"columbian" poems
Señor Garcia Marquez
Whatever did you mean
When you wrote of life
And of death by family
I'm in love with
Prudencio Aguilar's ghost
Roaming about the Buendía household
Hole in his throat
Washing out the wound
But what did you mean?!
I'm in love with
Do it yourself chastity belts
And Ursula's fear of ***
But why is this even a theory
Your concept behind biracial inbreeding
And Señor do not get me started
On Melquíades and José Arcadio Buendía
Because that friendship was
Fated to be doomed
I mean no disrespect in all this
I just want to know
Why use Macondo as an allegory
For the Angel Gabriel
You're genius, really
But your run on paragraphs
Infuriate every ounce of my writing soul
You're a Columbian Tolstoy
I mean that as no insult
Your works are tremendous and outstanding
But what am I doing
You're now just an old dead man
"Under the ground"
So now I belong to figure out
Why Pilar needs to fill a void
Opened by a ******
And why Colonel Aureliano Buendía
Thinks of his fond memory of ice
Just before being killed
I've paid my respects to your work
Please pay respects to my search
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM UTC
Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in ****** plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs
a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
It walked on water over seas
And lurked within the hold
Deep inside it slept and dreamt
Of glory, God and gold
It raised its sword to take and have
And felled the trees with axe
To claim and own the uncontrolled
Then marked it on our backs
It spoke in tongues of serpents
And hissed of demon flame
Promising salvation
If we but learned its name
It forced us to betray
And turn against our brother
Condemned us to a barren rock
By ravaging our mother
It offered us the thought of more
And then reached out its hand
But only shared a sickness
That still spreads throughout this land
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
The mirror, mirror lies
Reflecting back at me
All I see is powder
Where could I be?
Numb from the Columbian
A new national war bond
A roman hierarchy
Bang their drums obscenely
To One Right Wing God
The dragon took the towers
But man, it’s happen before
It’s been real hard to ***** all these drugs
To crush all over my mirror
And hide my ugly mug
When did I change?
I think I know who’s behind it completely
Samson’s in my blood
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
My coffee and I have quite the relationship
So hot, but knows when to cool down
Dark, smooth, tasteful to the tongue
She keeps me up all through the moonlight
Until my eyes peck the sun
Sweet *** of coffee
How is it so?
You are so arousing and pleasurable
I can not let go-
I always want more
I never stop at one glass
It takes me at least three cups
To make the night last
I am addicted to her
Columbian bliss
Sweet kisses of her flavor
All over my lips
Again and again
Until my cup runs dry
Until I fall asleep
Until I see her next time
She makes me warm
I like her this way
When she eventually cools down
I do still like her just the same
Quick, and easy to finish-
But such is a rare occasion
I don't usually wait or have the patience
She doesn't care either way
In the end one thing is for certain
I like coffee any time of the day
So to speak
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
She’s hot and wet when she greets me in the morning,
I know of no better way to wake up.
And when I need her she is always there,
She fills my loving cup.
It is an affair that has been going on for years,
And she will continue to comfort when I’m old.
When I am down she perks me up,
She warms me when I am cold.
Dark and bold she comes to me,
More beautiful than any sunrise.
Like a gypsy with her magic charms,
She has the power to open tired eyes.
Though some folks may criticize her,
Pointing out her mother’s a Columbian nut.
And yes, those South Americans are a bit hot-blooded,
But I just smile and say “So what?”
For coffee and I are partners in life,
From her I will never stray.
And should anyone try to get between us,
They will surely rue the day.
10-01-15.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
His life was simple—
bound by action of a duplicate
forced to move with military precision.
Nobody’s asked what he thinks
or how he feels—
I just assumed he was ok with this.
He was stuck living a fake life
in a fake world that isn’t his.
While I wrote
he’d rather be fishing.
When I brushed my teeth,
again,
he thought about that Robert Downy Jr. movie he was missing.
One day,
I saw the sadness in his gray, baggy eyes
and offered a cup of coffee, Sumerian.
When he told me Columbian was preferred,
I relieved him—
told him to explore the reality in which he was born.
