"bremen" poems
Cuando es invierno en el mar del Norte
es verano en Valparaíso.
Los barcos hacen sonar sus sirenas al entrar en el puerto de Bremen
con jirones de niebla y de hielo en sus cabos,
mientras los balandros soleados arrastran por la superficie del Pacífico
Sur bellas bañistas.
Eso sucede en el mismo tiempo,
pero jamás en el mismo día.
Porque cuando es de día en el mar del Norte
-brumas y sombras absorbiendo restos
de sucia luz-
es de noche en Valparaíso
-rutilantes estrellas lanzando agudos dardos
a las olas dormidas.
Cómo dudar que nos quisimos,
que me seguía tu pensamiento
y mi voz te buscaba -detrás,
muy cerca, iba mi boca.
Nos quisimos, es cierto, y yo sé cuánto:
primaveras, veranos, soles, lunas.
Pero jamás en el mismo día.
762
trace what may be shapes shaded by reflection.
the rusty ceiling warms decadent and a calm chill
alerted the hairs on my arm. they clapped.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
2/13/2016
"*notice how he has numbered the blue veins in my breast.
he is building a city, a city of flesh.
he is an industrialist.*"
anne sexton
i've seen god themself stirring
subzero confectioner's sugar around this place,
you are the dried up ***** on my face
something acrid that i fell asleep and neglected to wash
i used to cut down swathes of brambles, and the bees
they'd run away
when i was a kid they followed me everywhere.
"you're sweet, kid" my father would say
now he just says i am stupid, so droll
as if i've never known that before
my bulbous arteries run with the notion of
him, sweltering, pointing
"bowie's on sale again,"
the same stamp on the telephone box
there, rotting, gentle
two years later
i say this: there is nothing in princeton
and everything in manhattan
that princedom where you stumble on
***** sidewalks and run hands along bubonic
subway railings
where, really
wanting to throw myself on the freight rail
would just be wanted to throw myself off the Veranzzano.
sylvia said it best, i guess
my own bell jar sour as ever
no matter whether
i'm in Bremen
Lesotho or
in his bed, again
i'd find a way to do it,
i told her
the only place i am willing to.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
sad på bremen teater
og brændte sambuca af sammen med en fyr
spurgte efter hans alder
der gik lidt tid fordi han var bange for
at jeg ville synes han var for gammel
39 sagde han så
du er jo ung
var mit svar
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
i am a kind of hermit-crab,
and there i found a shell,
and would have stayed, but summer passed —
the walls i had outgrown.
i kept my trinkets in my cave,
and to myself alone
that attic flat in bremen was
my home away from hell.
half-sleepy on the straßenbahn,
transport me anywhere —
the frei in freie hansestadt,
could taste it in the air!
i kept a book for sketching in,
and never felt so free —
that attic flat in bremen where
one summer i was me.
Nov 25, 2021
Nov 25, 2021 at 12:50 AM UTC