One kiss could send me straight to ruin One sinful touch my soul to **** But just to have you for a night My soul would cry out "It is well" To taste the sweetness of your lips To have my flesh be a feast for you to dine I'd gladly face those burning embers Just to say you once were mine Let marks on my skin tell the story Of a night of savagery and bliss Yes I would give up crown and glory Just to have one taste of you like this
After all, poetry is a savage calling.* -Edel Garcellano
Let poetry be an interstice.
Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves.
What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth.
Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth.
Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry.
An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring.
A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations.
“The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry.
We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies.
Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold.
Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal.
We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows.
Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example.