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n stiles carmona Jan 2021
Where'd you wander off to? I was one lonesome night-shift from writing another piece entirely – Allen y Federico, chasing Whitman as he climbs the paywall guarding Bohemia, ashen fog of beard left trailing in his wake. Ah, but here you are, my High Court of Muses! Lavender castoffs of two mechanical empires, camped outside on the supermarket pavement: awaiting a dawn delayed by the skyscrapers it hides behind. The Best Minds Left Standing... Lorca’s feet beating faraway Gitano rhythms; Ginsberg spouting love-letters re: the weeds’ anarchic growth from the concrete cracks... and one smaller sycophant.

I’ve offerings of oranges – Spanish nostalgia reduced to contraband – ‘stolen’, bruised, saved from dumpster fates. Wouldn't you have done the same? Isn’t food waste just state-sanctioned sacrilege? Naranjas, clementinas, full miniature moons split into crescents: I figured (halved) you'd (quartered) be starved (eighths). You savour each sacred drop of juice in ways I've yet to master. I’d always been preoccupied with expiry dates... Moloch who sets up shop inside my brain... yet time melts between my lips and I am with You under UV floodlights. I am with You where the overhead glow may not be starlight but it’s not the worst alternative. I am with You – until the checkout boy steps out for a cigarette and when Allen’s eyes follow in pursuit, I’ve lost him again. Holy, he mutters into his final segment of fruit; holy, I repeat, imagining Eve’s overeager sprint into the wide-open prisons of thought.
    I am a woman cloved in two, better half wrapped in citrus peel and tied with string – para tí, maestro Lorca. Does it bother you that these buildings stand closer to the Sun than you could have ever reached? Yet you were nothing short of an Icarus, and how close you came! Abstract wings borne from words and notoriety! Your mythology was written to fit a flamenco guitar – if they don’t know that, they don’t know you – through musical folklore, Franco tried to **** that which was immortal. His legacy is a nation of graves and a granddaughter in the gutter press.
    I begin to feel that history is a ripple-effect of looking over one’s shoulder and deciding “you’d hate it here.” There’s always the dawn. You wait for it with practised patience – pervasive optimism – the ability not to end an “always was” with “and always will be”. Is it all you’d waited for? Has time diminished its novelty? Will you write it down and tell me what I’d slept through?
    Out cold, you turn me onto my side so I don’t choke when Moloch finds his way out.
just a writing exercise rly lol. direct response to ginsberg's 'a supermarket in california' about his literary hero, walt whitman (i feel like it'd make even less sense without having read that beforehand). one day i'll write something that isn't too long for folks to bother reading - until then...
Lawrence Hall Mar 2019
“The F_g with the Bow Tie” 1

            “Only in Russia is poetry respected – it gets people killed.
              Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a  
              motive  for ******?”

                                                -Osip Mandelstam 2

Spain. Poetry got people killed in Spain -
And still wherever tyrants of delicate nerves
And artistic sensitivities hear
Whispered rumors of whispered disapproval

And so an innocent, fearful and trembling
Must be motored away to a moonless death
Upon orders spoken, written, tweeted
Telephoned, telegraphed, or teletyped

One prays he has a moment to adjust his tie
Perfectly - as an honor to Poetry

1 The slur is attributed to Federico Garcia Lorca’s murderers:****-poets-on-federico-garcia-lorcas-last-days/

2 Quoted by Yevgeny Yevtushenko in 20th Century Russian Poetry
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
JJ Inda Nov 2018
Streetlight slides throught the blinds,
Interrupts my sleep, I awake.
Mary quotes Lorca,
"Agony always agony."
She gasps for air, struggles to breathe.
-Outside the full moon and the starlight fades.
The cat and dog engage in the same old fight.
Neighbor's baby is awake,
- I can hear the cries.
I convince her to stay
and breathe
with the employ
of a lie.
Nis Jun 2018
"Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Juntos para morir,
separados para vivir.

Como un manantial de loros te canto, Stanton
no se quien eres pero nunca nos encontraremos
cual cima de hipopótamos, cual valle de elefantes.

