Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category


Sonnet XVII – Pablo Neruda

August 24, 2009

I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.


Instants – Jorge Luis Borges

August 22, 2009

If I could live again my life,
in the next, I’ll try
to make more mistakes.
I won’t try to be so perfect.
I’ll be more relaxed.
I’ll be more full than I am now.
In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously.
I’ll be less hygenic.
I’ll take more risks.
I’ll take more trips.
I’ll watch more sunsets.
I’ll climb more mountains.
I’ll swim more rivers.
I’ll go to more places I’ve never been.
I’ll eat more ice creams and less lima beans.
I’ll have more real problems and less imaginary ones.
I was one of those people who lead
prudent and prolific lives each minute their alive.
Of couse, I had moments of joy but,
if I could go back, I’ll try to have only good moments.

If you don’t know, thats what life is made of.
Don’t lose the now.

I was one of those who never goes anywhere without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umberella and without a parachute.

If I could live again, I will travel light.
If I could live again, I’ll try to work bare feet at the beginning of spring till
the end of autumn.
I’ll ride more carts.
I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children.
If I have the life to live.

Now,I am 85
and I know that I am dying.

Jorge Luis Borges


The History of Night – Jorge Luis Borges

July 24, 2009

History of the Night

Throughout the course of their generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
thev sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhuastible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.

And to think that she wouldn’t exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.


The Piano – D.H. Lawrence

July 3, 2009

This poem is a gift to my brothers.


By D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.


The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter – Li Po

June 22, 2009

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord, you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away.
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fo-Sa.

Translated by Ezra Pound


River Walk – Victor Bravo

May 28, 2009

can you see the green
can you see the sand
i can hardly see my path
100’s of ufo’s everywhere
lean to the left
lean to the right
a heavy 4 head
will take me home
home to a cyclone
a cyclone of bliss


Three Brothers – Victor Bravo

May 27, 2009

This train doesn’t owe three brothers
and a dear friend a damn thing. It can jump

track just as easy as we can
ignite four back packs full of C4

with iPod detonators, on our way
to the city that has a chip on its shoulder,

in this under water vessel.
I wouldn’t stone a man for stealing a fish,

boulders were thrown at my face scarring
my brow. Liquor filled, feeling fantastic, taking

in wheat water and our favorite whiskeys
with my two favorite people. Purple, blue,

green, and yellow lights slice
through our eye lids, while the beautiful melodies

caress the deepest parts of our inner ears.
We spit in the face of the city, slap its cheeks

and piss in its trash cans. The over zealous
Asian woman smokes cigarettes

and does what she does