"blas" poems
i
worship
the god of small things
this
is
my
blas
phe
mous
rosary
god is good:
gale force winds
sandy beaches
sunset
god is good:
friends who know and still love you
the credulous wonder of children
singing your heart out
knowing you’re alive
thinning gracefully
growing wiser
not caring
puppies
catnaps
99s
god is good:
the joke you’ve never heard before
the queen of the night’s aria
jet engines at takeoff
the lightbulb moment
rolling fields of corn
rolling tears of joy
fine malt whisky
driving too fast
a good book
candles
god is good:
rainbows at the prow of a boat
sunshine after storms
a thin crescent moon
spray in your face
the smell of rain
leaping salmon
shooting stars
dark skies
fireworks
mars
god is good:
a sleeping lover’s moan
knowing he loves you
knowing she’s there
heartfelt laughter
a sincere touch
an honest hug
understanding
dinner for two
growing old
sharing
god is good:
a perfectly sculpted torso
the moment after waking
new scentsations
sincere smiles
a compliment
true friends
promises
release
solace
peace
i wor
ship the god of
small things. i give
thanks to her
every
day
bless
me
father
for
i
have
sinned
i
threw your cateschism to
the
wind
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Save the birds save your life and save the future
Save ka meaning hai sambhal kar rakhna ya fir bacha kar rakkho.
zindgi kimti hai hamari kya or parindo ki kya
Patango jab door se juda hoti hai to patango ko sambhalne koi na koi aa hi jata hai.
Insaan ladkhadae to use bhi sahare ki zarurat padti hai.
lekin ye janvar chah kar bhi kisi apne ya paraye ki madad nahi kar pata tab bhagwan ne insaan banae ke chalo ab inki dekh rekh insaan karega
Ek waqt tha jab inaan ke pass panchi aaya karte the.
Lekin ab ham inse itne dur ** *** ke inki aankho me dikhai dene laga.
Koi parinda insaan ke karib ane se katrata hai.
Aisa kyu jante **
Kyu ki hame sirf apni tyohaar apni khushiya pyari hai.
Ham selfish ** ***
Lekin ek baat or kahu to selfish me bhi self ka jhuta mukhota chadhaya hai hamne use utharne ki zarurat hai.
To plz self se nikalo self respect kamao.
Nk. Happy utrayan.
sai blas u all Sairam
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 6:40 PM UTC
Resuena en tus palabras
un difuso clamor de verdades oscuras,
cuando me las encuentro.
Rompen
en mi memoria, siempre
sonoras, firmes, claras,
como las olas de un mar poderoso
que sumerge y levanta,
sin devolver ni arrebatar nunca del todo,
una realidad turbia y mutilada:
el tiempo, el tiempo ido.
A su conjuro,
entre gotas de sal y luz de agua,
con el tiempo
yo mismo,
restos recuperados de mí mismo
vuelven y configuran un fantasma
que dibuja en el aire el viejo gesto
-casi olvidado ya- de la esperanza.
No todo se ha perdido;
vienen
a mi memoria siempre tus palabras
-claras, firmes, sonoras-
trayéndola, llevándola.Una voz era paz, o luz, o acaso
era fuego esa voz; todavía llama.
O era viento tal vez: ved la alta rama
del olmo aún temblorosa tras su paso.
Era roja esa voz en el ocaso;
cuando la noche sus horrores trama,
vuelve su resplandor: sangre que clama
al cielo ese de los hombres, raso.
Impaciente de paz, y luminosa,
ardiente, airada, entera y verdadera,
era dura esa voz: todavía dura
airosa y alta, como si tal cosa
-alzarse en estos tiempos- nada fuera.
Admirad, ya hecha estatua, su estatura.
731
Aquí tenéis, en canto y alma, al hombre
aquel que amó, vivió, murió por dentro
y un buen día bajó a la calle: entonces
comprendió: y rompió todos su versos.
Así es, así fue. Salió una noche
echando espuma por los ojos, ebrio
de amor, huyendo sin saber adónde:
a donde el aire no apestase a muerto.
Tiendas de paz, brizados pabellones,
eran sus brazos, como llama al viento;
olas de sangre contra el pecho, enormes
olas de odio, ved, por todo el cuerpo.
¡Aquí! ¡Llegad! ¡Ay! Ángeles atroces
en vuelo horizontal cruzan el cielo;
horribles peces de metal recorren
las espaldas del mar, de puerto a puerto.
Yo doy todos mis versos por un hombre
en paz. Aquí tenéis, en carne y hueso,
mi última voluntad. Bilbao, a once
de abril, cincuenta y uno.