Before he left
with gleeful abandonment,
I proposed a time to hangout
should he ever be in need of a friend.
He smiled, thankful of my kind gesture,
but simply said,
“I’ve been staring at your face
for a quarter century.
I never want to see you again.”
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
If you don't know me by now
I am gregarious
I am a loner
sometimes hilarious
other times a moaner
sharp as a tack
dull as a dark cloud
sitting quietly in a corner
other times I'm too loud
I'll lay heaps of praise
I'll call you out
wanna know what's on my mind
I'll leave no doubt
I'll give you kisses
call you an ***
never been confused as one
with too much class
I'm a hard worker
and a lazy ***
I can be your lover
I can be your chum
don't like being played
but crazy about games
don't like loudmouths
love **** dames
have fancy suits
and cheapo shorts
like tasty *****
but no ***** or snorts
oh I will take a hit
off a Columbian joint
get high into a trance
laugh dance and point
yes I am this
and I am that
if you need a friend
I'll be more than that
just treat me right
don't pull my chain
then I'll be there
again and again
Gomer LePoet ....
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
.
Collecting the years like a lazy butterfly
caught in the mouth of a lost time infested net.
Columbian Crush!
Where it never rains love nor money. ***** clothes,
***** hands, and
***** minds fill man's hole. Singing shotgun,
bottom feeder's cameras sling the dirt
and shoot the moon.
Wild childrens' vines still swing.
Will anyone here be voting next Thursday?
Remind me why time was killed,
so brutally gunned down in broad daylight.
He apologises as he secretly scratches her name
from his little black book.
Bartender,
another shot of Columbian Crush
on the rocks...
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
A slit, gaping throat
where a forked, snake-like tongue hangs
- it's columbian
Wrapped 'round and tied up
like the hangman's favorite noose
- It's been done again
The lies once sold here
now see their values deflate
- time solders all wounds
The serpents words ceased
A silence takes us by storm
- decayed with three moons
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
It is 6:57. Startled am I,
by the nights dream.
Son of Jocasta, King of Thebes!
I head t’ward the morning steam,
To rid one’s eyes of the malaise
A few stabs
And my mind is clear.
Abruptly, like fire on the agora.
Desire veer me to vices!
A cup of Columbian roast, with stoge in hand,
I perch upon the balcony,
With no intent to slip, I s’pose
Each inhalation and sip
Fulfill temporal desire
beneath our aging celestial fire.
7:54
I am out the door,
out out with it!
It being me, me being it.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
Gravity's on more than usual today
and the tile is unforgiving to the gawky limbs in my shoulder sockets
that keep dropping my favorite ****
My ******* flower mug.
My flower mug, with the two-finger handle.
With the hazelnut and vanilla and almond and Columbian dark dark roast.
With the "goodmorning" and "hows life?"
"Fine."
Lifey, isn't it?
And I'll be peeling super glue off my fingers for days
even though I know it won't hold what it's meant to anymore
(Who does?)
Maybe it'll start a penny collection someday.
(Who knows?)
And I'll wait in a silence with which I'm well-acquainted.
I know
if you break it, you buy it,
but I'm broke.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
I hope its a Saturday.
I would start by waking up before you do
(since I'm always the last one up)
and I'd cook you breakfast in bed.
It seems simple I know, but I'd start early
at, like, 7 am
and cook every kind of pancake and egg I could imagine.
Like eggs in a basket or cinnamon bun pancakes,
or maybe just the buttermilk kind.
I would tap the maple tree out back
and boil up a batch of the sweetest maple syrup
you had ever tasted.
Every time you would taste syrup after this,
you would think of me and this morning.
Then I would cook up all of the bacon I could find
until it turned black and crispy
(too burnt for me, but I know you like it that way).
I'd pull all of the mangoes and oranges and grapefruit out of the fridge,
and use that Jack LaLanne Power Juicer,
you know,
the one that we haven't used since it arrived on our porch.
There will be too much pulp for you,
but you'll drink it anyway.
I would finish up by brewing your favorite coffee-
isn't it that Columbian kind?-
and wake you with the smell wafting through the apartment
(like those Maxwell House commercials).
You would come downstairs wondering what was going on,
and where I was,
since I am never out of bed before you.
And you would see a table covered in food
with me ironing all of your work shirts for the next week.
It would be so **** we'd make love right there,
on the dining room floor
ignoring the food that was quickly becoming too cold to enjoy.
And then I would erase it all
and leave you.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
monsters call to themselves
and breezes eat the stones
a blue moon
sheds the underworld
of thought and time
it wallows in a pink sea
where out of the depths
his words like blown
cherry blossoms come
and a little bird finds
his pool of dreams
the birthing pool of ideas
then she is gone
flying under a soft
Columbian sky
growing hope, after him
whose creations and distractions
are the processes
that are necessary to show
the true feelings
hidden beneath the surface of things
where there is an endless combat
a struggle between darkness and light
the emotional duality of life
between that which is
and that which
has already been
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much insistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a lifetime
In memory of Gabriel García Márquez
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
we’ve learmed to seperate ourselves from
columbian coffee night skies that breathe heavy,
whispering myth into our ears about a modern Perseus
and his love affairs.
i’m tired of the way air dances over fingertips
through open windows, disappearing like spirits
through blackened doorways.
MP is singing his personal praises in an aging voice
sounding of rock ‘n’ roll gravel and blood -
he is not the soft night breezes telling us of him
and we can’t understand why we’re separating.
i just want to listen to the myth,
old like the willows that leak sap upon their death beds,
but i’m drowning in silence.
we’re remembering grey rooms that hung heavily
over our heads, breaking the songs of MP
against the walls in a shattering display.
we’re shattering in the exact way demonstrated.
insomniac tendencies breaking into the breeze,
stealing myth and covering MP with filth,
with the stories that a modern Medusa split his heart
but never turned him to stone to make him suffer -
to bend but never break.
and we’re listening to the stories of old, written in the new,
wondering how to break the cycle.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
Saturday tastes like bitter tea
Stuck between atoms that cannot be seen
The mirror ripples and the motor bleeds
Wrap up in syran and lie in the streets
The business end is no place to stay
Water from the naval is the only grace
Drink it in and enjoy your night
Your touch is candle wax acid bite
Let me remind you that the company sings
They never stay quiet about the things we've seen
Don't look now but we're about to drown
These are the things I think when you go down
Make skin with my teeth and a hard blast beat
Summer lovin burnin hot rain in the road
Cigarette pinholes and a lump in my throat
We all float on water when we croak.
Choke on smoke, Columbian coke
Serrated knives at the end of a rope
The knots fall off, the calls all stop
And the needle in my neck is soaked
We see the stars on our ceiling
We see fireworks on the walls
The world makes noise when the sun retreats
To weep with the fishes while the movie repeats
They sleep in the fission circle glowing, we eat
The sick on my pin cushion, unfurl, flowing, recede
Be me and see the need to breathe the ivory creed
Planting the seed for the last of my blood
Feel the trees grow in your lungs and free
Yourself from superstitions of heaven and love
Let me remind you that the company sings
They won't keep quiet about things we've seen
Stars on the ceiling
Don't look now but we're all gonna drown
These are the things I think when you go down
Fireworks on the walls
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
Still puffin' cigars in my sixty six jaguar
Made a hood star from climbing a far
**** the drug games I made my name
Through lyrics of pain easing ya migraine
Words pure as Columbian *******
That's means you'll go insane
Tryna hang with the dark Knight Bruce Wayne
Which means ya mentallydrained going
derange
My smiff n wesson lays a nice range
From the Midwest to the south of Central Texas
Get love from my barrio we stay thorough
Haters get marked like zorro so follow
The leader beat pleaser turn ebenenzer
Once I spit vocals take over ya locals
Can't Max me out my own **** hardest to hit
Ya swear it's back in the year of nine six
Slammin' all of the these industry clowns like Jordans did the Knicks
A Timely essence
Even if I'm chillin' with the dead residence
you'll still feel my presence no hesitance
To foes stained ya calicos wake ya up with a cup of
Flow
and I stay smokin' girls ******* holes setting fires to their mentals
My flows set on auto pilot causing riots
Baltimore rage untamed had to put my rhymes in a cage
Seen the guage
Cocked back ain't no taking away from that
Deaths in progress only blessing you seen
Is stress so take another hit of cannabis
Before you enter the eternal abyss hang ya body over the
cliff
Like Big Red record every word I said
And still can't get a word to the feds I'm the black
Hoover
got flats from Houston to Vancouver
Let me show ya who's the real bruiser
Spittin' rhymes that lay more bodies than Fallujah
Cruise right through
tha
My rhymes is tank shootin' missles with no
thanks
I'm only here to live out
My fathers prank
Though the devil keep me above all levels
Tryna stay from the goods I was made rebel
Fools thought they was Cain til they found out I was
abel
Killin' em with microphone cordless cables and
turntables
Read between my eyers n you'll see visions of many
halos
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
Ashen skies
she smoked,
columbian gold,
in the belly
of the cougar,
pledged allegiance
to no mans flag,
so beautiful thought I,
as the milky way,
took me on a journey,
beyond reality,
but who am I,
to think such thoughts,
just a poet?
searching for a pulpit,
a preacher
without a cause,
a prophet,
thoughts frozen
under the weight of reality,
insanity,
dispels the ink,
touches the soul,
keeps me sane,
all in the name of the pen,
the tears flow free,
as I walk away,
smiling,
refusing to kiss,
her corpse.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
Her wasabi breath,
snake venom injected crow's feet
& chain smoking reflex could
scare a country into prohibition.
Enough ****** power and spine behind
every word to ******* the
male populous into a plethora
of soggy invertebrates.
Barnacle encrusted spinach weave,
obsidian void lip stick she squeezed
off a bat's back
& a Columbian waltz she stole
from a putrid little beasty
all mixed up & spit into a murky
cocktail glass wearing high heels.
You could feel the atmosphere tickle
a bit when she raised a brow at
You.
That silky whisper of a voice
was just an illusionist prelude
to the thundering brass of her
ringing enthusiasm.
She was the most powerful being.
A lioness among the flock of sheep.
A droplet of viscous mercury
in an oil spill.
Raw.
Sharp.
Lethal.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
He washed his hands in the Caño Cristales.
Five colours of healing bruises put to pasture
Within his purpled veins. There was blood again;
He was now a resident of Earth.
****** hair had grown wildly into a half-beard.
He scratched at it in the Columbian sun,
Sweating in the lack of British rain
And thinking of all the miles he had
Put between the two.
He’d spent all his life combing the mirror.
Combing the mirror and expecting change;
An escape from vanity publishers and
Celebrity snapshots. Combing the mirror,
And so always ending up in the same place.
Searching his memories of Peruvian plains,
There were diagrams set by the former residents.
He took out his folded notebook and started on
The Brand New Testament; before throwing
Its ashes into the liquid rainbow.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
i recall seeing you in september, you were drinking a coffee and your lengthy unkempt hair spilt down over what was probably an old sweater of your mother's. i thought maybe aphrodite had come down from olympus for a cup of hot water & cream & ground columbian beans. you were kind of lost in something on your phone, (kept looking at it there on the table) shifting your legs. there was a grocery bag beside you---not very full. maybe there were just a few things you’d needed? some orange juice and semolina pasta. but i was most impressed by a little mesh bag holding a dozen babybels, small and red like sliced apples thru the plastic. (christ, those are good.) after you left i went and bought a few, back home just sorta held them in my open palm eating them at leisure, committing your face
to memory.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
Pre-Columbian decomposition held over the shilling
Bleached in the lord’s name god willing
Bartered with Charon
For voyage through the Acheron
Slipped and fell into the first whole circle
Limbo bound with unbaptized babies looking mighty purple
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
stoop side you sit
fallen angels with broken knees,
40 ounce amber galaxies &
palms of prayer on an open mirror.
The benefactive is Columbian is
endless stairs on roofless buildings, is your
cracked knuckles of powdered meaning —
metallic shifts in the parking lot holy
begging thunder to threat everything
at once,
so then you can forget.
You prayed for all the wrong pronunciations
& when you sleep demons graffiti epistles
on the walls of your exposed chest.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC