"chilean" poems
*The poverty of yesterday was less squalid than the poverty we purchase with our industry today.
Fortunes were smaller then as well.*
(The Elderly Lady)
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.
{…}
*As I think of the many myths, there is one that is very harmful, and that is the myth of countries. I mean, why should I think of myself as being an Argentine, and not a Chilean, and not an Uruguayan.
I don't know really.
All of those myths that we impose on ourselves — and they make for hatred, for war, for enmity — are very harmful.
Well, I suppose in the long run, governments and countries will die out and we'll be just, well, cosmopolitans.* --J. L. Borges
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the ***
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
are warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
14.4k
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
Some day, some people you don’t know might get spittin’ mad at each other.
you won’t have a ****** thing to do with it.
But one morning while you discuss equality at a café on Wilshire
you might hear a terrible
BOOM
In the middle of the city
And you could spill your fair-trade iced coffee
All over your Egyptian cotton clothes.
you might be able to make it home to see
If your purebred cats are not dead
But most likely you won’t get so far.
your ice might melt,
Don’t you know?
And your faucet might leak.
your apartment could be an ocean
And nobody would care.
You might try to get away
But everyone else will do the same
And you might puff up like the Chilean Blob,
And maybe your hair will come out in tufts
And you’ll possibly die with your legs stuck out at obscene angles
On a gum-dappled sidewalk,
Ashes and fallout whiffling down around your snow-angel death scene.
Mushroom cloud don’t care how civilized you is.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
The day they operated on his brain
he imagined it as his day of poetry
freedom from the pain of living,
and heard a train reciting a long poem
on love, nightmares and death
by a Chilean poet he adored,
whose name he tried to recollect, over and over again
but his train of thoughts curiously missed
that one station in each, separate attempt.
.
Did he hear anyone whispering anything about 'bad omen'?
reminding a poet killed by a dose of poison
injected by the doctor treating him
to end the emotional ********** of
his poetry over the mind of millions
of readers
- and then he slowly lost orientation
in delirious state he fell in to a pit of delight and thought
about the white luminant mist poetry, has created in his being,
all through the days of suffering love gifted him.
He received poetry as a feeling, deep, deep inside,
Emily Dickinson was to him a fragrance enveloping his consciousness,
then a feeling inexpressible, an elation, leading him to a plane higher.
His brain was a night filled tunnel, through which
the train reciting dark poems of stark beauty of death
traveled like lightening, he sat perplexed looking
at a mirror someone held before him, reflecting darkness, an eerie feeling.
That night train wailing as if someone dear has left for ever
traveled through the surreal plane of Dali paintings.
"Life", a unfamiliar voice proclaimed aloud near him,
"Is poetry written in one's blood, which one fails
to read as it is dangerously close to one's suicide note,
that one finishes reading only at the last minute".He hoped
they must have finished his surgery by now;
it was getting dark, a kind of mist spreading like a swarm of evil beetles,
but they were still at it, panic reigned
on the operation table. His face was peaceful
immobile like the wings of a dead butterfly.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
I look into your eyes and I see
Those wonderful Amsonia tabernaemontana.
One of your eyes is called trustworthiness,
The other one is confidence.
I look into your eyes and I swear that I see your soul.
I look into your uplifting spirit and I see
The sunny sky and the soothing ocean
Of your sunny love and your soothing melancholy.
I look into this melancholic love and I see
My dream of becoming the woman of your dreams.
I see two little birds of Araucana Chilean
Trying to leave their blue eggs
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
Painted a masterpiece
In my dreams:
A Chilean villa.
Cactus streams.
A flower composed,
Wilted with time
With muted colors,
Tequila with lime.
Fields of desert
With tuxtla soaring.
Winding paths of
Wood and brick flooring.
A cool wind blows
Through the heat
Over sweaty brows
And sandaled feet.
A moment trapped
That’s never been.
A life of others
Never seen.
Put away my brushes,
Stood back to admire
The deep ocean sky,
The burnt orange fire.
It lay on the table,
Alive on the canvas
When waking did cause
My hard work to vanish.
In memory only
And never shown
Forever discarded
Once beautifully known.
