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Sydney Marie Oct 2019
they use to be just a black cloaked figures

Over Time

they grew faces
Nis Jun 2018
"Manos crispadas me confinan al exilio.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."

Cuervos negros me prohiben mi alegría.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Armas siniestras, seres aciagos.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

Mi muerte se acerca, mi mano se acerca.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.
Mi pálida reflexión me prohibe la vida.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda.

"Me quieren anochecer, me van a morir.
Ayúdame a no pedir ayuda."
-"Figuras y silencios" de Alejandra Pizarnik


"Contorted hands confine me to exile.
Help me not to ask for help."

Black ravens forbid me my happiness.
Help me not to ask for help.
Sinister weapons, fateful beings.
Help me not to ask for help.

My death gets closer, my hand gets closer.
Help me not to ask for help.
Mi pale reflection forbids me my life.
Help me not to ask for help.

"They want to night me, they are going to die me.
Help me not to ask for help."
-Extracting the stone of madness, by Alejandra Pizarnik
Segundo poema basado en un texto de  Pizarnik, esta vez de "Figuras y Silencios", espero que os guste!


Second poem based on a text by Pizarnik, this time "Figures and Silences" , hope you like it (and my translation of it).
Christopher Jun 2018
Honor your mother and Father
It's a hard constant thought
It's been taught
So many times yet I can never keep that locked

I honor her even though she's dead
I honor him yet he's gone too
Seeing him though is a pack of lies
All I see is a glutenous fool
So spare your "tries"
I'm not your misconcepted tool
It's not what a dad does

You can call him by a title yet his colors will show another .

Sugar coat it like I'm a naive child but after a while
I saw that smile become a...
Trust me you say
s t o p  i t

I've had 3 and believe me they have names...
But they are set by me.
And don't try buying tryer cause liar could never be the supplier like the grand who showed me I can go higher than all of...Cliars

But what does it matter when you're a brick wall who shuns me...
A holy Trinity but more earthly.
Grand if you can read this, thank you.
Liar, hope you're safe but buzz off
Tryer, test me and you'll be on the ground soon
Imelda Dickinson May 2018
I entered Grande parlour of elegance where is placed bronze statue unique

Beside wide patio glass-paneled doors. “Shipped from Italy,” her Owner’s critique

Stepping closer, my curious nature sees child’s form, perhaps five, plus one

Clad poor, feet bare, head downcast. Clasps round vessel empty of duties undone

Illusions of her Artist haunt me. Why brown metal a child colored so?

Her innocence tainted, darkened, bleak. Why not a face pearled, soft cameo?

I peer in her eyes hallowed, countenance sad. She stands across from me

Near smoothed, bronze dolphin cast in glass, ****** from frothed waves sea

I think merrily, “You live where sea creatures play, power driven, dive ocean deep

Squeal with delight, let’s ride aquatic prince of Atlantic who does not sleep!

Or, “Do you hope to soar to third heaven, where bronze eagle behind you can fly?

Moon shadows beckon us to jewel stars on veiled, velvet blackened sky”

Or, “ Could I offer you a melon-porcelain rose? Fragrance perfume fills room you’re in

Petals never fade. Would you wear garlands on small feet, frail hands, brown hair so thin?”

“Angelina, come, listen to night sounds! Leave tasks mundane for a time

Frogs creak, leap high, jump gleefully, come to soft sand dunes we’ll climb!

Will you ride wail winds of tempest, hurricane water crash smooth sand?

Just beneath your window safe most days, but hurls destruction on demand!

Does music of your Owner excite you? Tunes, ballads, songs, new and old?

Melodies you never knew where you grew, stories of love you untold

Instruments: string, ebony, ivory keys, soothe soul, lift spirits high

Loud drums beat march jubilant. Music to laugh with, music to cry”

My mind stills. Angelina becomes bronze again, dress of white linen gone homespun

My imaginations for her happiness for a moment quiets, our fantasies clearly undone

This is why your Artist formed you, so mankind could see in your face

Divine hands help mold bronze your form, your simplicity man must embrace

Ill leave grande parlour of elegance from Angelina, bronze statue unique

Not Italian, but universal child-alloy. Words unsaid, so loud does she speak!

