P for
preludes &
preambles
of
paltry
palpitations
prejudices
parlances
paroxisms
for
pariah
pedantic at times
pigheaded always
privy
pyrrhic
peevish
pique
perspirating
palindrome-unfriendly
perishing in nature
penitent, yet not remorseful
Poems:
O. Akgöl
Last I knew you were many, many highways off
inking your dreams on many, many people’s bodies
ready to get high and low and in between,
make amends and plenty of other things akin.
Today I read commands
on how to treasure your memory
and all which you might have once been.
It seems they all rightly wish for you to be resting in peace
but I sure can‘t bring myself to say anything else
(and I know you‘d rather have me at my rudest self)
Other than: I hope you stand resistant
I hope you kept that wobbly laughter
sounding like glass bottles breaking in the middle of the night
I hope you stay unapologetically defiant
through your perennial foolish choices and childish ways
hiding behind a curtain of purple smoke somewhere
raving alone above the falling leaves
eternally escaping from the law
barking at the stars
burning and struggling and wondering
publicly showcasing all the glitter in your soul and being.
I‘d rather remember you
as yet another comrade misfit
lost in combat and defeated by one too many silent wars
airy but rooted
with your twiggy legs blowing in the wind
and your fingertips nailed into the soil
desperate but light
unconquered, unbound, whistling
unleashed tunes of digital beats
and compassed quatrain folklore
all at once, that‘s what you were
wounded, increasingly woke
out of place but always welcome
covered in paint and flowers and dirt
spirited and worth talking about
full of fire and amenable rage
gambling each one of your hopes away.
Rest was not for you and you were not for rest
and if the peace you‘re meant to find
ought to chain you back
I say: better stay troubled and uneased
but eternally free.
November 2020
Birthday
If I‘m the useless hound-dog that I feel I am
what is it that I‘m really sniffing for in here?
Doomed to bark at the wrong tree
I make a fool of myself with every sunset
yet can‘t admit defeat.
A chimera of an old racing galgo,
with bones too rusty for the tracks
and a narcissistic peacock,
disguising nothingness in shiny colors.
That‘s how I feel today.
I've indeed heard a couple things
about artists and their egos
but really, in these trying times
where attention spans to at most half a second
who are the shame and self-flattery really for?
Perhaps I think some fool
will one day read me
and feel a trace of some remote emotion.
I don‘t know if those are visions
or envisioning
but I do know that I don‘t want to grow old
cause it doesn't look pretty on black sheep like myself.
I'd rather sit here for another whole lifetime
listening to the Saint James Infirmary blues
writing without punctuation
get high and get low
pretend I've been to New York
get horny at impossible fantasies
of worlds without screens
fill myself with yet unknown regret
and start over
re-read every book I own and cry those who are gone
come to some agreement with the devil
about what not to do next
open the window and let my soul out
for a walk.
June 2020
Landfill
Give me the finest liquor
and I‘ll praise its‘ cork
give me a heart of gold
and I‘ll turn it into an ashtray
give me a chance
and I‘ll play hide and seek with it.
Give me a lecture
and I‘ll hear nothing but the chirping of birds
give me a hand
and I‘ll take a toenail at most.
Give me unconditionality
if you want to see me hit the road.
Have me as a guest
and I‘ll steal your thunder
throw me a party
and I‘ll dagger your heart at the spot.
I‘m like the place
where old cars go to die
the moment of clarity
after jumping off a cliff
the last girl you date
before getting married
the regret and the hope in one
art in hard times,
tenderness in funny weather,
venom in caramel wrap.
June, 2020
Amour propre
& sex salé
Love proper and fuck salty -
That‘s what I long for:
the only kind of admiration
which could keep my mouth shut
and my ears open, for once.
For someone this stubborn
ought to be tamed down.
Could anyone ever match
the speed in which I go
from filigreed poetry to nasty swearing
from rider to stallion
from mermaid to old sailorman
and from housewife to gogo?
I better find myself
another infamous rocker
with a rocket in his pocket
who‘ll take any risky bet
and help me reach
the doors of perception
see the light(s),
whichever.
June 2020
I'm out of words
the moment I'm out of page
and suddenly reflect
on that which I hold to be self evident
just to find
that all the truths are far away
from the paper.
This constant stitching
that someone's doing to my heart -
what's that all about?
Please, my mind,
my conscience, my gut,
let me bleed it out in peace.
It don't need more than some drawings
and some blaspheming over fine meals.
It won't take more
than getting lost at sea
pretend I've ever known something
about the stars.
Let me grind it all down
to small chunks of jerky meat:
the sun will patch them back together
should that be my fate.
Stop the mending, for
I still need to grieve
my grandfather
and how he dipped white bread in olive oil
and topped it with wedges of orange
and pueblo honey.
I still need to realize that
there‘ll be no more roasted almonds sent my way
there‘ll be no more redemption sent my way
there‘ll be no more accordion songs
and if that wasn't enough
there‘ll be no more restitution for my soul
unless I come to my own rescue.
May 2020
Political topography of Berlin
And it so happens
that I find myself back in this town
where rioting is hanging banners
and protest signs ought to be made
by graphic designers.
Where demonstrations have become
some kind of hot yoga and
where revolutions
mean taking a stance on
cinema, dieting, and clothing preferences.
Bring the turmoil on! We're all set
for we've replaced cocaine for ketamine
we've watched about a hundred
of European documentaries about Africa
and our chocolates are fair-trade.
I see all of us creative thinkers
(once known to have brought hope)
anesthetized by the urging trends to
minimize and simplify.
If we're to learn how to replace our entire discourse
by a lone line on a blank surface, I wonder,
shouldn't we have built a wholesome discourse first?
Before I learn a medium
I'd like to have a message
and before I externalize my essence
I'd like to have a how-to-human lesson.
If this 'back to basics' is the norm
it seems to me that I came from very different basics.
Didn't we all?
September, 2016
Talk about honesty
All these people
all these artists around me
must be full of honesty.
Alas! They certainly must be
full of honesty.
Cause, see,
if they weren't so bursting of honesty
there might be more of it in their works,
and not only in themselves.
It's alright that I use Amichai's words because
this belongs to the curse of my generation:
we convince ourselves we're someone great,
we go after the success of someone great,
we build a life in the construct of actually being
someone great
and when our time comes
there'll be nothing left but a field
of empty, dishonest shells.
April, 2016
Once a trip
Divided my life in two parts and
since then there‘s been
a wound which marks
befores and afters of everything.
Since then I‘ve been a lone hunter
rejoicing in the idea of repetition.
Forward‘s the hope for a relapse
and landscapes around me only
little postcards named „I should“.
It still ain‘t all that somber though, I keep
my shoes always one step ahead of me
facing every sunrise
in the
(in my)
Mediterranean sea.
If someone were ever ready
to take such a journey
– with me
I‘d give myself to it blindly
all over again.
December 2015
Was it ever really
Was it ever really
Was it ever really
a pleasure to meet you
Was it ever really
a pleasure to meet you
You placed me on a throne
and as I put on the uniform
I watched you sink lower in your back seat.
Should I now, still
feel grateful for being the one
who ever saw you mask-less
for that only holds me responsible
for your sudden departure.
What can I say
If my treatments and cures didn't ease you
you could just have fired me.
December 2015
(In memory of S)
I‘d sure find it sweet to
run myself a life of tender loving,
genuine, unconditional companionship,
and fearless demonstrations of affection.
It seems, though,
that I enjoy sleeping amongst
wolves too much,
and that I‘ve come too far with this
fierce, sharpened-fangs-persona
that I and my life have built
to claim for my innocence back.
But if someone were ever to find it
somewhere, in some no-place,
in the sideways of a road to nowhere
in a narrow street of some ancient
Al-something Southern town
in a Mediterranean field of lavender,
or seeking shelter under the sail
of a fisherman‘s boat at port
they shall reach out to me.
I‘d still very gladly try
to bring it back home and to nurse it
to the compassion it once knew.
December 2015
Many lives have been lived...
... and this is one of them.
Wrapped in white satin and torn denim,
marinated in smoke and irreciprocal hopes,
burnt like the fuse of a ticking bomb
which never detonates
and gets covered in many generations of concrete instead.
It's been a life lived like most others:
spent amongst faked moans from love-making
that feels like sand-paper rubbing against a finger wound
and nirvana-inducing exchanges of looks
too meaningful to ever be talked about.
Salivating at promises and crying at rewards,
dissipated in aleatory wishes of changing sizes,
unaware of its' own clock,
calcinated by the unforgiving need
of finding the right speed.
It will go on and fade like any other, too
convinced it is as meaningful
as the last song played by a trompetist
who's about to retire.
Stored in wine bottles
kept in wooden crates
transported by ocean-sailing ships
perpetually headed towards the same harbor.
July 2021
You were for me
A Roman bridge where I sourced my knowledge
a means, a dialectic, a room
with marked contours that signaled
the space which was assigned
for me to grow in. But
now no more.
My place of schooling has
become the no-space where
I do my preaching.
You were once
to me - perhaps to many - in a
back then, plenty of years ago
the draught which justified
the waving of any flag.
I believed then. But
now no more.
So you are now for me
a slim German silhouette
dissolving under the weight
of an unforgiving Mediterranean
absurdity and sunray
while a faceless Spanish
lady in the background
pours orange juices that she herself
will never get to drink.
October 2020
So much crying for so little concluding
When a fly gets trapped in a glass jar
is whomever left the jar lid-less responsible
or is the fly to blame?
When is an event ought
to be pinned to wrong-doing
and when to fate?
And are we always to search and find
bright sides and consolations
in that which we've chosen poorly
in that which we're too weak to tackle
and in that which we believe can't be anyhow else?
I go to the light and I burn
I shrink away, then I regret.
For the fire's painfully homey
and it stands untroubled,
and is bright and is pastoral
and it renders everything else
utterly unlit and lacking in passion.
My contradictions have finally
become the wind that muscles my mainsail
and so I
roam the world with and in
a broken compass
convinced I ever left a trace
and losing my lucidness
in every port instead.
Leaving -
wouldn't that entail
having had some 'having' of some sort?
Staying -
wouldn't that mean
losing all?
There's plenty of candy in the North
and much too much sugar in the South
and I refuse to keep reprimanding
myself for walking in a chocolate store in Easter
for I may have sinned
if my hands are found dirty
but it isn't me who's wrapped gluttony
in shiny gold leaf and lace and ruffle
neither the one
who runs a business in times of prohibition.
October 2020
The Age of Urgency
There‘s an euphoric message to come -
there‘s always something
that needs immediate saying
that needs prompt sending
that needs speedy sharing.
Damn, I just want to be
without constantly expecting
whatever it is that is still pending.
Awaiting words, highs, fixes,
aftermaths and departures -
Why couldn't I have them all now
or never?
Why couldn't they pack themselves
into a perfect box with a fancy ribbon
and come to my doorstep tonight
or never?
Release the iron weights off my chest
and put them on my toes instead:
maybe that will ground me.
June 2020
Am I?
Am I taking myself too seriously
in these moments when I feel disgusting,
spirited,
and controversial?
Everything I am has apparently
been irrelevant since the nineties
and today I‘m a woman
torn between not wanting to grow old and fat
and being fundamentally incapable
of quitting a single one of my vices.
I go on a tantrum because
I want to drink royal blue ink
and make love to someone
while playing the harmonica.
I want to go find my mojo
and put it to bed
tucked in a thick, itchy, woolen blanket.
I want to gamble with my life
quite a bit longer
I want to sleep inside an Ottoman rock
I want to feel like a dandelion
I might want to lick a frog.
I want to make life-sized sculptures
of people I‘ve never met.
I want to thank everyone for the music
that I've kept in tapes
and I want to thank the music
for letting itself be kept by me all these years.
I want to write self-deprecating poems
of wishes of longer legs
I want to leave my body
and go find Boris Vian in purgatory.
I want to, I ought to
build and altar
for all the hearts I've damaged.
May 2020
If I were brilliant
if I were, put,
something like Hughes,
I'd long have come up
with a thorough writing routine for my convalescence.
But as it turns out
(and, see, that's quite unfortunate)
I seem to have a much too parsimonious nature
to even begin to put in the work to become brilliant.
Most times I'll choose
a big feast, a potential lover,
a roll of the dice, a painting rampage
over giving my writing the time it needs
in order to become slightly decent.
But that's how I play this game. Sue me,
some times
(and that's more often than not, too)
I'll want to get hammered and spit out dirty words
search around for yet unknown guilty pleasures
smoke my way to hell and back
and, all in all, do everything one could
in order to come to the point of not giving a damn
about the fact
that nobody cares.
Sue me, cause it sure seems
like I prefer the things which happen
within my meats, or surrounding them
the best.
November, 2016
They say
(and Isabel Parra says, and what she says goes)
that the working people
need therefore to believe
in a prosperous after-life experience.
And who the fuck is to blame us?
Perhaps it is in that same spirit
that I have been running myself
such an arduous life of demands
and reclamation:
I'm clinging to the dream
of upright times to come, where
the children of all struggling peoples
have been granted whatever
I was not.
It is only this same battle values
what I will ever get to pass on,
nothing else, but also
nothing more.
November, 2016
Scotch thistle
I sure would have liked to be a poet
have people crown me with laurel and
pay me all kinds of tributes, both
for laud and for quarrels.
Celebrate myself in every verse
look at the world from the pretty side of my window
and think of beautification.
But it so happens
that I came from no family
of big words or full libraries
and so I was taught how to collect
the saffron instead
right before the sunrise, when the flower
is only slightly open.
Perhaps being the working people is no friends with sentimentality
cause, see, it gets pretty hard
and ugly, at times
and so we say 'shit' and other blasphemies cause
in lack of time to negotiate with reality
we go through it honestly instead.
But sometimes in life I have actually
taken a break,
gone up the dry hills in search
of scotch thistle
or to the rocks right at seaside
for caper collecting.
And there
under shelters made of the vestiges of old boats
shepherds' blankets, and other junk found in paths
in the company of the whistling of crickets
and with salt under my nails
I might have possibly written
something beautiful
and perhaps that'd have made me
into a somewhat good poet.
But what can I do anyways
if landscapes can only be harmed by words
if I'm lazy
if I much rather sit and drink
my wine in peace.
Who needs poetry then
I do not know
but not me.
March 2016
To those who own my land
do not bother
asking for me to serve your beer in my mother tongue.
No need for indulgence and no need to fabricate:
go pad yourself on the shoulder for speaking my language
with whomever may consider your coldness a virtue
I'm just here to serve.
If you've walked the paths of the land
where I came from
I hope you did it with a heart full of joy.
But please, don't you bother
telling me of their people and their beauty:
I became who I am there.
February 2016
What if
all this flesh of ours would
- in a divine act of sudden mercy -
be put somewhere else
out there
in the world
(somewhere nicer)
would our essence
still remain?
And for what?
If there's any use
in these pseudo-prayers which I write
if there happens, by chance
to be someone who both hears and listens...
Please take my meat and feed it
to the desert stones of my land
take my eyes and turn them into dew
up in the hills' crests
take my voice and serve it for folk
to the dried-up olive trees of my childhood.
What could my hands ever make
better than the shrieking of golden wheat fields in June
the snow melting into rivers down the valley
and the cacophonies of crickets coming together at warm noon?
When the time is right
have no regard for what's left -
take it all!
for nothing contained within the barriers of my skin
should be more meaningful
than a single fallen leaf in a forest.
December 2015
© 2020 Cora Marin | Berlin | contact@coramarin.com
P for
preludes &
preambles
of
paltry
palpitations
prejudices
parlances
paroxisms
for
pariah
pedantic at times
pigheaded always
privy
pyrrhic
peevish
pique
perspirating
palindrome-unfriendly
perishing in nature
penitent, yet not remorseful
Poems:
You were for me
A Roman bridge where I sourced my knowledge
a means, a dialectic, a room
with marked contours that signaled
the space which was assigned
for me to grow in. But
now no more.
My place of schooling has
become the no-space where
I do my preaching.
You were once
to me - perhaps to many - in a
back then, plenty of years ago
the draught which justified
the waving of any flag.
I believed then. But
now no more.
So you are now for me
a slim German silhouette
dissolving under the weight
of an unforgiving Mediterranean
absurdity and sunray
while a faceless Spanish
lady in the background
pours orange juices that she herself
will never get to drink.
