"siena" poems
Y ahora qué haré, si tú no estás.
En el espejo te desvaneciste.
Qué haré, si ya no estás. Cómo encontrarte.
Fui a la agencia de viajes.
Dije: «Un billete». «¿Para dónde?»
«Para dónde ha de ser». (Me comprendieron enseguida).
«Mucho tiempo esperó», dijeron enigmáticos.
Volví a casa cantando, recobrada
la vida. Me miré al espejo.
Tú ya no estabas. Comprendí.
Ahora qué voy a hacer. Sin ti quién puede
recobrar lo soñado, lo perdido: Venecia
de vidrio rosa, Roma con cabellos de fuentes.
Florencia y Siena, Nápoles y Pisa,
Botticelli, Giotto, Tiziano, cipreses y palacios,
canales, Miguel Angel, frutos, palomas, Donatello
qué van a ser sin ti, si eras tú quien les dabas
vida, sentido, magia.
Llegaré -a veces gusto
imaginar que en el crepúsculo-
a no sé que ciudad. Consultaré la Guide Blue
y, ...Esta es la prueba. ¿Quién puede acercarse
después de tanto amor, a un gran amor,
sin alma, sin amor, es decir, solo con los ojos?
«Un billete» diré. Preguntarán para dónde.
«Para un lugar que yo invente
y tal vez ya no existe. Par mirarme en un espejo
que reflejo mi vida cuando no estaba yo
y al que me acerco ahora
cuando no puede devolver mi imagen».
Y entenderán por qué lo digo.
1.7k
Con ciudades y autores frecuentadosVenecia / Guanajuato / Maupassant /
Leningrado / Sousándrade / Berlín /
Cortázar / Bioy Casares / Medellín /
Lisboa / Sartre / Oslo / Valle Inclán /
Kafka / Managua / Faulkner / Paul Celan /
Ítalo Svevo / Quito / Bergamín /
Buenos Aires / La Habana / Graham Greene /
Copenhague / Quiroga / Thomas Mann /
Onetti / Siena / Shakespeare / Anatole
France / Saramago / Atenas / Heinrich Böll /
Cádiz / Martí / Gonzalo de Berceo /
París / Vallejo / Alberti / Santa Cruz
de Tenerife / Roma / Marcel Proust /
Pessoa / Baudelaire / Montevideo
1.3k
I am desolate, hollow
As the shaft of a feather.
I float easily among the rest,
Through fields of grazing bovine,
Heads bent to pasture.
My belly whines.
The noise it makes threatens forfeiture
And begs nourishment, a rest
From this emptiness.
I push firmly on it to shut it up.
I do this many times. It is a nervous hour.
With each passing day, a righteousness
flows through my every dry and shriveled vein.
This denial of self eats at my humanness.
There will be but spirit left.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
Air: soft, warm, old, kept and distilled,
grasps my skin in heat so comfortable
enveloping the chill from moments before,
dissolving in a sultry, lustful sun.
Hot wind: solid and intentional,
wavering the stillness
surrounding the ancient new touch.
Men, voices rough with the fragility of age,
shouting foreign words with a friendly bounce.
Language unfamiliar, intent unclear.
Bells ring distantly, and then twice close by.
The avalanche begins, rolling chimes, rolling in time.
An unheard beauty unfolding.
The song of Mother Nature, different than the norm,
dancing around the chimes, complimenting sound.
Traditional and bold,
the spices swing past.
Recipes from generations back.
Gasoline and pollution abide miles away.
Warms and colds become defined,
crisp, triggering hunger.
Carts of fresh pastries release a delicious smell.
Coming to consciousness through scent.
Close to dining, the desire grows.
The cold ruins the warm mouth,
dissolves hunger, sweet and smooth.
Longingly, another sugary scoop drains the tongue.
This soft, delicious taste.
Unmasked beauty in historically bruised walls.
Faces of heroes, faces of citizens,
Colours of all sorts held in small cups and bowls,
Youth spread out soaking in the yellow sun,
Yellow skin and wrinkles instilled over time--
In the piazza.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
I need different arms and elbows;
these are used, they fall asleep
at night and I wake up
without them, worried
and wondering if my arms
might be oragamied
into a crane,
flying shadow puppets
stuck to the walls
that can’t find the window.
They scoop cupfuls
of clay riverbeds
over each other
that dry into casts
and click against the floor
as my arms make their way home.
I’ve threatened to leave them
under such conditions but I’m certain
they’ll leave me first.
This new apartment—she’s cheap
and ***** used up.
lazy ceiling tiles pillow down
and yellow, watching me half-heartedly.
Then somehow you,
always full with something,
your shoulders
taking up the whole hall,
phonetic laugh and roomfuls of teeth.
Upon seeing you, I wonder
how ancient pieces of broken church
feel against calluses, what it will sound like
to give birth. There is a word for this
in Siena, allupato.
The wolves starve
and feed.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
There once was a *****
Who had a cousin named Mitch,
And ate and ate and ate,
She ate so much,
She ate her clutch,
And pretty much everything else.
One day this girl,
Started to hurl,
And a problem did arise,
She puked and puked and soon she started to despise,
Herself and others, chickens and mothers,
Even her best friend Siena.
Years have past and turkeys don''t last long past Thanksgiving,
A **** a ***** and quite a bore, how can she keep living?
Now you see, what a B---- she can really be,
This poems not about a lineman,
It's a about a horrible girl named Sam Steinman.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Waking up this morning in earths dim light completely hollow from last nights fright.
Convincing myself this is all a Joke, playing along on the devils playground.
In the distance I see a mary go round, as it spins around shards of memories fly about creating burnt siena flames.
The air is no longer dim, it glows of paranormal entities of ones present state.
Becoming completely naked in front of your worst fears, those thoughts in the night that bring you tears.
Today is April Fools Day, but I'm the fool. Drowning in the blood filled pool I willingly jumped into.
Convinced I was doing the right thing, suited like a warrior princess fighting on the front lines of loves magnificence.
The war is over now. As I lie, bleeding and missing limbs I see no one in sight. This time around, I wasn't right. I lost the good fight, my spirit rises up into the light.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
False statements formalized
Righteousness forbidden
Truth forgotten and forsaken
With negative force
For the sake of forgiveness
In human form
Which we lack
We lose focus and fortitude
Unable to foresee
Human fall
In the following generation
Dreams lost in the fog
Innocents forlorn and forfeited
Forever
We left with
Phobia of being humen
In the dark forest
No one’s fault
Saint Bernardino of Siena
Died in fourteen forty four
****** usury and fornication
Took over the world
People gambling for power
Natives killing folks
Because they are foreigners
Humanity forgone
Our homes are foxholes
The world turned cold and formidable
With forbidding souls
These are no longer the lands
Of our patriotic forefathers
We failed to follow their tracks
To forfend their heritage
Forbye fomenting cultural barriers
Because of power and fortune
We remained
Phoney and folly
We lost forethoughtfulness
We are done, humanity foredone
And forgone
What for?
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
There is no evidence for the soul
But its absence
Nothing, nothing, nothing
The body to the soil
The soul slips away
I'm grateful today for bocce ball
Green and red all morning
I was in Italy once
Cathedral in Siena
Felt the Tuscan sun
Silently to pray
Italy. Verily. Yea.
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 1:26 PM UTC