Blas de Otero
594
the work comes different, place to place. Hen Blas is a new situation for me; the new studio.
some things take time, layers form, marks come and go.
new geography has dictated the nature of the paint covering those from years past
i have written that these were painted in 2018, yet may i say started in 1999 in another place, another life.
i can no longer remember all that lays beneath yet know that some of that will always show through
i have submitted them as unfinished, finished for now. the work is ongoing, the adventure with paint and its expression of land and soundscape
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
Her tears yelled
"Please don't go! Stay with me! Please!"
As tough as it was to let him go,
she somehow found
the strength and did.
Although his heart was full of pain,
he just had to leave.
Their last goodbye was at the pier.
She promised him
that no matter what she would wait for him
to come back.
It didn't matter how long.
Days, months, years.
And she did.
Many full moons had pass
and she still waited and waited
in the same pier where her love
once said goodbye.
Many would move on,
but in her heart,
she promised she'd stand by.
Hoping that her love will come back
and start the family
they once dreamed of starting together
until rumors spread that the ship
that her love aboard had sunk,
that her love died tragically.
But she didn't accept that,
she couldn't accept that.
Years and years passed by,
and yet every Sunday at 3 pm
she would go to the same pier
and waited for him.
She would wear
the same heels,
the same dress,
the same hope
that the ship would return.
But it never did.
The locals knew her as
'Crazy Peggy',
nobody knew her story.
All they knew was that she would
wait and wait at the pier
ever since the 40's.
No one knew exactly for who,
but that was all they truly knew.
The shore became her home,
the ocean was filled with her tears.
All she would do was mourn.
Mourn for a love she couldn't finish.
Just waiting for the love
of her life to return.
The locals thought she was crazy,
so they all grew concerned.
They tried sending her to a crazy home,
but she refused to go.
Her body grew weaker and weaker
by the years,
yet her hope was still strong
as if the love of her life
had just left an hour ago.
But then she died.
Her body could be
eaten by worms
and rot in the ground,
but her spirit couldn't.
Her spirit wouldn't decay.
She stood by throughout
all the years and waited for him-
The love of her life.
Although they weren't married,
in her heart,
she was always his wife.
True love exists.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Cuando me sobrevenga
el cansancio del fin,
me iré, como la grulla
del refrán, a mi pueblo,
a arrodillarme entre
las rosas de la plaza,
los aros de los niños
y los flecos de seda de los tápalos.
A arrodillarme en medio
de una banqueta herbosa,
cuando sacramentando
al reloj de la torre,
de redondel de luto
y manecillas de oro,
al hombre y a la bestia,
al azar que embriaga
y a los rayos del sol,
aparece en su estufa el Divínisimo.
Abrazado a la luz
de la tarde que borda,
como el hilo de una
apostólica araña,
he de decir mi prez
humillada y humilde,
más que las herraduras
de las mansas acémilas
que conducen al Santo Sacramento.
«Te conozco, Señor,
aunque viajas de incógnito,
y a tu paso de aromas
me quedo sordomudo,
paralítico y ciego,
por gozar tu balsámica presencia.
»Tu carroza sonora
apaga repentina
el breve movimiento,
cual si fueran las calles
una juguetería
que se quedó sin cuerda.
»Mi prima, con la aguja
en alto, tras sus vidrios,
está inmóvil con un gesto de estatua.
»El cartero aldeano,
que trae nuevas del mundo,
se ha hincado en su valija.
»El húmedo corpiño
de Genoveva, puesto
a secar, ya no baila
arriba del tejado.
»La gallina y sus pollos
pintados de granizo
interrumpen su fábula.
»La frente de don Blas
petrificóse junto
a la hinchada baldosa
que agrietan las raíces de los fresnos.
»Las naranjas cesaron
de crecer, y yo apenas
si palpito a tus ojos
para poder vivir este minuto.
»Señor, mi temerario
corazón que buscaba
arrogantes quimeras,
se anonada y te grita
que yo soy tu juguete agradecido.
»Porque me acompasaste
en el pecho un imán
de figura de trébol
y apasionada tinta de amapola.
»Pero ese mismo imán
es humilde y oculto,
como el peine imantado
con que las señoritas
levantan alfileres
y electrizan su pelo en la penumbra.
»Señor, este juguete
de corazón de imán,
te ama y te confiesa
con el íntimo ardor
de la raíz que empuja
y agrieta las baldosas seculares.
»Todo está de rodillas
y en el polvo las frentes;
mi vida es la amapola
pasional, y su tallo
doblégase efusivo
para morir debajo de tus ruedas».
405
bla, bla, blas
on repeat in my mind.
Not a word I can find ,
completly tongue tide,
blabbing
bubbles
burst
into
bla, bla, blas
on repeat in my mind.
Not a word I can find ,
completly tongue tide,
blabbing
bubbles
burst
into
bla, bla, blas
on repeat in my mind.
Not a word I can find ,
completly tongue tide,
blabbing
bubbles
burst
into
bla, bla, blas
on repeat in my mind
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 1:02 AM UTC