My studio of mind
So often produces
A wonderful concept
With no practical uses.
I’d like to live there
And run those streets,
Take shade under awnings
Sampling savory meats.
But I’ll never go there,
Never see that place.
Never plant in soil
That’s been erased.
That marvelous day
Conceived at night
Keeps the dreaming
Forever alight.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
In kindergarten I came to school in my lady bug dress with nobody to impress. Not a care in the world. The only thing on my mind was “How many friends will I make today.”
Middle school ****** but doesn't it always? Struggling to fit it, literally. Shedding pounds like you wouldn't believe. You see, I found it very hard to finish my meals. “Wow, you look thin,” they'd say. I wasn't living a fantasy, I was living in hell.
Middle school finally ended and high school began.
Freshman year was the time of my life; a great friend group, people I could count on. My eyes open wide ready for anything. A glimpse of the real world. Freshman year I was invited to parties and offered drugs, little did I know that these two things would soon consume my closest friends lives. Freshman year lead to recurring pointless drama that would haunt us for the rest of our high school careers.
Sophomore year I lost my best friend. I lost my best friend because of a boy we thought we liked. I watched her go from a everyday student to a twice a week student, to a new guy every week, type of girl. Sophomore year I had a great boyfriend, kind, understanding and jealous. So jealous that he never left my side. From winter ball to prom he pushed and pushed. I never gave in and then he left. Sophomore year I said goodbye to my favorite Chilean and cried as he boarded the plane. Sophomore year I was told I wasn't pretty enough to ever be loved. Sophomore year I changed.
Junior year I began to try things new. Things to find a new me, things to make me feel free. Junior year I watched my best friend who's miles away nearly lose his life. Struggling to recover, he spiraled down hill. Depression, anxiety, and hopelessness led to the destruction of a great life. Junior year I decided to leave.
My senior year has a lot in store. Places unknown and a new beginning. My senior year puts me above and beyond, above my peers and much more mature. The drinking, drugs, and meaningless *** I will be above that my senior year.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,
from
seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine
that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?
My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago
I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.
But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor
Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.
I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
The silver shorelinings break waves of thunder against the sand.
An electric ocean pulling me with its magnetic current.
Mountains in Mumbai and bellowing valleys in the Chilean drop.
Scattered soles, cloned from mud and dirt and snow prints.
India bubbles and burns and
Spain tramples my chest.
Italy wavers voices of the ghosts of the canals.
My soul is burning for the countryside and the delicate embrace of my mother earth.
I can feel the sunset whispering my bones into full sprint.
-P.S.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
i didn't know how angry
a scar could be until i saw
one on myself it was something
like a pocket-sized chilean coast
dragged across my knee disrupting
and hills still dispersing as an acl
torn but unseen like how the many
excerpts of dreams were wiped clean
the anger is always ephemeral but
it always comes back whenever
i want to feel breeze in hair perhaps
i just miss the delaware river scene
and a long ago when my pencils
moved too quickly for my thoughts
yes indeed maybe i just miss loving
the journey not for the end like the
part where i did not know anything yet
still believed that it was all for the better
Apr 3, 2024
Apr 3, 2024 at 5:55 PM UTC
The former Chilean soldier,
sits with a straight back,
eating Paila marina,
the same thing he makes
every Sunday, although
his wife and children are gone.
He delights in the long-ago flavors,
the rich swirl of saffron fire,
the unlocked mussel shells,
ginger-skinned shrimp
and floating onion slivers.
"Served without pretension,"
the saying rings in his memory,
the deep voice of his abuela,
as she stirs the liquid gems
in her wide, copper ***
shining on a darkened stove.
“Only some things really matter,”
She often explains.
He always waits silently,
squatting nearby, inhaling the scent,
mouth watering, eyes catching
the lift of her great ladle.
She will turn and smile at him,
the way no one ever has.
He is warmed and fed already,
before even tasting the meal.
Now he is rich, wanting nothing,
sitting in his well-appointed house,
sipping the best wine
and listening to soft music.
Yet he sees and hears none of it.
Only the world in his bowl
is real to him now.
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC
"What are you thinking about now?" he asked,
across the table,
over the empty plates,
into the silence of an unfinished conversation.
