Poetry thread ...

[dweller]

WITH PLAIN WORDS

Poetry murdered a corpse,
it beheaded a creaking
high-principled gent,
it butchered him, the fool,
the flighty dude with his sad wing.
It spit on his head.
There was no shooting.
If anything, pale blood,
undernourished, dynastic,
or the puslike serum of lifelong slaves.
Several white dickeys fell silent,
all by themselves.
The horizon flew open. A whip cracked,
makeshift and pure.
Merchants milled hysterically
in the defiled temple.
When things calmed down,
four virgins rushed in, old, barren, obviously
on their last legs. Too late,
it was all over.
Poetry fled
from the coffin and the staff.
Ran into the hands
of the tough guy, the rising instrument,
the existentialist.
It rose up in his chest, it walked through dark
neighborhoods at the edge of town,
it tasted the mud, tasted his origins,
the stubborness of the mineral,
the light of the fighting arm.
And came out to meet us,
drowning out our words with plain words
we didn't recognize.

Jose Angel Valente


your turn,
dp

[CaliforniaPeggy]

1. OK.......mine isn't nearly as mysterious as yours...but still....

I like it....do you?

"Isn't it strange that princes and kings
And clowns that caper in sawdust rings
And common folk like you and me
Are builders of eternity?


To each is given a bag of tools,
A shapeless mass and a book of rules;
And each must make, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block or a stepping stone."

--author unknown

[dweller]

2. yes, i like it

it reminds me of Arthurian legends, without swords.

it's all perspective afterall on the road we travel.
dp

[miss_american_pie]

3. Pablo Neruda

Poetry


And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.