Poetry

"COMO UNA GOTA DE ROCÍO MENGUÓ"

nobody@vox.com(Corbijn Mani) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 15:48:15 -0800

Como una gota de rocío menguó,
y tengo que aceptarlo,
amiga mía.
La estrella boreal,o de bóreas,
se replantea en este crudo mes,
salir con el frío,
yo tengo a mi mamá,
que se levanta antes,
para darme calor y...
abro las ventanas de aquí,
la única salutación al sol,
y recompongo mis situaciones,
antes del agradable café, amargo
y el zumo de la naranja apreciada,
que corre por mi cuerpo sano.
....Soy un corcel,
a veces indomable,
pero en el sentido...
que mi alma es como buena...
y de gran tamaño...
Quiero contarte amiga mía algo...
nada mejor que decirte que te quiero...
por que me incorporas donde puedo...
te juntas con mi alma,
de recadero y me sacas de paseo,
donde yo a veces muero...
Me iré siempre a otro lugar,
quizás nunca más te veré,
pero quiero que sepas,
que amo mi corazón,
cuando estoy contigo...
y sueño que todo,
está bien a tu lado...
amiga mía,amiga,amiga,amiga.

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A matter of appreciation...for the believer. A matter of appreciation...for the enthusiast.

nobody@vox.com(Bycha (bye-chay)) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:47:32 -0800

I ran across (no pun intended) this sonnet published in 1630 by Jacobus Revius a Protestant poet and preacher who through a self-accusatory technique which many 17th century artists of the Calvinistic reformist movement employed to examine their relationship to Christ and profess their guilt for his continued suffering. It is in my opinion a reflective and self-depricating view of sin and Jesus' sacrifice. It means nothing if you don't believe. It, the paintings and poems are just that; words on paper, colors on canvas. But for those who do believe it has a chilling affect.

In Rembrandt van Rijns' (1606-69) historic painting "the raising of the cross" c.1633 he has painted himself in the scene as Christ's executioner with his trademark artist beret. Not as a solider following orders from his commanding officer or as a lowly roman subject of Prefect Pontius Pilate assisting in the slow and painful execution called a crucifixion; but as someone in command of his own role literally at the "center" of this epic depiction.

It is a quiet piece that is voluminous. It tugs at the core of the Christian message. It is a role that one does not view him or herself in. It is for introspective thought, contemplation, reflection and even just mere appreciation of words, color and form...beautiful art...beautiful poetry.

'Tis not the Jews who crucified,

Nor who betrayed you in the judgment place,

Nor who, Lord Jesus, spat into your face,

Nor who with buffets struck you as you died

'Tis not the soldiers who with brutal fists

Raised the hammer and raised the nail

Or the cursed wood on Calvary's hill,

Or drew lots, tossed the dice to win your cloak.

I am the one, oh Lord, who brought you there,

I am the heavy tree, too stout to bear,

I am the rope that reined you in.

The scourge that flayed you, nail and spear,

The blood-soaked crown they made you wear,

'Twas all for me, alas, 'twas for my sin.

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Leaving the Hospital (1st draft)

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 21:25:26 -0800

Leaving the Hospital

I am climbing the golden stairway of my hair

to the sweet hereafter

a flute is playing and I wonder if it is real

music of heaven and I am deceased

my legs somewhat numb

but no, I see the flautist in his tuxedo

I half expect him to have donkey ears

but he does not, so he is really here

my companion assures me of his reality

and the reality of the music

and that in fact I am alive

and that the baby in the car-seat

is our own baby with her thin patch

of red hair and her white knit bonnet

looking like a child of another era

an error of the anachronism the car-seat

and the shiny white hospital lobby floor

The flautist plays his Caliendo concerto

number whatever

inspired by Corot's gypsy painting

I will lay in the night later

with no guitar

only the baby and her face

pale as a moon

against my pale as moon breast

Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 11/5/2009

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"EN RECUERDO DE BACARISSE"

nobody@vox.com(Corbijn Mani) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 07:20:40 -0800

AYUNTAMIENTO

Asimétrica fachada,
la casa Coilliot,en Lille,
con forma y caracter moderno,
me recuerda las casas de muñecas,
de estructuras arabescas,
maderas recubiertas con mogate,
como usan los alfareros y...
Trato de hacer una alabanza,
a los poetas,
iniciativas renovadas,
partieron de América y...
se extendieron hacia España...,
Este es el ultraísmo de Bacarisse,
incorporar ideas y corrientes,
de vanguardia,
esto, todavía,a mi me llena,
diría que cada vez más,
y este es mi modus operandi,
para conseguir el fin deseado...
Sentir,la creacción,del poema,
como oro y esmalte de una perla...
se precian como broche,
en el cuello de una mujer...
y así disfruto modestamente,
del módulo del poeta,escribiendo...
de vanguardia europea.

LILLE

El recuerdo de Bacarisse

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"Lo tienes muy fácil..."A TIRO DE PIEDRA"

nobody@vox.com(Corbijn Mani) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:06:10 -0800

noche...

Hace tiempo que no hago poesía.
dar en la lata no es difícil,
está a tiro de piedra, y........ok

Tiene que ser a la primera,
en mi caso es sencillo,
tengo fuerza y puntería.

Juan,Pedro,Javier y yo,
lo intentábamos,en nuestro
pueblo,muchas veces....

Ellos no retrocedían,
casi nunca,
yo buscaba una piedra.

