"fluvial" poems
Once I was in England, and happened to encounter the carpenter’s ire,
He was struggling to get out of the lot of poverty, with all mighty,
He woke up every day at dawn, pushing the plane throughout a day,
He liked no stories when working, as Europe’s economy is no joke,
It needs toughness of mind, soul and muscles, hence his work ethos,
His wife covered no space in his hearty, as she was only a cost center
He like not eating all the time, foodiusness weakens the wallet anyhow,
He liked not whistling as he pushed nails into the wood,
He detested lest doing it makes him look like a *****
His son often played around, when he was working
One day the heaps of sawdust covered up his claw-hammer,
He thought his boy had stolen it, to pawn for candies
At the notorious Jewish shop in the neighborhood,
But in contrast the lad said he knows not,
Where the hammer was, he did not take it,
Carpenter’s ire went fluvial, amokish age,
He sledge hammered his son to death,
Only to discover the hammer
Was underneath saw dust
Where he wanted to hide
The cadaver of his son.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
Juba you are bloody-red!
Like noon-back of the red sea,
As if Tinka and Nuer we know,
Is complexion-ly red?
But no, they are all dark,
Under weight of melanin,
Only that your guns yell deaths,
And fluvial rivulets of blood,
Afloat are fear-ridden refugees,
From a slaughter of your nation
To which you **** not,
As if you have a spare-part,
No, guns in Juba must down be
For us to talk and talk
By not listening to the echoes
Of our clans, tribes and races,
Only for our ears to ***** high
In dear audience to the agony,
In the voices of the widows,
Orphans and the starved ones
That had their trust and love
Once endowed into you
The state of Sudan in Juba,
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:45 AM UTC
take me
to the
space where
the magnets of
our souls
rise up in mad thunder
sadness pushed
right out of stratosphere
a tidal wave rush,
no warning--
as flames seep
through our skin
the burn cleansing
those cracked cuts
of glass,
searing granules of pain
that foam up
from our pasts
and our wounds
get so pumped up
with love
they bloom exotic
into
floral entities
curious and strong
offbeat shapes
of undefined texture-
yet they suit us,
each throbbing petal
intoxicated in
endorphin glow,
softening as
tender eyefuls
of kisses embed
themselves in
our torrid earth
I will wrap my tendrils
around you
I will carry us, freshly seeded
through these aching,
whipped-up winds
I will follow the arcs
of aurora borealis
beatific crystalline
I will let the wings beat
fast and full,
as they are meant to
I will release the
quicksand haze
of heaviness
that sometimes consumes us
and unravel depths
of the chaos within
In the meantime
just underneath,
a mere scratch
under surface
a width of a molecule
from the pulse of skin
roars the breath of
eternal blaze
etched in the silent layers
of your
tattooed gaze
inked upon my essence
in ancient runes
carved upon my heart
my quivering thighs,
a bond sealed in blood
and lingering sighs
Under dark rocks
rays of prismatic
rainbows
burst forth
unexpectedly,
in phosphorescent miracle
release us from
our caged-up fury
Liquids morph into solid,
still iridescently fluvial
I reach out to you
pour fire
in your veins,
for you are
my Light
ebullating our souls
in healing trance
through the
restless echoes
of
night
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
we're just like rain
penetrating the dancing dusts
joining other droplets as one
forming vast oceans and fluvial rivers
some are calm while others make choppy waves
the sun sends rays in our direction
beckoning and urging us
we return to the clouds
travelling places to
rejoin the water bodies
somewhere else this time
and we make homes for creatures
and we reflect the moon and the city lights
some of us rest the tired souls
with our silent but loud pitter patters
some of us flow down the
busy roads and quiet countrysides
some of us collect in lakes
some scribble storms and some paint rainbows
then we return to the clouds once more
and we meet as we fall back to earth
two familiar translucent crystals reflecting each other
and this time we might hide from Sun and Cloud
because we wish to travel on our own
just us
two raindrops
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
Inútilmente fui
recorriendo senderos
entre mármoles.
Luz
de prodigiosa hondura.
(Toda la noche había
llovido. Al clarear
cesó la lluvia. Nubes
navegaban el cielo;
nubes blancas).
Inútil
fue recorrer senderos,
buscar tu nombre. Inútil:
no lo hallé.
Y recé una oración
por ti -¿por ti o por mí?
Después te olvidé. Sean
los muertos los que entierran a sus muertos
Estaba
tan olvidado todo!
Pero esta noche...
¿Por qué será imposible
verte de nuevo, hablarte,
escucharte, tocarte,
ir -con los mismos cuerpos
y almas que tuvimos,
pero con más amor-
uno al lado del otro...
(Ilusión descuajada
del espacio y del tiempo
lo sé para mi daño).