October 2020
So much crying for so little concluding
When a fly gets trapped in a glass jar
is whomever left the jar lid-less responsible
or is the fly to blame?
When is an event ought
to be pinned to wrong-doing
and when to fate?
And are we always to search and find
bright sides and consolations
in that which we've chosen poorly
in that which we're too weak to tackle
and in that which we believe can't be anyhow else?
I go to the light and I burn
I shrink away, then I regret.
For the fire's painfully homey
and it stands untroubled,
and is bright and is pastoral
and it renders everything else
utterly unlit and lacking in passion.
My contradictions have finally
become the wind that muscles my mainsail
and so I
roam the world with and in
a broken compass
convinced I ever left a trace
and losing my lucidness
in every port instead.
Leaving -
wouldn't that entail
having had some 'having' of some sort?
Staying -
wouldn't that mean
losing all?
There's plenty of candy in the North
and much too much sugar in the South
and I refuse to keep reprimanding
myself for walking in a chocolate store in Easter
for I may have sinned
if my hands are found dirty
but it isn't me who's wrapped gluttony
in shiny gold leaf and lace and ruffle
neither the one
who runs a business in times of prohibition.
October 2020
Birthday
If I‘m the useless hound-dog that I feel I am
what is it that I‘m really sniffing for in here?
Doomed to bark at the wrong tree
I make a fool of myself with every sunset
yet can‘t admit defeat.
A chimera of an old racing galgo,
with bones too rusty for the tracks
and a narcissistic peacock,
disguising nothingness in shiny colors.
That‘s how I feel today.
I've indeed heard a couple things
about artists and their egos
but really, in these trying times
where attention spans to at most half a second
who are the shame and self-flattery really for?
Perhaps I think some fool
will one day read me
and feel a trace of some remote emotion.
I don‘t know if those are visions
or envisioning
but I do know that I don‘t want to grow old
cause it doesn't look pretty on black sheep like myself.
I'd rather sit here for another whole lifetime
listening to the Saint James Infirmary
writing without punctuation
get high and get low
pretend I've been to New York
get horny at impossible fantasies
of worlds without screens
fill myself with yet unknown regret
and start over
re-read every book I own and cry those who are gone
come to some agreement with the devil
about what not to do next
open the window and let my soul out
for a walk.
June 2020
Landfill
Give me the finest liquor
and I‘ll praise its‘ cork
give me a heart of gold
and I‘ll turn it into an ashtray
give me a chance
and I‘ll play hide and seek with it.
Give me a lecture
and I‘ll hear nothing but the chirping of birds
give me a hand
and I‘ll take a toenail at most.
Give me unconditionality
if you want to see me hit the road.
Have me as a guest
and I‘ll steal your thunder
throw me a party
and I‘ll dagger your heart at the spot.
I‘m like the place
where old cars go to die
the moment of clarity
after jumping off a cliff
the last girl you date
before getting married
the regret and the hope in one
art in hard times,
tenderness in funny weather,
venom in caramel wrap.
June, 2020
Amour propre
& sex salé
Love proper and fuck salty -
That‘s what I long for:
the only kind of admiration
which could keep my mouth shut
and my ears open, for once.
For someone this stubborn
ought to be tamed down.
Could anyone ever match
the speed in which I go
from filigreed poetry to nasty swearing
from rider to stallion
from mermaid to old sailor man
and from housewife to gogo?
I better find myself
another infamous rocker
with a rocket in his pocket
who‘ll take any risky bet
and help me get
to the doors of perception
see the light(s),
whichever.
June 2020
I'm out of words
the moment I'm out of page
and suddenly reflect
on that which I hold to be self evident
just to find
that all the truths are far away
from the paper.
This constant stitching
that someone's doing to my heart -
what's that all about?
Please, my mind,
my conscience, my gut,
let me bleed it out in peace.
It don't need more than some drawings
and some blaspheming over fine meals.
It won't take more
than getting lost at sea
pretend I've ever known something
about the stars.
Let me grind it all down
to small chunks of jerky meat:
the sun will patch them back together
should that be my fate.
Stop the mending, for
I still need to grieve
my grandfather
and how he dipped white bread in olive oil
and topped it with wedges of orange
and pueblo honey.
I still need to realize that
there‘ll be no more roasted almonds sent my way
there‘ll be no more redemption sent my way
there‘ll be no more accordion songs
and if that wasn't enough
there‘ll be no more restitution for my soul
unless I come to my own rescue.
May 2020
Political topography of Berlin
And it so happens
that I find myself back in this town
where rioting is hanging banners
and protest signs ought to be made
by graphic designers.
Where demonstrations have become
some kind of hot yoga and
where revolutions
mean taking a stance on
cinema, dieting, and clothing preferences.
Bring the turmoil on! We're all set
for we've replaced cocaine for ketamine
we've watched about a hundred
of European documentaries about Africa
and our chocolates are fair-trade.
I see all of us creative thinkers
(once known to have brought hope)
anesthetized by the urging trends to
minimize and simplify.
If we're to learn how to replace our entire discourse
by a lone line on a blank surface, I wonder,
shouldn't we have built a wholesome discourse first?
Before I learn a medium
I'd like to have a message
and before I externalize my essence
I'd like to have a how-to-human lesson.
If this 'back to basics' is the norm
it seems to me that I came from very different basics.
Didn't we all?
September, 2016
Talk about honesty
All these people
all these artists around me
must be full of honesty.
Alas! They certainly must be
full of honesty.
Cause, see,
if they weren't so bursting of honesty
there might be more of it in their works,
and not only in themselves.
It's alright that I use Amichai's words because
this belongs to the curse of my generation:
we convince ourselves we're someone great,
we go after the success of someone great,
we build a life in the construct of actually being
someone great
and when our time comes
there'll be nothing left but a field
of empty, dishonest shells.
April, 2016
Once a trip
Divided my life in two parts and
since then there‘s been
a wound which marks
befores and afters of everything.
Since then I‘ve been a lone hunter
rejoicing in the idea of repetition.
Forward‘s the hope for a relapse
and landscapes around me only
little postcards named „I should“.
It still ain‘t all that somber though, I keep
my shoes always one step ahead of me
facing every sunrise
in the
(in my)
Mediterranean sea.
If someone were ever ready
to take such a journey
– with me
I‘d give myself to it blindly
all over again.
December 2015
Was it ever really
Was it ever really
Was it ever really
a pleasure to meet you
Was it ever really
a pleasure to meet you
You placed me on a throne
and as I put on the uniform
I watched you take over the back seat.
Should I now, still
feel grateful for being the one
who ever saw you mask-less
for that only holds me responsible
for your sudden departure.
What can I say
If my treatments and cures didn't ease you
you could just have fired me.
December 2015
(In memory of S)
I‘d sure find it sweet to
run myself a life of tender loving,
genuine, unconditional companionship,
and fearless demonstrations of affection.
It seems, though,
that I enjoy sleeping amongst
wolves too much,
and that I‘ve come too far with this
fierce, sharpened-fangs-persona
that I and my life have built
to claim for my innocence back.
But if someone were ever to find it
somewhere, in some no-place,
in the sideways of a road to nowhere
in a narrow street of some ancient
Al-something Southern town
in a Mediterranean field of lavender,
or seeking shelter under the sail
of a fisherman‘s boat at port
they shall reach out to me.
I‘d still very gladly try
to bring it back home and to nurse it
to the compassion it once knew.
December 2015
The Age of Urgency
There‘s an euphoric message to come -
there‘s always something
that needs immediate saying
that needs prompt sending
that needs speedy sharing.
Damn, I just want to be
without constantly expecting
whatever it is that is still pending.
Awaiting words, highs, fixes,
aftermaths and departures -
Why couldn't I have them all now
or never?
Why couldn't they pack themselves
into a perfect box with a fancy ribbon
and come to my doorstep tonight
or never?
Release the iron weights off my chest
and put them on my toes instead:
maybe that will ground me.
June 2020
Am I?
Am I taking myself too seriously
in these moments when I feel disgusting,
spirited,
and controversial?
Everything I am has apparently
been irrelevant since the nineties
and today I‘m a woman
torn between not wanting to grow old and fat
and being fundamentally incapable
of quitting a single one of my vices.
I go on a tantrum because
I want to drink royal blue ink
and make love to someone
while playing the harmonica.
I want to go find my mojo
and put it to bed
tucked in a thick, itchy, woolen blanket.
I want to gamble with my life
quite a bit longer
I want to sleep inside an Ottoman rock
I want to feel like a dandelion
I might want to lick a frog.
I want to make life-sized sculptures
of people I‘ve never met.
I want to thank everyone for the music
that I've kept in tapes
and I want to thank the music
for letting itself be kept by me all these years.
I want to write self-deprecating poems
of wishes of longer legs
I want to leave my body
and go find Boris Vian in purgatory.
I want to, I ought to
build and altar
for all the hearts I've damaged.
May 2020
If I were brilliant
if I were, put,
something like Hughes,
I'd long have come up
with a thorough writing routine for my convalescence.
But as it turns out
(and, see, that's quite unfortunate)
I seem to have a much too parsimonious nature
to even begin to put in the work to become brilliant.
Most times I'll choose
a big feast, a potential lover,
a roll of the dice, a painting rampage
over giving my writing the time it needs
in order to become slightly decent.
But that's how I play this game. Sue me,
some times
(and that's more often than not, too)
I'll want to get hammered and spit out dirty words
search around for yet unknown guilty pleasures
smoke my way to hell and back
and, all in all, do everything one could
in order to come to the point of not giving a damn
about the fact
that nobody cares.
Sue me, cause it sure seems
like I prefer the things which happen
within my meats, or surrounding them
the best.
November, 2016
They say
(and Isabel Parra says, and what she says goes)
that the working people
need therefore to believe
in a prosperous after-life experience.
And who the fuck is to blame us?
Perhaps it is in that same spirit
that I have been running myself
such an arduous life of demands
and reclamation:
I'm clinging to the dream
of upright times to come, where
the children of all struggling peoples
have been granted whatever
I was not.
It is only this same battle values
what I will ever get to pass on,
nothing else, but also
nothing more.
November, 2016
Scotch thistle
I sure would have liked to be a poet
have people crown me with laurel and
pay me all kinds of tributes, both
for laud and for quarrels.
Celebrate myself in every verse
look at the world from the pretty side of my window
and think of beautification.
But it so happens
that I came from no family
of big words or full libraries
and so I was taught how to collect
the saffron instead
right before the sunrise, when the flower
is only slightly open.
Perhaps being the working people is no friends with sentimentality
cause, see, it gets pretty hard
and ugly, at times
and so we say 'shit' and other blasphemies cause
in lack of time to negotiate with reality
we go through it honestly instead.
But sometimes in life I have actually
taken a break,
gone up the dry hills in search
of scotch thistle
or to the rocks right at seaside
for caper collecting.
And there
under shelters made of the vestiges of old boats
shepherds' blankets, and other junk found in paths
in the company of the whistling of crickets
and with salt under my nails
I might have possibly written
something beautiful
and perhaps that'd have made me
into a somewhat good poet.
But what can I do anyways
if landscapes can only be harmed by words
if I'm lazy
if I much rather sit and drink
my wine in peace.
Who needs poetry then
I do not know
but not me.
March 2016
To those who own my land
do not bother
asking for me to serve your beer in my mother tongue.
No need for indulgence and no need to fabricate:
go pad yourself on the shoulder for speaking my language
with whomever may consider your coldness a virtue
I'm just here to serve.
If you've walked the paths of the land
where I came from
I hope you did it with a heart full of joy.
But please, don't you bother
telling me of their people and their beauty:
I became who I am there.
February 2016
What if
all this flesh of ours would
- in a divine act of sudden mercy -
be put somewhere else
out there
in the world
(somewhere nicer)
would our essence
still remain?
And for what?
If there's any use
in these pseudo-prayers which I write
if there happens, by chance
to be someone who both hears and listens...
Please take my meat and feed it
to the desert stones of my land
take my eyes and turn them into dew
up in the hills' crests
take my voice and serve it for folk
to the dried-up olive trees of my childhood.
What could my hands ever make
better than the shrieking of golden wheat fields in June
the snow melting into rivers down the valley
and the cacophonies of crickets coming together at warm noon?
When the time is right
have no regard for what's left -
take it all!
for nothing contained within the barriers of my skin
should be more meaningful
than a single fallen leaf in a forest.
December 2015