"inca" poems
Elan that lifts me above the clouds
into pure space, timeless, yea eternal
Breath transmuted into words
Transmuted back to breath
in one hundred two hundred years
nearly Immortal, Sappho's 26 centuries
of cadenced breathing -- beyond time, clocks, empires, bodies, cars,
chariots, rocket ships skyscrapers, Nation empires
brass walls, polished marble, Inca Artwork
of the mind -- but where's it come from?
Inspiration? The muses drawing breath for you? God?
Nah, don't believe it, you'll get entangled in Heaven or Hell --
Guilt power, that makes the heart beat wake all night
flooding mind with space, echoing through future cities, Megalopolis or
Cretan village, Zeus' birth cave Lassithi Plains -- Otsego County
farmhouse, Kansas front porch?
Buddha's a help, promises ordinary mind no nirvana --
coffee, alcohol, ******* mushrooms, marijuana, laughing gas?
Nope, too heavy for this lightness lifts the brain into blue sky
at May dawn when birds start singing on East 12th street --
Where does it come from, where does it go forever?
May 1996
4.6k
Do I take you with me on this adventure I have been planning all my life?
On my journey I have dreamt of in math classes, late nights in bed,
and on lazy Sunday afternoons in the sun?
My plans for my adventure have never been static and have constantly changed over my few young years...
In my mind I have gone to Art school in Paris and backpacking through Morrocco and teaching in Costa Rica and done the Inca trail in Peru and spent time at a Kibbutz in Israel and volunteered in India and sailed all the Seven Seas...
Now as I stand on the presipice of my Epic Journey,
not afraid, but invigorated, I have a choice;
I can go alone; strong, fearless, ready to embrace the wolrd with arms wide open, wings spread and nothing and no one to hold me back from my dreams...
Or I can take you with me, share my adventure with you, and start a new journey that includes you?
We could make a path, you and I, through the world, where ever we choose to go, make our own adventure, new dicoveries... and have a very long journey together, and instead of worrying about old plans, make new memories.
Would you like to come with me on my adventure, my love?
Will you start a journey with me?
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
~~~^¡^~~~
she comes for water
from the wild
dove of desert
nature's child
she of sweetness
plumage neat
buff and ecru
to my feet
she is pure
sleek of line
her's perfection
in design
she's so close
I see her eyes
she's not afraid
of my great size
curious
she looks at me
a wild thing
completely free
what have her
ancients
done and seen?
Manchu Pichu
Inca kings?
missionaries
born in Spain
conquistadors
who've
come for gain
****** men
so brutal, bold
slaughter natives
for their gold
****** in "marriage"
Aztec queens
so now their
bloodlines
are rarely seen
i think on this
Oh! Poorest love!
so much like them
my
Inca dove
soulsurvivor
(C) 6/14/2015
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
peanut butter
more than tar on the road
peanut butter
with my naan and my rice
lay it on the noodles
and peanut butter with tofu
don’t forget a dollop
with the curry too
good pasta and pizzas
become better
soaked in peanut butter
Ye Olde English Sandwich
flames like a dragon
fixed with half a bottle
of the New World Inca paste
*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
Cerro Aconcagua sat on his Feet
Watching his children browse his Bones below
Either for Sport or for Samples replete
As they enjoyed the Splendour of his Brow
And how you hugged the Wind which sprayed your Frost
Then took your Role as a Giant-of-Salt
This the Rockies felt the best you can boast
Though in that Line conscience comes to halt
For what they discovered, an Inca wrapped
Possibly a Victim of Sacrifice
Flesh still worn; Of Fibres long-live sapped
For the Sky-God's Hunger he did suffice.
The only Wonder as far as I see
How Sturdy are you yet Motherly be.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:28 PM 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
There was quite a crowd gathered when I reached my apartment building that morning.
Lots of cops and Emergency Medical personnel gathered everyone was just standing around.
I asked Wild Bill what happened?
Not sure, think it came out apartment five.
What?
A blood-curdling scream, and long wailing, unnatural sounds.
Right then I knew it was bad.
The apartment was occupied by cutthroat junkies and their infant daughter.
Tony “The Hulk” came out first, bloodied, bleary eyed, staring at the ground
Rosalie “The Muse” came next, screaming hysterically in Spanglish... muttering broken Catholic novenas
last soaked in solemn silence, Inca “The Baby”,
covered in a sheet, silent, never to speak again, forgotten.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
Third day of this trek descending
rapidly from cloud forest into high jungle habitat,
alive with hummingbirds and orchids,
her Q'ero porters guide the tour group
to Intipunko, "Gate of the Sun".
At 4:30 AM and 10,000 feet altitude
biting cold cracks stone, eats exposed flesh,
stealing breath as she gulps pale sunlight.
Coca leaves wadded in her cheek
forge mind against the acts of atmosphere.
A lifelong pilgrimage to this purpose,
observation of the sunrise over Machu Picchu.
The Q'ero pass around a sack of pemmican.
What meat it is, she doesn't ask.
It smells of canvas, but tastes of apricot.
Her fate entrusted to these guides,
she eats what they offer.
This Inca Trail is marked with their scent;
they follow signposts painted on thin air,
read morning mists like road maps.
They have brought her to this citadel,
Lost City of Peace and Power.
Her life for now at equinox,
shaman-guides have opened her vision
to the hitching post of the sun.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas
In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt
Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels
It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you
Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat
It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
The miraculous Quinoa has been exported out of the local market.
The westerner deems this as their super deed.
The idea that the Inca finally died at the grocery shop
grew root,
furnished beneath the serving glare of the exceptional crocheted beards.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
I question how they took the trail here
How many men it took
And did many die trying
I question their strength
Are they a breed of superhuman?
To build such weight at this height
I would question why here
If the views did not speak the answer already
And for knowing their mountainous belief
But how is my biggest question
Just really how did they make it possible
For this path should fall to its' death
I give the Incas questions
But moreover I give them my greatest respect
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
I’m sitting above some soil,
Is this my backyard?
No, my neighborhood is
Many miles from here.
Scores of sounds
Jump down
At different decibels
To my excited ears.
A Mexican Sun bronzes arms,
And the sky continues to stay clear.
Am I grateful for the sky?
I am grateful for the sky.
Trees plus breeze
Equals a faint whisper
Amid muggy heat.
I wish I could translate each leaf,
For the forest keeps
A language of her own.
I would like to leave my mark on this earth -
More lastingly than the Red River Maple tree,
Who leaves only a passing shadow on the ground.
And my favorite twisted Acacia talks about how long
it's been around, but I’m not so naïve,
So it's noise dies down.
Just long enough
To hear my thoughts
Echo, and echo,
And stop somewhere.
Sweat beads drip down
Onto a parched porch.
Soon, the moisture is gone,
And a taciturn timber terrace
Smiles as if to say;
“I am the Sahara. I am dry.”
Shifting my gaze
Back to nature,
I center my senses,
On these different woods,
Which breathe without fences.
A gray catbird picks away at the ground,
Searching for some nourishment.
An Inca Dove ***** by noisily,
For stealth has never been his game.
A cardinal flits across the landscape,
Not staying long enough for me
To fully appreciate his crimson splendor.
A motor car rumbles by,
But soon the forest’s natural
Symphony drowns that sound.
A strand of a spider’s web
Drifts by, stealing my eyes,
For moments.
Signs of spring, of summer, of September,
Live in this place. I wonder if
My yard is blooming, too.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.
The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.
Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.
The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.
Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.
Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.
Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.
And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******** Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
An Inca Dove flies to and fro
Landing graceful in my yard
Grist for any poet, bard
Her cooing soft and low.
Warm gray body, flash of wing
Whatever does she do?
I see her as her task ensues
She does a constant thing.
Back and forth the small bird flies
Of this I can attest
She pulls grass for her small nest
Right before my eyes!
I've been sitting here for hours
Thinking on my dreams
Lazily, or so it seems
For that bird builds her tower!
She goes by instinct, like the ant
Who burrows in the soil
Ever constant with her toil
'Til she would sit and pant!
While I do nothing in my seat
She flies away, and then
She comes for grasses yet again
Until her nest's complete!
Would that all the warring nations
Sit down to agree
To make the people warring-free
With such dedication!
Emulate the gentle dove
She slaves to rear her young
She works away and softly sung
Her song of purest LOVE.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/18/2017
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
I just want to be on the cliff at Tintagel
Looking to the castle, & Merlin's cave.
Or Bigbury beach, on the sea tractor.
Or hanging off a rock at Peak District
Or hanging off a tree in Holborough
Maybe further afield than England,
Coffee with her at Montmartre
Or hiking in the regions of Inca
And bathing in coves of Costa Rica
Or climbing pyramids of Cancun
A list of things to do once lockdown ends
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 5:58 AM UTC
If you could spend a day with me,
I wonder what we'd do,
Go to see the pyramids,
Or the barrier reef so blue,
Maybe trek the Inca trail,
Or fish the largest seas,
Sit in wild flower meadows,
Or climb sequoia trees,
Make a jungle tree house,
Roll down dunes of sand,
Or tiptoe on the mountain range,
Walking hand in hand,
Visit all the castles,
Relive their history,
Sit on top of the empire state,
Drinking English tea,
Paddle in the paddy fields,
Explore the deepest cave,
Jump in with the great white shark,
Surf a giant wave,
Ski down mount Everest,
Skydive from a plane,
Cycle down route sixty six,
Dance in the monsoon rain,
If you could spend the day with me,
I know just what we'd do,
Sit and plan a future life,
A life for me and you.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
¡Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta ti, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod.
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aún reza a Jesucristo y aún habla en español.Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro-Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción;
en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
No.Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del ***
Ya Hugo a Grant le dijo: «Las estrellas son vuestras».
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta...) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva York.Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas
desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del gran Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristóbal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
«Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas»; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor,
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama, y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del *** Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!
1.1k
¡Desgraciado Almirante! Tu pobre América,
tu india virgen y hermosa de sangre cálida,
la perla de tus sueños, es una histérica
de convulsivos nervios y frente pálida.
Un desastroso espirítu posee tu tierra:
donde la tribu unida blandió sus mazas,
hoy se enciende entre hermanos perpetua guerra,
se hieren y destrozan las mismas razas.
Al ídolo de piedra reemplaza ahora
el ídolo de carne que se entroniza,
y cada día alumbra la blanca aurora
en los campos fraternos sangre y ceniza.
Desdeñando a los reyes nos dimos leyes
al son de los cañones y los clarines,
y hoy al favor siniestro de negros reyes
fraternizan los Judas con los Caínes.
Bebiendo la esparcida savia francesa
con nuestra boca indígena semiespañola,
día a día cantamos la Marsellesa
para acabar danzando la Carmañola.
Las ambiciones pérfidas no tienen diques,
soñadas libertades yacen deshechas.
¡Eso no hicieron nunca nuestros caciques,
a quienes las montañas daban las flechas!
Ellos eran soberbios, leales y francos,
ceñidas las cabezas de raras plumas;
¡ojalá hubieran sido los hombres blancos
como los Atahualpas y Moctezumas!
Cuando en vientres de América cayó semilla
de la raza de hierro que fue de España,
mezcló su fuerza heroica la gran Castilla
con la fuerza del indio de la montaña.
¡Pluguiera a Dios las aguas antes intactas
no reflejaran nunca las blancas velas;
ni vieran las estrellas estupefactas
arribar a la orilla tus carabelas!
Libre como las águilas, vieran los montes
pasar los aborígenes por los boscajes,
persiguiendo los pumas y los bisontes
con el dardo certero de sus carcajes.
Que más valiera el jefe rudo y bizarro
que el soldado que en fango sus glorias finca,
que ha hecho gemir al zipa bajo su carro
o temblar las heladas momias del Inca.
La cruz que nos llevaste padece mengua;
y tras encanalladas revoluciones,
la canalla escritora mancha la lengua
que escribieron Cervantes y Calderones.
Cristo va por las calles flaco y enclenque,
Barrabás tiene esclavos y charreteras,
y en las tierras de Chibcha, Cuzco y Palenque
han visto engalonadas a las panteras.
Duelos, espantos, guerras, fiebre constante
en nuestra senda ha puesto la suerte triste:
¡Cristóforo Colombo, pobre Almirante,
ruega a Dios por el mundo que descubriste!
1.1k
Borges Arte Poética
Un breve mármol cuida su memoria;
Sobre nosotros crece, atroz, la historia.