Yo te hablaría lo mismo que hablaría,
si yo fuese su dueño
mi verso: con palabras
de cada día, pero
bajo las que sonara
la corriente fluvial
de la ternura.
Como se hablan los hombres,
conteniendo las ganas
de llorar, de decirse
«te quiero». Sin llorar
ni decirse «te quiero»,
que es cosa de mujeres.
Qué quedaría entonces
de ti, después de tantos
años bajo la tierra.
Dónde hallarte -pensé
aquel día. No estamos
jamás donde morimos
definitivamente,
sino donde morimos
día a día.
Pero esta noche...
Te abrazaría, créeme,
te besaría,
te daría calor,
te adoraría. Haría
algo que es más difícil:
tratar de comprenderte.
Y te comprendería
te comprendo ya, créelo.
Nos va enseñando tanto
la vida... Nos enseña
por qué un hombre ve rota
su voluntad, y sueña,
y vive solitario;
por qué va a la deriva
en el témpano errante
arrancado a la costa,
y se deja morir
mientras mira impasible
cómo se hunden los suyos,
la carne de su carne,
su hermoso mundo...
Son líneas sin sentido
éstas que trazo.
Yo mismo no comprendo
qué es lo que dejo en ellas.
Acaso sea música
de mi alma, arrancada
de modo misterioso
por tu mano de muerto.
Tu mano viva.
Yo pensé en ella, pero
era una mano muerta,
una mano enterrada
la que yo perseguía.
Inútilmente fui
buscando aquella mano.
Se estaba convirtiendo
en festín de las flores.
En vaho tibio para
empeñar las estrellas.
En luz malva y errante
que da su son al alba.
Estaría mezclándose
con la tierra materna.
Se hacía mano viva:
lo que es ahora.
Te abrazaría, créeme.
Te daría calor.
Te comprendo ya. Entonces
no era tiempo. Fue un día
de septiembre, en Ciriego,
-un cementerio que oye
la mar- el año mil
novecientos cincuenta.
Cuando vivías, eras
un extraño. Aquel día
entre mármoles, fui
buscándote, tratando
de comprenderte. Sólo
esta noche, de modo
inesperado, al fin
he comprendido.
Tarde,
para mi daño.
905
Perched against the fluvial
in respite from the wind
an ex-animate, eolian tumbledown
made from bone & decay
Deep within
its unearthly womb
sits the curled elongated shape
of the perfect organism
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 3:22 PM UTC
Y, en fin, pasando luego al dominio de la muerte,
que actúa en escuadrón, previo corchete,
párrafo y llave, mano grande y diéresis,
¿a qué el pupitre asirio? ¿a qué el cristiano púlpito,
el intenso jalón del mueble vándalo
o, todavía menos, este esdrújulo retiro?
¿Es para terminar,
mañana, en prototipo del alarde fálico,
en diabetis y en blanca vacinica,
en rostro geométrico, en difunto,
que se hacen menester sermón y almendras,
que sobran literalmente patatas
y este espectro fluvial en que arde el oro
y en que se quema el precio de la nieve?
¿Es para eso, que morimos tánto?
¿Para sólo morir,
tenemos que morir a cada instante?
¿Y el párrafo que escribo?
¿Y el corchete deísta que enarbolo?
¿Y el escuadrón en que falló mi casco?
¿Y la llave que va a todas las puertas?
¿Y la forense diéresis, la mano,
mi patata y mi carne y mi contradicción bajo la sábana?
¡Loco de mí, lovo de mí, cordero
de mí, sensato, caballísimo de mí!
¡Pupitre, sí, toda la vida; púlpito,
también, toda la muerte!
Sermón de la barbarie: estos papeles;
esdrújulo retiro: este pellejo.
De esta suerte, cogitabundo, aurífero, brazudo,
defenderé mi presa en dos momentos,
con la voz y también con la laringe,
y del olfato físico con que oro
y del instinto de inmovilidad con que ando,
me honraré mientras viva -hay que decirlo;
se enorgullecerán mis moscardones,
porque, al centro, estoy yo, y a la derecha,
también, y, a la izquierda, de igual modo.
734
Profesor de sollozo -he dicho a un árbol-
palo de azogue, tilo
rumoreante, a la orilla del Mame, un buen alumno
leyendo va en tu naipe, en tu hojarasca,
entre el agua evidente y el sol falso,
su tres de copas, su caballo de oros.
Rector de los capítulos del cielo,
de la mosca ardiente, de la calma manual que hay en los asnos;
rector de honda ignorancia, un mal alumno
leyendo va en tu naipe, en tu hojarasca,
el hambre de razón que le enloquece
y la sed de demencia que le aloca.
Técnico en gritos, árbol consciente, fuerte,
fluvial, doble, solar, doble, fanático,
conocedor de rosas cardinales, totalmente
metido, hasta hacer sangre, en aguijones, un alumno
leyendo va en tu naipe, en tu hojarasca,
su rey precoz, telúrico, volcánico, de espadas.
