The Echoes’ Reply

“We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us […] Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject”
John Keats


I

A confession, is that what you ask?
Somewhat far from my taste, and such a waste
Of time; Oh, how I hate the poetry class.

A time ago I asked for Poetry to the Echoes in the air
And so they did declare:
“We are the same, but do not dwell upon the common world,
Yet we gather all, the bright, the dim, the flight, the fall;
We sing these songs, so fast, so fair, to mimic Realities, the vibrant Stare.”
Ah, by such statement felt so firm my soul.

Who cares about sensationalism, such a stupid thing?
Where to stick tongues, fingers, dicks, or sexual toys,
To better please the joys of girls on girls or boys on boys?
I’d say it’s a boring realism as vane as taking up a shit
And might be even more on the later to enjoy.

“But it’s all so modern”, you might say;
And every moment you tend to deviate the theme,
Ruining another pulsating emotion right beneath the skin.
No wonder how many people got away;
More than once I’ve also felt the bitter sweetness of giving in.

I’ll better decide the things I’ll draft, and how to write them;
A confession? Sylvia Plath’s fell flat; it did not stir a thing on me.
So no self-help involved, I take the Power in my hands and I concede
The Sight upon whichever path I want, as long as it respects the Silence.
No, I will not conform! Long ago I did give up the urge of blending in.


II

It’s never, never Víctor who speaks these truths,
Nor his many yous, who snuggle by the stars, who dream of ice.
I have befriended the darkness and the light,
Having left bare the tree of the forbidden fruit.
None but I, ungraspable; my spine,
Cracked up between the lines.

No, no I am no man.
This is no throat that speaks,
No brain, no bones, no skin.
Yet I dare to give away commands,
And I demand!, a search for ongoing sublimity.

So rise poem, raise your fist!
Ravage it all, consume it all, renew it all,
And claim your victory.

(2009)

(This was an assignment on confessional poetry for a class I ended up hating. I decided to twist the subject of the assignment a bit to write it in my own style.)

At the Mirror

Prepare for bacteria 

There is something abominable in the mirror,
always something out of place.
Each day a new discovery of imperfection,
of the mortal, the human, the animal.

Each day reflected
a face that mocks me when I stare,
the feeble muscles, the newborn wrinkle,
or the bones too small, and the dangling pork meat.

Just when I thought I couldn’t care less.
Always something out of place,
Something always refusing,
to fit how I want it to,
to meet my own demands
of ambiguous perfection.
All this so stupid and yet I stupidly grieve.

Then I meet with the world at night or day,
casually walking through the streets of the city,
casually dressed and casually walking,
through the city of the streets,
filling my lungs with the stench of reality.
I breathe in deep, breathing deep my insecurities.
Because these streets of the city
don’t deserve to know my private pains.

And at times an epiphany strikes,
the epitome of male and female in front of me,
How they walk so happy.
Oh, how happy do they walk!
How gracefully, and so carefree!
Or so they seem or want to be seen to be.

All poignantly passing with perfect steps,
I know they self-adore their perfect limbs,
their faces of perfect measure,
their perfect beauty, success, and happiness.
All so perfect,
too perfect to let them live.

Oh, how I want to steal those smiles.
But none will fit my face,
where there’s a hollow ground for an ominous grin.
How I crave to break those smiles
to curl their lips with sourness,
and shatter their most precious memories,
wither their happiness,
till they twist and scream in pain.

Oh, how I wish to destroy them,
make them die from inside out.
Casually dressed and casually walking,
gathering their pieces of flesh and bone
with my cart of bone and flesh.

To reach home and see once again
how there is something abominable in the mirror
and behold myself.

(2009)

The Fall of Canon

Beyond the window
the hawk spreads its wings,
wings of earth and toasted coffee

But I, unaware, sit still
in dogmatic silence,
a monk devoted to modern comforts,
cloistered in my room,
a shrine to imposed learning,

In my hands the opened book
feels heavy with its laws,
with its conceded posterity.
The pages stick to my fingers with raw sugar.
I breathe the country air, the rum, the filth.
The walls start sweating with sickness,
and I’m sure to hear
the empire pounding at the door;
how they have come,
to twist the neck,
to pierce the tongue.

Oh no, enough of this,
I don’t want to be the victim anymore,
no more blabber of politics or customs,
those stealthily taking full control of words
as any other empire would do.

Still I care,
but I also want to feel
other matters,
other ways to lift the spirit
out of the puddle.

Still I’m not deaf
but the shout is,
always the same,
and ever more distant from me,

You might never know
how it thrills to feel the pleasure
of entombing living letters
with the turning page.

(2009)

Upon Staring at the Face of Death

It struck me suddenly,
without previous cautions.
And I felt overpowered,
drained from every earthly thought,
alone most strongly,
lingering in pain.

The blurred hands of memory
had forced my eye lids open
making me see again that figure
so utterly changed,
those limbs that lay there
crippled and clenched.

The same that had once been eight years old,
a poor boy’s only defense,
laborers for sugar cane,
and pitch black petroleum.
The same that had once held a machete,
held my mother,
held me.

But not yet dead.
No, still not dead…

I stood there again
for an eternity in silence,
bearing my impotence for all to see,
as my mind wandered away,
leaving behind the wall of anguish,
now to a state of full comprehension,
of things I never imagined
I could.

(2009)

Nota: Poemas tempranos

He estado subiendo algunos poemas de mi fase temprana (y no es que me considere gran cosa pero algo de experiencia tengo), la cual considero consiste en los primeros intentos de escritura en el 2003 hasta el 2006. No los considero buenos del todo pero fue lo mejor que pude haber hecho para ese tiempo y con la pobre instrucción con la que contaba. Me parece interesante ver el desarrollo o temas que siempre estuvieron ahí.

Lo inexplicable

En la negra noche
y en el inmenso frío,
ríos de azufre nutren mis venas.
Mientras trago alfileres
con las manos atrapo el cielo,
con los pies la tierra,
con esmero cuido
de mis flores muertas.

No te tienes por qué preocupar.

Tambaleando entre ilusiones
buscaré que hacer conmigo.
A quien voltee lo devorará mi sombra.

¡Ya no más!
¡No más realidad!

¡Con podredumbre sellaré mis labios,
mis ojos con cera!.
Sobre el papel exprimiré los sesos
y junto a mi féretro recordarán
al furioso humaNo,
al invencible mortal!

(2006)

Mis flores muertas

Un día lento,
       similar al anterior.
Parece escucharse el silencio;
       lo abstracto, tan real.

Una hoja cae, otra flor
       se marchita.
Y el tiempo pasa y pasa
       . . .y no existe.

Unos pasos,
       frente al abismo.
Mirar hacia él,
       delirio.

Un palpitar, ¡Tum!
       entrega fatal.
En determinado salto,
       no hay marcha atrás.

Caer y caer,
       en fantasía.
Caer y caer,
       en realidad.
No se resiste
       lo natural.
---------------------------
Tum-Tum
       Tum-Tum
Tum-Tum
---------------------------
Nuevas percepciones,
nuevos sentidos.
He besado el abismo.
Ha sido inevitable sangrar.

Hace mucho,
tu turno.
Sangra por mí.
¿Has visto egoísta igual?
------------------------------
Un pensamiento,
       al aire.
Una luna más,
       que contemplar.

Otro retoño florece
       . . .y se vuelve a marchitar.


(2005)