need of one´s own
invention. 
She is of cosmos -
light that reframes herself 
as a single dot above. 
With our minds, we know:
she is an intricate 
cluster of love
of light, of laugh. 
Repetitious and solemn
blinks of respected white 
we believe permeates all 
blackness,
it is the honored fight -
we acknowledge,
her crescendo 
as it bleeds into night
into the wake of rest.  
She is Finley in the sky 
with diamonds, 
and we - 
deep and real velveteens 
yearning and longing toward
this blessed celeste. 

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

follow the path.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Poeta, cuando mueres el cielo se cubre
Con lentejuelas extraídas
De la ropa de la incertidumbre.
Los lobos salvajes corren y los observo.
Hay ganchos en mi espalda,
Siento que la bobina, que me arree hacia ella.
Para enfrentar las cosas que me crearon.
Lo que es gracioso es el vacio de todo,
y cómo las conversaciones huelen a pegamento seco.
Vi los extremos ardiendo de discusiones muertas mientras
nombraba a los santos alfabéticamente para llegar
realmente a tí mientras me estoy perdonando a mi misma.
Esa es la dificultad de hablar desde bancos vacíos.
La mendicidad es un pecado lujurioso
preparado de guión de convicción.
Dame el obsesivo.
Dame el fortificado
y el anti-icónico.
Dame la lealtad sumisa.
Dame los sepultureros.
Mendicidad de ser enterrado con sus palas.
Vale, Tomaré un café y pediré a Dios que vigile a los
niños, esta vez, por lo menos, puede intentarlo de nuevo.
No hay lenguaje para el principio o el fin.
Sólo durante.
Sólo un alfabeto para hoy.
Cada letra contiene una historia de sangre.
Un cuerpo inclinado en oración.
Un cuerpo inclinado para la presa.
cuidar de mí mismo no es autoindulgencia,
es autopreservación,
y eso es un acto de guerra.
Decir a una mujer que es hermosa
podría resultar sentirse
(es muy posible)
como una tonta.

Las rosas mueren rápido.

La chica que quieres existe
pero no así
y no como esto
o, también, como eso.

Mira, ella está sentada en frente de ti,
mirando justo más allá de ti
a sí misma.

Besar un timbre.
Soñar desnudo
en las páginas amarillas.
Susurrar cosas dulces
sobre un cementerio
lleno de extraños.
Mirar el sol hasta que
se convierta en un
punto negro.
Visitar el olvido.
Visitar Tahití.
Entrar en una sala de cine
vistendo nada más que las
noticias.
Reemplazar el tarro de galletas
en el estante superior
con un Buda de bronce.
Dejar de pedirle al mar
y pasar página.
Escribir cartas de amor
por la noche mientras
tratando de no pensar
en un elefante púrpura.
Mantener a la indeterminación
como rehén, permanentemente.
Elegir un número
de uno a un millón,
y construir una vida
alrededor de ese número.
Escribir un cheque
en blanco dirigido a la lluvia.
Dar propina generosamente
con deseos.
Obtener la cara que se merece.
Ver la puesta de sol
con los ojos cerrados
y salir de aquí con
Edith Píaf cantando
suavemente al fondo.
Tu cuerpo hará lo que hará.
Aceptará el aire sin importar lo espeso
que se convierta.
Alcanzarás una puerta y de repente estarás
fuera en el viento tocando todas las cosas
maravillosamente horribles.
Dirás que este momente no es mi enemigo y
a veces lo creerás.

Toma las fuerzas de tu buena disciplina
y estrechalas entre dos polos opuestos,
porque me atrevo a conocerme en ti.
Los conjuros de llanto
podían ser resueltos
con una ecuación geométrica
dibujada encima de una mesa de cerezo;

La duración de mi pena
se reduciría en puntos
en una servilleta
con la etiqueta de
1-5.

O, algo así.

Y su cocina olería
como tortilla quemada
y líquidos de limpieza,
ya que nos sentamos
bajo la araña:

porque las chicas fuertes
resuelven, no lloran. 

Tal vez, esto es solo otro
signo del tiempo:
hechizos llorosos se han
vuelto muy aislados.
Ocurren entre las horas de
12-7 en las intersecciones
de las autopistas;
Aparcado en la carretera
o en la escalera oscura dónde puedo
escaparme si oigo pasos fuera
de la puerta principal.