¡Oh profesor, de haber tánto ignorado!
¡oh rector, de temblar tánto en el aire!
¡oh técnico, de tánto que te inclinas!
¡Oh tilo! ¡oh palo rumoroso junto al Marne!
670
Winter spills over Kentucky
like a splash of liquid nitrogen
what eats is scarce because what's eaten is scarce
scavengers search trash cans—enjoying the warmth inside
ice scabs over fluvial lakes
once their revenue streams have been frozen
a faint, far away generator screams away the cold
like smokestacks on the horizon
(all that smoke must mean something
I figure something must be burning)
a fire burns somewhere—I'm not there
I'm here, and here, there's a fire over there
crimson cardinals appear through neutral trees
like I was struck in the head with a blunt object
darkness drifts overhead where geese drift away
as Kentucky loses consciousness
gauzy snow is wrapped around the state
—a cold compress for the fall's wounds
time heals all wounds
but is a wound itself.
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 4:13 PM UTC
Todas las músicas naufragaron en el piélago:
con los dedos unidos se hundieron verticales
-buzos maravillosos-
y se quedaron adormidas sobre el túrbido seno
fluvial: pues ni siquiera en linfas saturadas de sales!
¡en aguas dulces zozobraron mis musicales alborozos!
Danzando venían -tanagras sensüales,
lujuriosas mozuelas-, ondulaban los senos gordezuelos,
el vientre sobrio, los muslos calipigios.
Todas las músicas naufragaron en el vórtice
cuando hacia mí venían -grávidas de prodigios-
cuando hacia mí tornaban -pletóricas de vuelos-.
Con los dedos unidos, mis alborozos musicales
se hundieron verticales.
493
-
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Here, the end of Venus' birth
As I lie in bare land with bare feet and swollen eyes
I found that my cries mean nothing in a rock where the air reigns in a voiceless bound
--My cries mean nothing in a rock where every part of my being is the Earth itself, resound
I.
Hear, the crumbling of the Earth
Rumble, tumble, crumple, stumble, crumble
I clung to my lungs as the minuscule particles start to dwindle
I reached for my nostrils and felt the spills of aeolian thrills
I opened my mouth and tasted the brittle sand from a forsaken land
II.
Here, the end of Venus' birth
My love, disintegrating, shattering in robust fragility
Fluvial murky patterns, ruining steps of vitality
Disintegrating, shattering in quiet intensity
Tides formulate the next city of Venus' death
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At last, I lie in bare land with bare feet and sunken eyes
There will never be a winning fight against the inexorable decay of time
In the name of violent rage and anger --I gnashed my teeth
Until my jaws begin to fracture,
Teeth,
falling a
p
a
r
t,
there was never a fight to begin with...
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
Once upon a time, I dreamed about thee
I saw a charming prince, so dear it amazed me
His eyes were as bright as the twinkling galaxy
Such a fantasy it could be
In every word he speaks makes the gardens bloom
It even brings life to the corpses in a tomb
My dear, what is thy name?
And from whence hast thou came?
I dreamt about thee, sailing on a tranquil sea
If only you could see through me,
How you lit my heart aflame
Oh dear, heed me in heaven’s holy name!
My soul drifts connecting our streams into one
Our sails paddled through leaving the waves behind
I see thee, mirrored from the sea, fine-lined
Your reflection was even brighter than the sun
Our sails drew closer when the sea aggravated its wrath
How can nature be so unkind?
Away we go, departing our path
Now my rhyme is lost like a wanderer in the night
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
It isn't my first time in Verment's Lair,
from the past few years, I've encountered its humid air.
The streams and rivers are fresh and clean.
Fortunately, not infested with creatures ever so mean.
I feel wonderful... The breeze sends me to sleep.
Like a warm beating heart to keep
me alive, I seek for thee.
Like a lover, I will strive.
I ventured forth where distant scenes widen my view.
The valley and the mountains, bathed in fluvial blue.
Like Rorikstead, the plains are suntanned tundra.
But my darling dear, as rare as aurora,
Thou art nowhere in sight.
Let's go home, and leave thy endless dream.
I am here, my dear, thy safe haven, gleam.
A frigid land, Oh Verment's Lair!
My heart is breaking...
For someone I know not where!
But I shall not go home.
I must find thee, though thee not appear.
The primeval trees, and starlit sky,
The snow capped mountains, they are my seer.
Fear not, my dear, my hopes are widened eyes.
So the wanderer journeyed alone,
past the path of his heart forlorn.
His fate been kind, and found his love
under the glowing highest of the high,
his lovely maiden lies...
But the glow suddenly pilfered from the sky
The thorny night thrusted through his translucent heart…
Seeing his love affair... a cast of light, and died.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC