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Favorite poems (post here)

I saw the massive list of favorite poets and I couldn't choose one, so I went for poems that stuck out in my mind. In no particular order:

-"Tintern Abbey" by Wordsworth.
"These beauteous forms, / Through a long absence, have not been to me / As is a landscape to a blind man's eye"

-"Old Movies" by August Kleinzahler. Live from the Hong Kong Nile club might be one of my favorite books of poems of all time.

-"The Waste Land" by Eliot. Can't get much more canonical, but there's a reason everyone talks about it so much.

-"Odi et amo" by Catullus. Yeah I know, its in Latin, but I just finished a course on him and found him to be as modern as some 20th century poets at times. The translated version is "I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you might ask. / I do not know, but I feel it happen, and I am tortured." Its a lot sharper in Latin, so I'll put that in here too:

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.

-Ok, enough of that Latin stuff. Another two-liner I like is "In the Station of a Metro" by Ezra Pound. The Imagists were kinda gimmicky, but they had the right idea.

I think I'll stop myself now and give someone else a chance.
My favourite poems authors is Szymborska and Miłosz. They are famous Polish writers and all of their poems are very good. I think it's translate to other languages, so i advice this poems.
I love John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and "Ode to Psyche" are beautiful... Byron, Wordsworth, Tennyson, all those Romantics wrote beautiful poetry. Smile I love Adrienne Rich, too, and Sharon Olds. Particularly, "Sex without love."

Sex Without Love
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Rilke, too, and his Sonnets to Orpheus poems.
theem wrote:

-Ok, enough of that Latin stuff. Another two-liner I like is "In the Station of a Metro" by Ezra Pound. The Imagists were kinda gimmicky, but they had the right idea.

I think I'll stop myself now and give someone else a chance.

I liked that Pound poem. Smile Also, Eliot -- yes, the Wasteland was such a nightmare to plow through as an undergrad. But when you're older, you realize the genius Eliot truly is. Very Happy
Over Christmas I found Peter Whigham's translation of Catullus on my shelf. I don't know how it got there--I don't rememer ever buying it, or why I would have owned it--I didn't study him in college. Sometimes I just buy books and I don't know why, because I find them for cheap at library book sales, or whatever. Anyway, I dont' even know why I picked it up, I was looking for something to read on the plane and WOW, it's fantastic. I absolutely agree with you. He's so...lazy, funny, broke, witty...and his jabs at his enemies and friends...scathing...brutal...hilarious.

I don't read latin, and read somewhere that Peter W.'s translations of his poetry are inaccurate at best (but err on the side of artful, which is fine by me), but if you do read latin, maybe you could describe to me a little what I'm missing.

I'm also a fan of Wordsworth--I think what sticks out most in my memory is the incident he describes in The Prelude, when he stole the boat. I was looking for it online just now but can't find exactly what I'm looking for.

And I have to mention one of my favorite contemporary poets, Stephen Dobyns,...the first poem of his I ever heard (it was read to me, actually, on a surprisingly memorable cigarette break years ago) was Spiritual Chickens.

A man eats a chicken every day for lunch,
and each day the ghost of another chicken
joins the crowd in the dining goom. If he could
only see them! Hundreds and hundreds of spiritual
chickens, sitting on chairs, tables, covering
the floor, jammed shoulder to shoulder. At last
there is no more space and one of the chickens
is popped back across the spiritual plain to the earthly.
The man is in the process of picking his teeth.
Suddenly there’s a chicken at the end of the table,
strutting back and forth, not looking at the man
but knowing he is there, as is the way with chickens.
The man makes a grab for the chicken but his hand
passes right through her. He tries to hit the chicken
with a chair and the chair passes through her.
He calls in his wife but she can see nothing.
This is his own private chicken, even if he
fails to recognize her. How is he to know
this is a chicken he ate seven years ago
on a hot and steamy Wednesday in July,
with a little tarragon, a little sour cream?
The man grows afraid. He runs out of his house
flapping his arms and making peculiar hops
until the authorities take him away for a cure.
Faced with the choice between something odd
in the world or something broken in his head,
he opts for the broken head. Certainly,
this is safer than putting his opinions
in jeopardy. Much better to think he had
imagined it, that he had made it happen.
Meanwhile, the chicken struts back and forth
at the end of the table. Here she was, jammed in
with the ghosts of six thousand dead hens, when
suddenly she has the whole place to herself.
Even the nervous man has disappeared. If she
had a brain, she would think she had caused it.
She would grow vain, egotistical, she would
look for someone to fight, but being a chicken
she can just enjoy it and make little squawks,
silent to all except the man who ate her,
who is far off banging his head against a wall
like someone trying to repair a leaky vessel,
making certain that nothing unpleasant gets in
or nothing of value falls out. How happy
he would have been to be born a chicken,
to be of good use to his fellow creatures
and rich in companionship after death.
As it is he is constantly being squeezed
between the world and his idea of the world.
Better to have a broken head—why surrender
his corner on truth?—better just to go crazy.
The Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

A really strong poem. I feel so good after every time I read it. It brings me peace, if that's possible.
A-Wishing Well by Robert Frost
(actually... lots of stuff by Frost. He's amazing)
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot
North South by Donald Hall
Missing Time by Ha Jin

If anyone would like to read the poems I've mentioned just reply with which ones and I'll gladly type them out and post them.
if music be the food of love, play on
give me excess of it, that the appetitie may sicken and so die

also a big fan of ginsberg and ee cummings.
ReubenWilliams wrote:
if music be the food of love, play on
give me excess of it, that the appetitie may sicken and so die

also a big fan of ginsberg and ee cummings.

i never got into E.E. Cummings, really. his stuff is bizarre and it's possible (actually, mostly probably) that I just don't understand it.
@evanc88: I don't get E. E. Cummings either. Razz I mean, I get him, and I suppose, on some level, I appreciate his experimentations with language, but I don't necessarily like them. To me, his lines sound awkward and choppy (meant to be like that, I know, for the most part, but I really don't like them).

@ReubenWilliams: I love Ginsberg as well. I like that poem a lot, when the speaker goes to the supermarket and finds Walt Whitman and Garcia Lorca... rather complex, but I like it. Smile

* * *

I have another poem I'd like to share with you guys:

by Stanley Kunitz


My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
I've got a few:

Nothing Gold Can Stay (Robert Frost):

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Invictus (William Ernest Henley)

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Then there's the opening sonnet from Romeo and Juliet:

Two households, both alike in dignity
(In fair Verona, where we lay our scene),
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life,
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death-marked love
And the continuance of their parents' rage,
Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage—
The which, if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

And also The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Very Happy
Dulce et Decorum by the master: Wilfred Owen

Wifred Owen wrote:

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori

Here you may find out the meaning of 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori'.
meet in rio
Far too many, so I'll just provide a few links. The Coleridge one and the T.S. Eliot ones are all just beautiful:

'La Figlia che Piange' (T. S. Eliot)
'Kubla Khan' (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' (T. S. Eliot)
'Poema 7' (Pablo Neruda)
'The Second Coming' (W.B. Yeats)
'Silent Noon' (Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
Sonnets from the Portuguese: 'I' (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
'The Walrus and the Carpenter' (Lewis Carroll)
The Waste Land (T. S. Eliot)

But if I have to give you just a few lines, then these ones (12--30) from 'Kubla Khan'; although the entire poem is just so beautifully rich and well worth reading:

Lines 12--30 of 'Kubla Khan' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote:
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
No one--I repeat, no one--from the twentieth century can even touch T.S. Eliot. The man is, in my opinion, the undisputed master of poetry from that period. He's a genius.

If you like Eliot, check out Conrad Aiken. He is a far too under-read poet who deserves a ton more attention. He was a contemporary of Eliot's and a great friend. His "House of Dust" is something I recommend.
@evanc88: Conrad Aiken is good. *nods*

@meet in rio: I laugh everytime I remember my professor joking (?) about Coleridge's substance abuse -- which was how he got to write "Kubla Khan." Razz
evanc88 wrote:
A-Wishing Well by Robert Frost
(actually... lots of stuff by Frost. He's amazing)

Oh, it's a long time since i have read any of his poems.. I sort of miss them.
Anyway, I love the poetry of Inger Hagrup and Halldis Moren Vesaas, both Norwegian poets.
Anyone here like Edgar Allan Poe? I had to learn his poems by senior year in High School. That wasn't so much of a feat, seeing how his poems are on an excellent rhythmic beat.

My favorite by him has to be "The Raven":
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Though I also like "Evening Star" and "A Valentine".

You can find an entire list of his great works here.

(These are my opinions)

God bless,
Ladies and gents, I've just had to clean up a considerable amount of posts.

Please remember that if you are quoting poems written by someone else, you must use the QUOTE TAGS

If the quote tags are ignored, I may have to close this thread, as much as I'd hate to, since I'm a poet myself.
Shewolf wrote:
evanc88 wrote:
A-Wishing Well by Robert Frost
(actually... lots of stuff by Frost. He's amazing)

Oh, it's a long time since i have read any of his poems.. I sort of miss them.
Anyway, I love the poetry of Inger Hagrup and Halldis Moren Vesaas, both Norwegian poets.

He's great to go back to every once in a while, or every day. Frost never gets old to me.
It's a peculiar thing that there not many modern poets mentioned here. And what does it mean? I won't dare to answer. Here's one of my favourites, also not so modern.

The change of color is likely and a difference a very little difference is prepared. Sugar is not a vegetable.

Callous is something that hardening leaves behind what will be soft if there is a genuine interest in there being present as many girls as men. Does this change. It shows that dirt is clean when there is a volume.

A cushion has that cover. Supposing you do not like to change, supposing it is very clean that there is no change in appearance, supposing that there is regularity and a costume is that any the worse than an oyster and an exchange. Come to season that is there any extreme use in feather and cotton. Is there not much more joy in a table and more chairs and very likely roundness and a place to put them.

A circle of fine card board and a chance to see a tassel.

What is the use of a violent kind of delightfulness if there is no pleasure in not getting tired of it. The question does not come before there is a quotation. In any kind of place there is a top to covering and it is a pleasure at any rate there is some venturing in refusing to believe nonsense. It shows what use there is in a whole piece if one uses it and it is extreme and very likely the little things could be dearer but in any case there is a bargain and if there is the best thing to do is to take it away and wear it and then be reckless be reckless and resolved on returning gratitude.

Light blue and the same red with purple makes a change. It shows that there is no mistake. Any pink shows that and very likely it is reasonable. Very likely there should not be a finer fancy present. Some increase means a calamity and this is the best preparation for three and more being together. A little calm is so ordinary and in any case there is sweetness and some of that.

A seal and matches and a swan and ivy and a suit.

A closet, a closet does not connect under the bed. The band if it is white and black, the band has a green string. A sight a whole sight and a little groan grinding makes a trimming such a sweet singing trimming and a red thing not a round thing but a white thing, a red thing and a white thing.

The disgrace is not in carelessness nor even in sewing it comes out out of the way.

What is the sash like. The sash is not like anything mustard it is not like a same thing that has stripes, it is not even more hurt than that, it has a little top.

Gertrude Stein, from Tender Buttons, Objects, 1914.

Already mentioned "Wasteland" is also great but too long to put here I guess. Smile
does a poem i wrote my self count?
My favorite poem Homesickness by Marina Tsvetayeva. So here this poem is translated into English

Homesickness! that long
exposed weariness!
It's all the same to me now
where I am altogether lonely

or what stones I wander over
home with a shopping bag to
a house that is no more mine
than a hospital or a barracks

It's all the same to me, captive
lion what faces I move through
bristling, or what human crowd will
cast me out as it must

into myself, into my separate internal
world, a Kamchatka bear without ice.
Where I fail to fit in (and I'm not trying) or
where I'm humiliated it's all the same.

And I won't be seduced by the thought of
my native language, its milky call.
How can it matter in what tongue I
am misunderstood by whoever I meet

(or by what readers, swallowing
newsprint, squeezing for gossip?)
They all belong to the twentieth
century, and I am before time,

stunned, like a log left
behind from an avenue of trees.
People are all the same to me, everything
is the same, and it may be the most

indifferent of all are these
signs and tokens which once were
native but the dates have been
rubbed out: the soul was born somewhere.

For my country has taken so little care
of me that even the sharpest spy could
go over my whole spirit and would
detect no native stain there.

Houses are alien, churches are empty
everything is the same:
But if by the side of the path one
particular bush rises
the rowanberry...
Some new favorite poets:

Joshua Mehigan (his first collection, 'The Optimist,' is amazing; he also published a poem in Poetry magazine called "Fanatics" that is one of the best I"ve read recently.