"Is it normal to be terrified?" I want to say.
And when will writing not feel like assembling a jigsaw puzzle
where all the pieces are gray,
or like being in a country with nothing but
out of date currency?
But no words come,
or maybe it was all the wrong words—
I don't remember.
What I remember is this:
With tired eyes and a precise, compassionate voice,
he looked at me and said,
"Fear is a useful diagnostic tool."
And then, when we got up from the table,
he took my wine glass, not quite empty of a good Chilean red,
put it to his lips,
and drank it.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Oh tell me where has England's glory gone,
Lost golden days of beef and lukewarm beer?
Now it's polenta in a gastro-pub,
Chilean Chardonnay, Tequila Slammers.
Her Empire proudly pink on schoolroom maps;
India, Afric, source of plundered loot galore.
All gone, all gone, black faces back in charge
And black drug pushers stalk old London's streets.
Fat huntsmen dressed in pink, all banished now,
Their yelping foxhounds ripping prey apart,
Celebrating sick English country ways
Before returning to their mortgaged homes.
City yobbos yelling down their mobiles,
Fatcats slurping up their creamy profits;
All the public cares about is football
And the *** lives of the media's darlings.
So where has England's honour gone today?
Up the American military ****
Our government showing its smug disdain
For what decent people care and think.
We've sold out to baseball caps and burgers,
And imported TV shows for the mentally ********
A visitor attraction for obese rich yanks to drawl
"We're real glad we saved these Limey's ***** in two wars".
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Natalie. Battle Maiden
Flying the Skyhawk was easy. Learning tactics wasn't. Aerial refuelling was hard, as was formation flying. Natalie grew up and lost her girliness. Inside she was a woman. Her view on the government remained. Should she bomb the junta in her plane? Thoughts of that were brushed aside when she was deployed near the Chilean border when tension increased in the long running border dispute.
Flying three armed patrols convinced Chile to stop sabre rattling and withdraw her soldiers. Nat was gaining experience. Public opinion was turning against the government, an ongoing crisis that needed expert handling. War was the answer. Not with Chile but in the Malvinas.
An army, armed to the teeth, sailed and was flown out. British resistance was subdued and Argentina took the Malvinas. Natalie and her squadron were on standby for action. Britain retaliated and UK ships headed south. Nat trained in anti ship attack. Soon her skills would be needed.
People were behind the war. Not questioning about The Disappeared or how to get rid of the evil junta. The Malvinas were finally ours and a joyous mood overtook many people. In the military, it was different. A real fight would soon erupt. The Brits were coming and Nat was scared. What had she got herself into?
Training continued and there was no time for her band, seeing her friends or little else. Not even secretly discussing how to help make the government fall with her fellow activists. It was a fine line of madness. An Argentine air force jet pilot with illegal views and rebellion songs.
She could change the history of her country, Argentina, forever. If she dropped a few bombs on the leaders, it was over. The new war, The Disappeared, the fear. All of it. Could she do it? Would she? Nat knew where the leaders were and would strike on her next armed training mission. Fate stopped her. Events moved quickly and the young warrior woman never had chance.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
a lingering sensation of what must be done with what is done and how it will be done and when it wasn´t done where confusion flounders with my sweaty ***** in cool chilean nights.
Im nervous,
yet my hands remain calm my heart blips on every bleep yet the space between my ears fills with dreads of whats to come cause my feet find my throat and they dont get along so I stumble to the bathroom only to find the waters run out.
The ticket knows delay when doctors sign slips but I feel I feel something else so instead of acceptance I fight with resistance as a stubborn tool more dangerous then a dull knife to wake through sleeping hours to torture myself with the image of the unfair who is an unkindly god who ***** on flowers when they´re already dead.
oh.
its just that, that that is that.
Logically we understand what we´ve already learned yet history is a longer trip then two seconds past when its catching up and passing to secounds not yet found.
logical al a ly we can simply be yet I find time for thoughts which distract me from me so I can be a me that only lies yet believes making my reality.
no point.
theres no point in splashing bucket full of fire on fire except to say you did but I´ve already said that and hipster cats like new trends which have always been thought before.