Podría seguir, seguir con mi orografía animal, Stanton.
Sentirme una Lorca envalentonada,
envalentonada como un monte de leones.
Pero no lo soy.

Sólo soy un intento de física,
un intento de poetisa,
un intento de mujer,
un intento de persona.
Un intento.

Reímos juntos aquel día,
aún hoy lloramos separadas.

Y este poema se torna pensamientos no ligados.
nuca lo estuvieron.
Mi ignorancia siempre fue un monte de leones.
Y mis pensamientos se tornan contra mí una vez más.

Contra mi cuerpo: mi archienemigo,
tantas veces te he escrito para herirte,
tantas veces te he herido para herirte.
Mi odio hacia ti es una riada de cuervos.

Contra mi mente: falsa amiga,
tantas veces te he usado para servirme
tantas veces me has herido al servirme.
Mi rencor hacia ti es un acantilado de ratas.

Y sí, este poema es una excusa para alabar el citado verso,
pero entre verso y verso se cuela mi odio,
cual filtro de lemures, cual escurridero de serpientes.
Mi odio por todo, mi odio por nada.

Y aquí termina mi canto, diciéndote una vez más, Stanton.
Tu ignorancia es un monte de leones.


                                   "Your ignorance is a mountain of lions, Stanton"
                                                        ­                                       -García Lorca

Together dying,
apart living.

Like a spring of parrots I sing to you, Stanton
I don't know who you are but we'll never meet
like peak of hippopotamus, like valley of elephants.

I could continue, continue with my animal orography, Stanton.
Feeling myself an encouraged Lorca,
encouraged like a mountain of lions.
But I'm not one.

I'm only an attempt of a physic,
an attempt of a poet,
an attempt of a woman,
an attempt of a person.
An attempt.

We laughed together that day,
even today we cry alone.

This poem turns itself thoughts not linked.
They never were.
My ignorance has always been a mountain of lions.
And my thoughts turn against me once again.

Against my body: my archenemy,
so many times I have written to harm you,
so many times I have harmed you tu harm you.
My hatred towards you is a stream of raven.

Against my mind: false friend,
so many times I have used you to serve me,
so many times you have harmed you to serve me.
Mi resentment towards you is a cliff of rats.

And yes, this poem is an excuse tu praise the mentioned verse,
but between verse and verse my hatred creeps in,
like filter of lemures, like sink of snakes.
My hatred towards everything, my hatred towards nothing.

And here my singing ends, telling you once again, Stanton.
Your ignorance is a mountain of lions.
Más que un poema, pensamientos poco relacionados inspirados por el verso de Lorca en "Poeta en New York"
More than a poem, thoughts with little connection inspired by the verse from "Pote in New York" by Lorca
Xallan Oct 2017
Desirest only a door?
Ice and water fight at dawn tomorrow when
Homely things will wrap themselves in furs
The dog's eyes grow wide as it begs
And licks your calf
Sensational! The little worms
That ****** their head through the snow
Will bite my back
The most piercing of wails on the steeple
And under the dead trees groans
Silence! I demand silence
So the ails of the tooth and the leg
Will wanter to and fro across the mountain of thoughts
Eat only bits of rock
Quillawe, that spout of faith
Satisfy my love for ducks with a rifle and a nickel for fish
My worms have yet to begin their purpose
All I wanted was their eggs
Wappadad, that hope of think
And butterflies sprout from the shells
Cast by my mother's lost goat but
Incorrigible! I am a lonely goose
And with my long neck I will save my ducks
The fish will take my dead skin and turn it to gold
With one hundred waves of peerless oak
Midasfat, I alone have a toothbrush
A monster who gnaws on the bones of the living
I feel not the pain, I built a small Wall
Informative stalks of antennae with xray vision
Prejudice! I came first, little blue
The dirt under their nails will grow me an abandoned garden
Burned by edible fire, and garnished with nightshade
Let them not chew on the undersides
They call me Sleep
Inspired by Lorca.
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