Of an Artist inspired to fire her. Of a Buyer perceptive to see

A child in need of needs to fulfill throughout life of man’s history

Child’s image, thin hair, poorly clad, feet bare. Rich in lessons clearly taught

By Master-Artist is Angelina, little teacher. Forget her not

“Angelina, did you give water to the thirsty? Was bread given away all you had?

Coarse shawl you don’t wear, did it cover an old friend? Did you visit prison comforting Dad?

In small village, do you care-give Mother often sick, rush on your hurried little feet?

Do you invite another child like you to humble hut on Lonely Street?”

Reminds me, words of Scripture, Master Teacher, Jesus said

“I was thirsty and drink you provided. I was hungry you gave meat and bread

As stranger you took Me in your place, naked you clothed Me poor alone

Sheltered Me, tattered and torn, lonely, no place to call home”

“I was sick, Jesus said, “You visited. To My prison cell you came

Downcast, forsaken,” He says, “ Angelina do you know My name?”

Lord send me Your naked, Your hungry, Strangers many in thirst

Sick in pain, prisoners behind walls, lonely, unloved at worst

Teach us to live Your words, like You help us to be

“In as much as You do to these,” Jesus said, :My brethren you do unto Me.”
A poem about a little bronze statue girl by Imelda Dickinson
Nicole Bataclan Mar 2017
I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;

My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.

For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.
Andrew T Dec 2016
A White girl figure with a blank face and
a dress cropped over her knees lays
smeared flatly onto a restroom door;
a black star encrusted shoe kicks open the
In comes a knocking the delusions
of grandeur that stay suspended in the
Fragrance of workaholic soccermoms.
In one of the bathroom stalls
swims a ****** rosemary, teenage midlife-crisis
Averted. Theses tests were ironically
positive for the genesis of an unborn
Icon. I might have just used the wrong definition of irony.
Moving on. A hand flushes
the remanents of immortality down a sparkling, smiling toilet.
Rolled poems become unscrolled
when writeen on the pampered virgins paper.
In the next stall,
there lives substance for the homeless man
in the deep, brown soil
Of the marsh. A trash can is hunched over the sink,
attempting to dispense it’s
Apathy for a commercial world.
He turns the corner and sees writeen on the wall in
legible, abstract graffetti; “Ugliness is shrouded
under layers of positive
contradictions.” The words are engraved
deep into the cracked out, white tile wall.
Socialist Olympic torches blaze before ash
crumbles into communists tendencies.
The water is clear but the benches
are polluted with foreigner sea ****,
beneath the jangled sands
lie the zombies stuffed deep in the black body bags.
Tara Marie Jul 2016
I used to see just shadows
painted on concrete.
Scared of seeing sun above;
With whom our forms compete.  

I thought that only shadows
surrounded me before.
Before you painted color
in sunlight, off the floor.

I walked around in trances
evaluating time.
Trying to move forward, empty,
walking a straight line,

Until I felt your fingertips,
Collapsed beneath your shade,
Inhaled the air escaping you,
And watched the daylight fade.

The shadows I believed in
Weren't shadows anymore.
They're pieces of a puzzle
Filled with life and dreams galore.

You show me there is more to this
Than working everyday.
There's moments, seconds, memories
I hope won't go away.

I hope our lips colliding
Will never be routine.
That we will never frown
When smelling racing gasoline.

I wish that late night thoughts
Continue to be said.
That every bit of stubbornness
Stays within your head.

I hope you'll never see the
Ink upon my skin as boring,
That no one else within this world
Will write you notes each morning.

You showed me shadows only are our
footprints on the ground.
You're the one. The only,
With whom my heart is bound.
Reed, my constant sunlight ❤️
Spike Harper Jan 2016
By every stitch awkwardly placed.
Does there linger a sting.
A colorless.
Of nothing.
A space.
Larger than any ravine.
Where even the brightest smile.
It was here.
In this same collection of wavering resolve.
A new smile was born.
Of lust.
And piercing wales.
One that fit ever so perfectly.
Tears and pain cascade through.
Yet it remained.
Playing with this notion of spite.
And torture.
The blade driven by ones own hand.
Is the very one that knows this darkness all to well.
Does it dive deeper.
And the black ooze finds a home.
In the abyss beyond.
For this.
Is the viciousness desired.
A circle of ridicule.
And tumble end over end.
Smile intact.
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