The couch can be comfortable tonight.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
Though you lose, thus becoming an intimate as a lover or friend, brother or sister, parent,
you will always lose through attrition or accident.
We know that 9/11’s are attrition and
love is always an accident, because
we reap what we sow, and never choose whom we love.
Attrition is the rain, forming
from pressure within the skies,
high and low temperatures at Armageddon:
yin and yang becoming earth’s tears.
Accident is the rain, vilifying
the evil of being from these two lessers of the skies,
love is sought but never found or found at odd places:
yin and yang becomes earth’s joy.
Thus, rain is a lie, liar, lying, saying
joy and love at the same time.
But love is not from this world. It is
not recognized, but named… “No” to the world’s belligerence.
We know love is expressed by this action, yes…
Thus, it’s not a lie. Love cannot be otherwise
or we would’ve never crucified the Savior
or our true loves for the world…
Love cannot exist naked.
It is always ready to be whipped, strangled, maimed
as Jesus or a twice victimed Iraqui,
the third world or as Salvadore Allende.*
But I love the rain despite my self.
It is within the reach of definitions
but not confirmations. So, love
like rain cannot be held hostage
by human view nor divine postage.
I love as it rains, I rain as I love.
From here, in my prayer, let my love of rain be love.
*Found in Voices of a People’s History of the United States, by Howard Zinn and Anthony Arnove, and the now canonical historical work of the United States by the same Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States: “Watergate had made both the FBI and the CIA look bad---breaking the laws they were sworn to uphold, cooperating with Nixon in his burglary jobs and illegal wiretapping. In 1975, congressional committees in the House [of Representatives] and Senate began investigations of both the FBI and CIA…It was also learned from the investigation that the CIA---with the collusion of a secret Committee of Forty headed by Henry Kissinger—had worked to ”destabilize” the Chilean government headed by Salvadore Allende , a Marxist who had been elected president in one of the rare free elections in Latin America.” (pp.554). For a more balanced view on the complicity of Kissinger and his role in U.S foreign policy, moreover his role in the death of Allende, see or read the acclaimed movie or book: The Trials Henry Kissinger.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Music drowning out the int rusivethoughts
He brings me my medicine with an open hand
To take it or n ot; to feel better or not
Shove it down my throat with a smile
*** I'll feel better in a while,
I'll be better
Maybe later
**
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
if you're asking me to be subhuman
give me a plot-line, i'd find one among the Zimbabweans
a minute later, but give me a plot-line,
i just want to know the hierarchy from now on...
a Dutch spat in a Polish girl's face...
give me the ******* plot-line! or is this one of those moments
where you say: ja zapomnieć mówienia po polsku.
oh, you're one of those hybrids?!
should have told me sooner!
how's the Sunday roast treating you?
it's a bit dry, i admit, typical Pole-lack...
fights for independence from the Rus and the Prus
and then gets **** with the **** that pays him...
like some Chilean **** of a fake shaman,
or some Afro, gets ****** on all fours
for posterity being the reasonable standard...
has no pride, no ulterior motive, just sits there
expecting relief without working for it,
what a lucky bunch of beetroots, chequers in cheek,
rosy, the next flush of hope in casual conversation
estimating the standards of non-racial involvement
inside post-Saxony is Ulster -
they really want retards and are anti-bilingual,
the same plague that met the Normans, the Cnut
brigadiers, they want inbreeding, but as the ladies
say: better Paki-pickup-grooming than a white
boy fanciful of romance... ain't that a pretty sight...
had to revolve upon the thick-skinned ones...
the ones who would't sue...
but with us Russia... ***** whipped by Jews and
cinnamon skinned ones are we? ***** - you said it,
i'm reaffirming;
you could have been colonial with them -
i won't let your colonial subjects turn colonial on me!