Pienso que si pudiera ver mi cara sabría quien soy en esta tarde rara.
pienso y solo siento al pobre soñador de su propia persona el que no pierde ni un segundo en escribe, el escritor mas puro de el mundo, un elegante señor bigote, un montrou poeta, que para por momentos a sentir su corazon que siente el soñante de este mundo minisculo, que se hace cuanto los dias ya no son escrituras y las escritos no pueden recitar, recuerda el recitar, de el hombre invisible, el unico, el terrible infant born inborn wild man of the corn, he partakes indefinitely, he was nevertherland, he was norse, he was el bewolf olvidado, el fue irlandia, el fue prague, el entendio a kafka, fuera el pratimonio a el. tengo algo que te sorprende harvard boys, que piensan de virtudes, que es el intelectual en este mundo, gira y no alguien lo compro, se sabe que el mas sabio se retira y no dice nada, huevo de pascal, huevo de wells, huevo invisible, hombre divisible. moneda, oro, maya, azteca, o inca, enblema, de nativo que es la pena de vivira, existera, existera. vara till, uthärdar.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
The Sandhill Crane glides low,
Reflecting in the rippling mirror,
The tips of its unbroken wings
Caressing the edge of the water.
That’s how I wish my lips
Knew yours.
I wish I could alter the flora,
The gilded meadow,
To spell out your name with
Purple and Mexican Butterfly ****
Maybe then you’d fly back to me,
And never leave.
Where did you soar off to?
Where did you go?
Possibly to Hoosier Hill,
Or to Hemlock Cliffs,
Where you rightly belong,
Because of your elevated beauty.
How selfish of me.
Who was I to think that
I could steal you away, that I
Could own something so brilliant,
Like trying to take the sun
And getting burned?
I glide low on the water’s edge,
My pain reflects in the ripples.
I wish I could hold you,
The way the tree limbs hold
The Inca dove’s nest.
I wish my heart
Knew yours.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
He was
an arterial
driver where
he'd flee
his schlep
to accompany
wires but
hire them
and direly
with an
accordance that
oppression dearly
their navels
in latter
times of
inca summers
love begotten
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
Sitting on my porch in the early morning
An Inca dove flew to a ledge where
A succulent had just been watered.
She sipped from the edge of the ***
Cocking an eye at me occasionally.
After she'd had her fill, she didn't fly away,
But looked at me with curiosity.
What a cumbersome ugly creature she probably thought... large. Pale. Bound to the ground like a stone...
But why do we antromorphize the thoughts of wild things? Who knows their
Minds? Only God.
But I like to think that I had a connection with that Inca dove. She didn't fly away for a long time. But peered at me with such a lively interest. She wasn't even afraid as I got up to go back inside. Brave and beautiful are the untamed. Many would say God gave me a chance to look at her.
I'd say God gave her a chance to look at me.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/2/2016
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Hay un tropel de potros sobre la pampa inmensa.
¿Es Pan que se incorpora? No: es un hombre que piensa,
es un hombre que tiene una lira en la mano:
él viene del azul, del sol, del Océano.
Trae encendida en vida su palabra potente
y concreta el decir de todo un continente...
Tal vez es desigual... (¡El Pegaso da saltos!)
Tal vez es tempestuoso... (¡Los Andes son tan altos!...)
Pero hay en este verso tan vigoroso y terso
una sangre que apenas veréis en otro verso;
una sangre que cuando en la estrofa circula,
como la luz penetra y como la onda ondula...
Pegaso está contento, Pegaso piafa y brinca,
porque Pegaso pace en los prados del inca.
Y este fuerte poeta de alma tan ardorosa
sabe bien lo que cuentan los labios de la rosa,
comprende las dulzuras del panel y comprende
lo que dice la abeja del secreto del duende...
Pero su brazo es para levantar la trompeta
hacia donde se anuncia la aurora del Profeta;
es hecho para dar a la virtud del viento
la expresión del terrible clarín del pensamiento.
Él sabe de Amazonas, Chimborazos y Andes.
Siempre blande su verso para las cosas grandes.
Va como Don Quijote en ideal campaña,
vive de amor de América y de pasión de España;
y envuelto en armonía y en melodía y canto,
tiene rasgos de héroe y actitudes de santo.
«¿Me permites, Chocano, que como amigo fiel,
te ponga en el ojal esta hoja de laurel?»
Tal dije cuando don J. Santos Chocano,
último de los incas, se tornó castellano.
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