Dana Levin (she writes amazing poetry, really conceptual)

Wendell Berry (Kentucky native, writes the odd gem every once in a while. Try to find a collection with his poem "Do Not Be Ashamed")
in Just by e. e. cummings
and Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll
This is in Spanish... but I love it, hope you guys like it

Tierra mojada es lodo
No hay excusa
La única magia en este realismo se llama sobrevivencia
Exponer la virtud pa´no morirse de tedio y la carta oficialista
lo denomine pereza del trópico.

¿Cómo acceder a la subordinación?
¿Acaso no estás cansado?
Lo mismo es la constante más repetitiva.

Somos muy pocos pa´comenzar la insurgencia
Sería jugarle al suicidio
Hace falta convencerlos de que no son lo que creen ser
La fe sólo distrae cuando no existe alguna opción por ejercer.

¿A quién cobija esta bandera?
Sólo a la hibridez engañosa
A la confusión exacta
Al dueño del cine.

Demasiado acostumbrados a pedir favores
A encontrar soluciones calibradas
Previo condicionamiento
Pérdida de aliento
Seguimos perdiendo el tiempo.

Hay que accionar el arrebato
Legitimar la repropiación bajo la ley del grito colectivo
Y aprender a no sentirse ladrones
Porque fue por eso que constituyeron la ética.

Hay que movilizar las ideas
Omitir el gracias hasta que el último de la fila reciba el cheque
Sólo asi me veras relajado
No es nuestra conciencia optativa
Ni relativa a la temporalidad del fervor universitario
Su rastreador electrónico tuvo un mal funcionamiento en este cuerpo libertario.

Quédate con el heroísmo
Siempre dándole tintes de ingenuidad a la carencia
Una pobreza romántica, de monte,
A fuego lento
Se ha constituido así el mayor bloqueo a la emancipación
Por y para nosotros mismos
El hipnotismo de la leyenda y su praxis.

Semanas embarrados de pobredumbre para obtener ese diamente en bruto
No lo toques, jamás será tuyo
Huélelo, admíralo
Pero no lo toques,
Jamás será tuyo.

Fuerza de trabajo por definición
Producir sin derecho al disfrute
No le corresponde a tu existencia
Recuerda los libros de historia natural,
es tu lugar.

Frotando piedras es fuego
Hilando al viento veo
Si el orden viene de arriba abajo y de derecha a izquierda,
no es válido el progreso,
No cuadra el balance,
No hay injusticia amable.

Hoy aquí estoy
Existo es la matriz preludio al pienso
No pidas calma
Llámame Argelia frente a los galos
Palestino en Gaza
Negro en casa
Indio en masa.

Ya se me ha olvidado qué se siente el miedo que inculcaste.
Voy por ti
Por ti vamos
Disfruto tu nerviosismo
Ya no estas soñando.

Soy un producto de tu ImaRginación.

-Poesía "ImaRginación" de Bocafloja, contenido en el libro ImaRginación.-
DH Lawrence


From New Poems (1916)

The trees in trouble because of autumn,
And scarlet berries falling from the bush,
And all the myriad houseless seeds
Loosing hold in the wind's insistent push

Moan softly with autumnal parturition,
Poor, obscure fruits extruded out of light
Into the world of shadow, carried down
Between the bitter knees of the after-night.

Bushed in an uncouth ardour, coiled at core
With a knot of life that only bliss can unravel,
Fall all the fruits most bitterly into earth
Bitterly into corrosion bitterly travel.

What is it internecine that is locked,
By very fierceness into a quiescence
Within the rage? We shall not know till it burst
Out of corrosion into new florescence.

Nay, but how tortured is the frightful seed
The spark intense within it, all without
Mordant corrosion gnashing and champing hard
For ruin on the naked small redoubt.

Bitter, to fold the issue, and make no sally;
To have the mystery, but not go forth;
To bear, but retaliate nothing, given to save
The spark in storms of corrosion, as seeds from the north.

The sharper, more horrid the pressure, the harder the heart
That saves the blue grain of eternal fire
Within its quick, committed to hold and wait
And suffer unheeding, only forbidden to expire.

Source: The LiteratureNetwork
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