Siempre daba es el clavo....
ellos lanzaban lejos,
fuertemente
rebasando la lata,
que resplandecía
sutílmente...........
..............................acaeció..............................
y esta sonó,una,dos y tres veces.....................
la mía la cuarta.................................................
...hoy me cuesta escribir el poema......................
...pero la lata está a tiro de piedra,
lo voy a intentar,
y sonó la poesía,una vez más.

tiempo...

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Her Auburn Spiral Staircase

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 10:57:34 -0800

Her Auburn Spiral Staircase

I have waited

for birch-wood fingers

to unclasp taciturn bun

and auburn steps to fall

loose with flame-fish

swimming the dull light

of a dirty-shaded lamp

where she sits

brush clutched in hand

torturing her scalp

with one hundred strokes

till hair shines

her eyes narrow to jade slits

caught in last light

of day’s fiery end

I am left wondering

if her hair was something

that needed

to be tamed

to become the spiral staircase

to the Hagia Sophia

of her domed forehead

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

2/25/2006, revised 10/2009

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Twittering ( a special rough-draft surreal poem for Halloween)

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 17:21:22 -0700

Twittering

The spent rocket shuddered and sped toward the blue world below.

The people were twittering on the sidewalk.

The birds in the trees were also twittering

When the debris crackled and hissed in the sky

the birds stopped twittering and flew off

The people looked up and then back to their cell phones and kept twittering

but now they had something new to share.

A record store clerk on break described the plummeting metal

like the tongues of flame above the apostles' heads.

He was very proud of this line.

He started to think he'd write a best-seller one of these days

if he could find the time.

A little man made mockery of the "fish-mouthed" people around him

He tapped a descriptions of them all:

of the balding man in shorts and knee-high socks

and the young woman with the black knee-high socks and just that little bit of

holy tan skin, who was also looking up at the sky

and then back to her phone

She was trying to tie it all into the “buddhistic acceptance,"

that she had learned in Eastern Philosophy Class

under Professor Kreely, a woman who always sat too close

and hitched up her skirt, revealing the two perfect white globes her knees

Kreely had lost a son to suicide.

There was only one in the crowd, an old man,

who hobbled very slowly out of the way.

pushing a stroller with a wailing infant.

He stood on the corner and railed at the group

to come to safety. He screamed. He tore his

yellow-white beard.

The baby also screamed, till it was red as coral.

A woman wrote that his hair was like

pissed-on snow and thought she should

write poetry someday and try to publish it

do something other than tap into her little box

and receive the affirmation she so longed for.

Lucy Simpson 10/31/2009, Seattle

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My Moses by Wendy Videlock

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:46:45 -0800

My Moses

Big Jack and his walking stick
live on the ridge. Navajo
orphan kids dance for him,
bobcat urine's in the weeds,
the shotgun barrel's up his sleeve,
a Persian coin is on the wind.
The Chinese Mountains smell the moon
and arch their backs. I tell him, Jack,
there's times I wish I was living in
canvas France, the old west,
a picture book, the Sea of
Tranquility, or even in
the den near the hot spring.
He says, kid, to hell with

phantom limbs; spring is a verb
a wish is a wash, a walking stick
is a gottdam wing.

Wendy Videlock

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Soft Spots by Jason Guriel

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:40:09 -0800

Soft Spots

They're worse than weak links
in chains, which we can blame
on blacksmiths' fire, and chinks
in armor, made by rain

of arrows. Soft spots,
those parts of us that bruise,
prove we're fruit that rots
as hourglasses ooze.

But I've a spot spot for,
a phrase we tend to whisper,
is what we say before
we name our guilty pleasure--

the damper pedal that pounds
sonatas into mush
the critic Ezra Pound
would call, with a shudder, slush.

Jason Guriel

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"EL MARAVILLOSO ESPECTRO DE UNA ROSA NEGRA"

nobody@vox.com(Corbijn Mani) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 09:03:53 -0700

P1120816

JPG12-08-2007_22_22_09_0025

Danza-2

Una primera parte excepción,
sinceramente y creo
rigurosamente acaeció.
Que a la vuelta sucumbiría a la locura...
tal y como estaba escrito,
en su diario arcádico,
mis regresos al protagonismo,
me mantuvieron desprotegido,
huida y reencuentro con la familia,
y nuevas aventuras,poemas,y esperanzas,
dándole al lenguaje mayor viveza,
y refugiándose en lo religioso,
popular y tradicional,
del preludio de cualquier obra,
que va a ser ilustrada...
Mi vida un poco fue el baile.
Bronislava Nijinska,
hermana de Nijinski,
al igual me sucedió,
llegó la "mente innata",
el cuerpo lo mismo,
lo mojé en agua estancada,
se violó y nunca se supo,
si representaba la culminación,
de una tradición de bailarines,
es el espectro de la rosa,
figuraba la homosexualidad
sin yo saberlo y verlo,
en el cuerpo y movimientos...
como los del baile,
captación ilustrada,
de grandes artistas,del mundo.
Hablar,gesto,danza y arte,
sólo lo supera lo femenino,
y el amor a lo masculino,
del joven que enloquecerá,
de una forma mala,desencaminada y...
se refugió en los suyos,
maltratado tobillo,
situación que le daría alas,
en la tierra,en su vida,
le convierte en el mejor bailarín,
de todos mis recuerdos.

"Realmente me sucedió así"

"Caminando con la poesía"

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