He ultilizado toda la tinta
en mi pluma para la lista
de sus excusas
y mi servilleta esta demasiada empapada
de confusión para mantener una solución legible.
Pero el hecho sigue siendo:
Las chicas fuertes resuelven, no lloran,
a menos que,
por supuesto,
las lágrimas
son todo
lo que queda.



Regresa y encuentra el libro que dejé para nosotros
Lleno de todos los colores del cielo olvidado por los sepultureros.
Utilízalo.
Utilízalo para demostrar cómo las estrellas siempre estaban,
Sabíamos que eran:
Las heridas de salida de cada palabra fallida.


Cielo,
y cielo más alla de eso.
El intercambio de hielo entre las bocas.
Los poemas de otras personas
- como el viento inclinado a abrazarme ,
una lengua que se curva para formar una palabra  -
Podría ser una hoja sola ondeando en el aire
pero las hojas muestran dónde sopla el viento.
Eres de roble,
y vas a ser 

u tú eres siempre
una necesidad.
Eramos dos cortes de una rama
aprendiendo aritmética del fuego,
desentrañando al polvo
para una causa digna
como la calidez o la superviviencia.
Eres el momento
- La manera una risa,
la manera una respiración
detrás de un beso
existe. 

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Poetic things
BY REBECCA LINDENBERG
The sky. And the sky above that. The exchange of ice between mouths. Other people's 
poems

My friend says we never write abut anything we can get to the bottom of. For him, this 
is a place arbored with locust trees. For me, it's a language for which I haven't quite 
found the language yet.

The dewy smell of a new-cut pear. Bacon chowder flecked with thyme. Roasted duck 
skin ashine with plum jam. Scorpion peppers.

Clothes on a line. A smell of rain battering the rosemary bush. The Book Cliffs. Most 
forms of banditry. Weathered barns. Dr. PeeblesThe Woman's Tonic, it says on the 
side, in old white paint.

The clink of someone putting away dishes in another room.

The mechanical bull at the cowboy bar in West Salt Lake. The girls ride it wearing just 
bikinis and cowboy hats. I lean over to my friend and say, I would worry about 
catching something
. And he leans back to say, That's really the thing you'd worry 
about
? We knock the bottom of our bottles together.

How they talk in old movies, like, Now listen here. Just because you can swing a bat 
doesn't mean you can play ball
. Or, I'll be your hot cross if you'll be my bun. Well, 
anyway, you know what I mean.

Somewhere between the sayable and the unsayable, poetry runs. Antidote to the river 
of forgetting.

Like a rosary hung from a certain rearview mirror. Like the infinite rasp of gravel 
under the wheel of a departing car. 

Gerard Manley Hopkins's last words were I'm so happy, I'm so happy. Oscar Wilde 
took one look at the crackling wallpaper in his Paris flat, then at his friends gathered 
around and said, One or the other of us has got to go. Wittgenstein said simply, Tell all 
my friends, I've had a wonderful life
.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

You are quietly disappearing in front of me.
You, dancing by the dreamless wave
Come and find me in the middle
In the depths of this dim light.
You can not let me fade like this
Crying with confetti in my hair.
Your smile from the west
It was all I had
When we became strangers to others.
How you never sleep, you dare not sleep. 
Oh requiem in the mountains!
Forever, your words, in my heart!
The memory of having bravery in solitude
I translated into the sky 
A sudden forgotten symmetry
Skating by the sea
The boat with the starboard anchor:
The beauty, the resistance, the nakedness and the silence!
The ether heaven
Oh, how I wept
When they said: this was only a phase,
But it was what I wanted:
Dreams for those who are awake
It was fire, this fire,
July, you and me.
It was an emptiness that brought us closer.
Time stops in the infinite tale
Of angels and stars.
Remember?
His words,
Once again, they were wings of a bird,
A state of cerulean mind.
Look!
The stars collapsed when I woke up.
But I always look back when I leave.

In Pallid Air

Oh, deathly hallow
Begin! Be naught!
For whence this stance
love´s strength be taught?

In beckoned stare,
In starry light?
This cadence brought beyond
the night?

Oh, pink bent twilight,
Deep iron sea,
Your agony lives beyond
and in of me.

In pallid air,
In salty sight,
I choose to name you
in love´s own right.

Oh, hollowed voice!
Oh, recompense!
Ensnared love,
my consequence.
 
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