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
rinsing my flask, this late afternoon
and scouring to steal anything from my father's humble tavern: Chilean.
bought on stolen wine, this daze,
pacing itself carefully, as masterful as
a leering puma poised to strike
with a dull blade duller than stab-wound,
nobody heard this primal man cry in the
woods and i'm no dangerous man.
just a shadow that fits the sizable hands
of the world cupped, the afternoon is slain and the hue is its blood:
something the brush of the wind
sensuously brings a roulette of red
blue, lavender, viridian,
plucked out of the vermilion
wading out as a debris forgotten waltzes
with the river underneath the kamagong— an answerless enigma amid all
perplexities,
are we but nothing whilst we live?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
so pretensious and unwilling to give
your rough life does not give you the right to be so callous and thin
i have things i'd like to say but, you just brush me off
like a hair fallen from your beautiful head
somtimes you are too royal for me
your reign so lushious and full
who am i? you say
i am part of your pride
one at your side
eternal love
eternal hate
our signs only match on the right date
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Dear Winter, you're leaving, and oh, how my heart hurts.
I panic as the balm of your dormancy
gives way to Spring's exuberant insistence on growth.
After Spring, Summer will saunter in
with her interminably long twilights and
loud cicada choirs.
Oh Winter, won't you transfix me again
with one of your powerful deep freezes ... or a silent snow shower ... or a glint of sun-kissed ice?
Cast once more your concealing blanket of snow and frost across the land ... blemishes be gone.
Indeed, as you fade away, I long for your return.
As you approach afresh, how my soul rejoices!
That first pure white winter flake of snow.
And then more, more, more … each one unique they say.
When you're around, my mind feels at peace
as I stroll down snow-covered streets and woody paths.
There's always a hint of magic mystery in the air,
secrets hanging amidst the ice-covered branches.
I marvel with a sense of wonder at what you'll reveal next:
a woodpecker working on a hollow tree,
a flash of cardinal red,
a twinkling ice droplet catching a sunbeam.
When you light up a lot of them, way up in the tree tops,
oh how they sparkle, an array of dazzling diamonds far finer than any man-made décor.
And what fun it is when you reveal the paw prints
of so many passers-by,
their curious patterns in the night and wee hours,
secret stories witnessed only by you.
Ah Winter, if I were a composer and the seasons a song,
I'd give spring and summer staccato quarters
to fall I'd give a half
but to you, Winter, a sustained whole.
If I were a snowbird, I'd follow you south ...
to a chilly Chilean climb or a frosty Australian hinterland.
But alas for now, my wings can't carry me that far.
And so I must wait patiently, intently, for your return,
watching for the signs, longing for the soothing forgiveness of your freezing temperatures,
the purifying baptism of that first arctic blast.
Though I may admire Spring's glory or bask in Summer's bright rays, rest assured they are passing fancies.
Even Fall, with his brilliant leaves and brisk breezes, is still a distant second to you.
These three are merely my constant companions until you return.
And so auf wiedersehen my dear Winter, my love.
I'll hold you in my memory until we are together again.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
In which land?
In which sea?
In which island,
I seek thee?
Under the rising sun of Japan,
or the moon-marked sky of Palestine?
In Afghanistan or Paraguay,
Italy or Guinea?
Look! Look!
The Mississippi is the tear of the people of the sun, slips on the face of the Gulf of Mexico;
the Nile is the tear of thousands of Joseph, falling into the sea;
the Himalaya is the restless heart of the earth, jumped out of its chest;
Ceylon is a teardrop of the India, sitting in the corner of the ocean's eyes.
Ah!
Australia, faraway and distracted,
Europe, stupefied and drugged,
Africa, miserable and sad,
Asia, pale and bad,
America, red with anger and mad.
Chilean poesy springs are dry, and
Greece is at her wit's end.
Aye!
O magnificent dream,
O Imam of the time,
come with Christ!
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
even with misspeelings and quotational **** ups and missed
opportunities like our hearts are on fire
and burning with the spirit of Byron
or Browning, we write and I want to bow to all you ,
who like me have something to say,
whether you are reincarnated Bard,
or a hard working slob, like me,
at the end of the day,
if someone sees and relates that is all it means.
I would enjoy being Whitman,
but then, that would mean I was dead.
I am not Chilean, so I could not be Neruda.
I am not female but Sylvia relates to me.
And so, we write, on and on.
It may be a gift or a sickness.
We just have to.
I take a lack of talent
and make it useful.
It is to me.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC