"copal" poems
*This is a poem I wrote looking out my window this same evening in autumn I think I was just feeling a little lonely..
Life, it passes by outside the cold chained window
As I stare out into the light, out of my lonely dark corner
My eyes burn a little, I don’t mind though, I’m used to the pain life brings me
It has grown to a dull itch rather then a perching pain
It has been made null and done in by the pain my heart brings me
For the love of my life, the one who lied about his feelings,
He, he has ripped it out of my chest, painfully and slowly
Taking his time and plotting each and every single step he shall take
To make me suffer more then I should
I see a copal, and how cute they look together
But then I look into her hims’ eyes and see, I see what I saw in my hims’ eyes
I shan't worn her for tiz her own petty fault as was my own when my "incident" happened
I’m not mad at him, I’m sure he couldn’t help it, it’s just one of those unfortunate inconveniences
I hope it was anyway, even so I’m not mad, it was my own fault
So as happy life goes on outside my cold chained window
I watch and wait to see all the unsuspecting victims who will end up like me
But they’re different, they think they’ll have someone to blame*
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”
Jorge Luis Borges
I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.
You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.
Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.
The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.
Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.
I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.
I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.
White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.
And the same color of your so polish, european skin.
The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.
I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.
I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.
I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.
Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
The snowy lilies gird her pith - in wake;
bejewelled love reposed in truest sleep
as Floras' wreath outdone by sorrow's make,
then thought; what comfort worth are stems - to weep?
Could petals glint upon her sombre plume
and sorb bereaving rain - of mourning kin,
or priestly Latin's timbre out of gloom
and Schuberts' toned refrain - a lighter hymn.
Although, a striking; flowered plush pervades
as fragrance spliced with copal - yields in heart
and over each an ashing pyre cascades,
begotten times and seasons - death not part.
Embraced the blossoms, now upon her lay;
a sweeten lilly - kissed by loves defray.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
Te voy a escribir un poema, dice la voz grave, de padre severo, la que te da miedo, porque eso es lo que hago.
Porque así hiero, así deshumanizo, así vuelvo invisible lo delineado, lo certero. Escribiendo transformo la carne y la sangre y los huesos en grafito que se borra, en caracteres que vuelan y se pierden.
Así te vuelvo a ti, todo, en nada.
Eras un gato. Eras lluvia ominosa. Fuentes sin agua, mar encerrado. Eras belleza donde nadie quería mirar. Nadie se acerca jamás a lo derruido y a lo gris a lo que huele a abandonado, extranjero.
Me gustaba llorar en tu desolación. En la tierra húmeda que estaba bajo tus pies. En las manos siempre vacías.
Eras extraordinario.
Un caballero exiliado, un detective medieval, un magnate honesto.
Eras, eras, eras.
Déjame convertirte, ahora, en algo más. Ahora que has dejado de ser, que incluso perdiste la piel, el cabello, el brillo.
Eres Siddharta, joven de nuevo camino. Eres el Buda. Renunciaste a todo [polvo, ropa usada, brillo] Te volviste nada. Un mesías. El Uno.
Poesía. ¿Tú?
Tú no eres poesía, tu no eres las copas de los árboles que se mecen [se mecen] junto con el caprichoso baile del viento. ¿Tú?
Comes y amas y vives y haces y dejas de hacer porque ya es de día y ya es de noche. ¿Tú?
Siddharta Eclipsado por la Luz. Siddharta sin voz. Sólo Om. Om. Om.
Eras el soldado sin nombre. Todos ellos, deshechos por la guerra, con lámparas de aceite en la mirada, pasos tenues.
Eras.
Eso es lo que eres. La exaltación [mía] del pasado, el vivir en los recuerdos, la nostalgia, la niñez difuminada, antes de anochecer, una sonrisa inocente. No es un vacío o un espacio sin polvo entre los libros, la marca de que un cuerpo que estuvo entre las sábanas.
Eres el pasado que murió y ya no existe. No eres, dios reencarnado.
Te volviste santo, te sentaste y te transformaste en piedra tallada, te cubriste de musgo y de olvido, solamente. Todo lo demás es demasiado humano.
Siddharta, inútil cualquier intento. Porque no puedes ganarme. Yo soy la pluma que escribe. Yo te invento, yo te insuflo vida y yo ya no quiero dártela, porque estás intentando escribir y eso no te lo puedo permitir. Eso no lo puede hacer.
Yo soy Jesús de Judea, vivo, muerto, con luz propia, crucificado, envuelto en rosas, en todas partes, los puentes, las manchas, los cuellos, las malas palabras, el **** el día y la noche, tinta, papel de arroz, copal y oro. Todo, todos.
[
Entre dos montañas y un río,
el Buda más grande de la Tierra se sienta.
En su oreja izquierda, sin embargo,
vive una familia de golondrinas.
]
Esta es mi venganza, piedra verde, chiquillo de la nada.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
My Copal Square bladed shutter
Calibrated, adjusted, lubricated,with tlc
re-captures fields of Shirley poppies
tight roping Nevada's mountainous ranges.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
Poetry and music
are the flowers of our Father
Mother’s eyes are serpents
and she binds them to her daughters
keepers of the dawn
dream their longing into song
only freedom and vision
can balance the Giver's mission
while wise women give birth to warriors
sages offer seeds and silence to the Sun
burning candles and incense
water bowls are filled with floating petals
and copious copal censors
recklessly shape-shift
into sparkling moonstone necklaces
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
*in salvia divinorum
in sage
in palo santo and in prayers
in copal and frankincense
in sweeps of the air
in magical passes
in hours of concentration
in mindless arithmetic
in mental gymnastics
in solitary confinement
in long stretches of time
in short walks and long talks
in cafes and picnics in the park
i hear your voice and see your face
i speak traces of your eloquence
and revisit all your names
deaf as a hummingbird in spaces of the heart
i am a colibri and will surely find my art*
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC