Monthly Archives: June 2011

My bride, I was born

after Pablo Neruda’s ‘You Would Come’

My bride,
I was born
waiting for you—

for yer mouth, yer hands,
& yer eyes.

I knew that I had to die
& be born with another heart
to go on
looking for you.

But, my bride,
I did not always suffer
looking & waiting—

I knew that you
would be waiting
with the dawn for me

—as if you
had always been there waiting,

waiting with yer hands, yer mouth,
& yer eyes—

 

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I summoned you

after Pablo Neruda’s ‘Autumn Testament’

I summoned you
from another time,
from ancient beginnings.

I summoned your mouth
because I heard it
brought back
love and dark drums

—I heard it brought back
myself

—from another time,
from far away forests

and brought back
you and I.

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Look at me with your moon eyes

after Neruda

Look at me
with your moon eyes.

I want to sing
your name
with the biggest stars,
with the leaves in the wind.

I love you—

in dreams
the biggest stars
look at me with your eyes

and sing your name.

The pines in the wind
love the moon in your eyes

—Look, the moon turns
to sing your name

as I love to.

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You’re the butterfly of my dream

after Pablo Neruda

You are the butterfly
of my dream

though you are absent
still

—you emerge
from far away
and you do not hear me.

The mouth I had sealed
with a kiss
does not touch you

—it seems your eyes
had flown away
like a butterfly

—still, I like you
and your absent kiss

—still, you emerge
as the things I dream,
butterfly of my soul.

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I lived in proportion

I lived beside other houses, other persons, and trees tending to the grandiose, pavilions with passionate foliage, emerged roots, vegetal blades, straight coconut trees, and in the midst of these green foams, I would pass with my sharp-pointed hat and a heart completely fictional, with a splendor-heavy stride, because in proportion as my powers eroded and, destroyed by dust, sought symmetry like the cemetery dead, the known places, the extensions scorned up to that hour and the faces that like slow plants sprouted in my abandonment, varied around me with terror and silence, like quantities of leaves overturned by a sudden autumn.—Pablo Neruda “Contradicted Communications”

I lived in proportion to my abandonment
with this completely fictional heart
tending to the grandiose,
tending to other persons

—the known places, the dead
heart destroyed by terror
and silence

—I emerged in the midst
of faces like slow plants that sprouted beside
overturned leaves and other houses.
The faces varied like autumn.

I sought other persons symmetry
because, up to that hour,
my heart would pass
like dust—like roots
of silence emerged
and the autumn leaves
that pass the places
of my dead powers

—a sharp-pointed heart sprouted
around dead coconut trees
in terror.

I lived in the midst
of a sudden autumn
with my fictional heart

—the varied extensions
of silence
beside the grandiose pavilions and,

I would pass faces
completely dead
like these green foams, vegetal blades
and foliage.

I emerged in that hour
with my passionate abandonment
and silence, and splendor-heavy heart,
like the leaves overturned by a sudden autumn

—destroyed like the known places,
the extensions in proportion to the hour
my heart eroded to dust.

 

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To You

I imagine you as the waterfall
next to me—as the only sound,
yer crystal voice
drowning the downtown traffic,
even the afternoon song of birds
and percussion of branches
—and that’d be fine.

I open my eyes
and there yer body’s running
over me—
I want to do to you
what the wind and sun do
—I can’t say how long
I’ve longed to be the stones on yer shore—
to skip across yer sea
and then disappear
in yer depths.

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O I am damned to hell

after Ginsberg’s Reality Sandwiches

1

O I am damned to hell,
not a dime in the bank to show
for these unhappy hands
like sweet trees trembling
with this bitter wreck
of the world.

O world
I’ve wasted five years
paying respect to the city
& country roads
—to the sun
of the east
only to come out empty
—tho with a fine beard

—still the body catches the mist be-
fore agony and after delight breaks
open across what’s lost.

2

—Some nights I wish
I’d wake drunk in an-
other country whose gentle-
ness won’t be gone in the morning
down bleak streets our father’s built
now be-
fore I can fail
take this poem
to bed with you
until we die—

I give you
what I can’t in-
scribe here
amid an-
other war
or go on
banging
our drums
thru nights
of blood
thru lost flesh

—for now,
I’ll dream the world’s de-
sire can renew
the vows it made to us
while howling
of these noble ruins
hidden in our banner

—as the poem, Im-
mortals can’t end-
ure facing the fate we share

—all those words,
all that mud in the wild,
barking of white doves
in the night
to mourn for this world—
all this no-
where I have suc-
cumbed to poor dear—

3

I saw myself
for a moment
grown over with moss
in the crude night of clouds
dim from end to end like water in-
side the forest of self
which this moment
the shadow might shatter
notes taken down in dreams—

still I have seen the moment spent
as tears and money—
all the deathly
ruins of dreams
on the endless waters
thru which no thought can pass

still this Im-
age is built as rain
—to fall down

4

O bring me the face I found
of the night, the only world that’s not obs-
cure as the human heart
or a leaf.

5

War is its own scene
to hurry loss
or gain new ruins
in the area of lost souls
where the moon waves
thru the dark as ants

6

—I send this note out
as plumes scattered
on the broken world,
on its coast of dreams
hidden under flowers
and pyramids
that will fall and flicker
on the seas of dreams
blurred and go out as the air
on its own

—so much green in sleep
as if war’s only rum-
ored & grown over with dust
—tho it’s not.

7

I still hope to dream what’s left of us
down rivers
of the world’s waste

8

O there’s a god
dying in this poem

—in myself.

9

I see that Im-
age is there in the long night
rotting like a skull in sunlight

—I see that rain of love
might return with the rusty ship
to this dirty town,
this tired world

—tho the flood is on its way over-
topping me in sleep
toward the grave
I longed for as if I longed
for love or gold,
a relic of the old land

still I can’t see what joy it brings.

10

I left all those tender moments
happily, happily in what soli-
tude I have in-
herited with a few manly flaws
—the distant night’s moans.

The problem is
the end is itching to come out

—in an-
other world I could dismiss it
& go silently
as the others
who passed thru this town glinting
as seen then and now
in watery dreams of war,
of bombs falling down
swirling be-
tween those naked bo-
dies

—I rise up armed with roses
& eat tears of the night
& and see their faces be-
fore I die
in their city of mines

—I’m among the starry mines!

11

So much light I left
behind the border

it’s true
darkness is simple
to stroke and kiss
in the morning mist
& looks exactly like us see-
king out each other
in a silent room.

12

I am no ego—
I’m unhappy
with all the mind wakes at night
behind muted shades
& closed doors

what body may love all this.

Come kiss me
thru the dark void
running into the starlight
of our hearts

13

—O it’s hard to eat shit
each night in dreams with-
out having drinks

Ah, don’t think I’m sad, dear.
I went down to the garden
of memory with clear eyes
& a cold beer
& saw a sudden glimpse
of myself as being no one

and nothing left to suffer over the clouds.

14

—O poem
let the trees love me
& come trembling
as a lover’s naked skin
—Let me sing to each rain
of dreams and her body
of flowers under-
neath me

15

—O the problem is
the tragic thought
of the soul,
while it has nothing
to return to me
but tears
& streaks of yellow smoke.

16

Blessed be the moment
I saw life as salt
& it was fine
to touch me
with a new love for its reward

17

O dear,
I have seen all this
dropping on the flowers

—O what do I have to lose
but life as love ends
& ends
& piles like ruins

yes, it’s all true and lonely thinking for sure.

18

I feed on yer name
as birds on a crumb of bread
while flowers are rotting in this head.

I’m crying for the lost flowers
for fear of being empty
—Let the crane of these thoughts hang
in this sadness
& fall slow with mercy
& in awe of this inner song
—this little mummy
left where I once thought was myself.

19

I have nothing left to offer
but take that you like of the uni-
verse, take what-
ever is left
—it’s all yers,
but this beard and these poems.

20

The moon weeps over the wreck of this earth
& coughs up our past in the margins
like a bomb suddenly blinds dreams

—there it drifts as dust.
Just let me hear the blast
of flowers in the rain
for the last time.

21

I might as well write poems to you, dear—
of stars, of flying over you
on those fabled shores
where I found those dead wings
that were once mine

—Truth is,
I was lonely
for a little light
to come down
& touch me
but I look up
& it’s grey
& I have no de-
sire left
for the world

22

O don’t tell me
what I know
of the world,

just let me
laugh at it

let some sad chorus sing what I can’t.

 

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