Déjame que te hable, en esta hora de dolor, con alegres palabras. Ya se sabe que el escorpión, la sanguijuela, el piojo, curan a veces. Pero tú oye, déjame decirte que, a pesar de tanta vida deplorable, sí, a pesar y aun ahora que estamos en derrota, nunca en doma, el dolor es la nube, …
Any system you contrive without us will be brought down We warned you before and nothing that you built has stood Hear it as you lean over you blueprint Hear it as you roll up your sleeve Hear it once again Any system you contrive without us will be brought down You have your drugs …
Trout He’s here again. We’re in church. He’s a bishop. He has a long pink forefinger which he Keeps jabbing too close to my right eye. He wears crowblack clothes. I’m all diced up In a new suit myself. Confirmation Day. He opens his mouth, I can see his lips, His teeth off-brown, his tongue …
And will the flowers die? And will the people die? And every day do you grow old, do I grow old, no I’m not old, do flowers grow old? Old things – do you throw them out? Do you throw old people out? And how you know a flower that’s old? The petals fall, the …
it is afterwards and you talk on tiptoe happy to be part of the darkness lips becoming limp a prelude to tiredness. Comeclose and Sleepnow for in the morning when a policeman disguised as the sun creeps into the room and your mother disguised as birds calls from the trees you will put on a …
When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it. When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no nonbeing can hold. Wislawa Szymborska, Poems New and Collected 1957-1997.
Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished. The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked …
Life While-You-Wait. Performance without rehearsal. Body without alterations. Head without premeditation. I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it. I have to guess on the spot just what this play’s all about. Ill-prepared for the privilege of living, I can barely keep up …
Para Cristina. The buzzard never says it is to blame. The panther wouldn’t know what scruples mean. When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame. If snakes had hands, they’d claim their hands were clean. A jackal doesn’t understand remorse. Lions and lice don’t waver in their course. Why should they, when they know they’re …
Give me your hand. Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love. For me Give me your hand. Maya Angelou, The Complete Collected Poems.