No quiero ser algo que desempolvar.
Y menos que memorizar.
Un descubrimiento siquiera.
Un placer oculto bajo las sábanas,
Una estrella marina insomne con luz azul que se obceca..
Pequeño título en un catálogo.
Palabras, palabras impresas.
Yo busco,
Un suspiro.
Una idea.
Una mariposa que duela.
Urging, urging, hurrying.
A bully cracking resolution.
Exhilaration behind façade,
the pages fell,
And the insurance gone to hell.
True, I bumped you.
What were you doing right behind in a street going up?
Trying to gain a mere metre of vantage?
Or searching for a fool to scam?
Damned you and your eyes.
And I curse you ahead,
To be shot in your spine.
At least to discharge.
Since I can't get it done out of spite.
Fisga entre el ajuar.
Un papel oficial con sello de duda.
Un teatro de boda,
Helada la hora,
El pez que abre la boca.
Al siguiente trecho,
Muerta y sin besos.
Un ave la busca.
Nula la espera.
El velo ondeaba enganchado a la caña.
Y el texano un escupitajo,
Tabaco.
La carga de datos no alcanzaba.
Entonces sobrevino la desgracia.
Y la app se quedó ahí.
Sin que quisieran borrarla.
Tampoco usarla.
A placid lake,
A half empty bottle and I take,
I can come back to dwell down there.
Where the sunset is reflected to mistake.
To your calm, short letter back.
To your sensible solutions about Italian not spoken great.
A nerf shot in disarray.
Reaching target without pain.
My friend, kilometres away.
You understand what's like.
Invisible on top of black.
A pair of triangles fold.
That's the movement I catch.
She listens to my pencil's scratch.
La musa bebe Chivas.
Es de regalo acento,
Bajo el peral parloteando con los cerdos.
Desaparición.
Y la maleta rosa que falta del closet.
Cirrosa,
Podría caer en cualquier parte.
Las marcas de hena,
Un mandala de libro para colorear.
Una muñeca en ángulo extraño doblada por la mitad.
Los tres osos del zoo husmeaban por la jaula,
Un cuidador dio la alarma.
Y el forense con una sola palabra:
Suicidio.
Dentro de la maleta.
Con marcas de golpes en las muñecas.
I walked through evanescent ashes,
A fog of dust raising.
Trust in a forlorn error of heart.
Derelicted my soft wishes.
Betrayal was the crow’s call.
What’s poetry? You inquire.
And such a question you dare,
Staring at me with blue hued eyes?
Poetry is you[1]
POETRY
Poetry is… something ineffable (besides the little stealing I just did to open the entry)
It can be so so tiny as two words like the famous Mohammed Ali’s “me-we” in a very emotional speech about unity and friendship.
It can be longer and contain 5,7 and 5 syllables as haikus do. Or be kilometric as the Iliad and something mythical called The Fairy queen[2].
WITHOUT IAMBIC STANZAS
Can it be done without metrics? Is music poetry? Rap? The cuisine? Can AI rhyme up poetry[3]?
A poem sounds nice. It is some kind of hybrid Pokemon where words play their games and gift us with nice sounds. Either by rhythm, translation of sound /rhyme) or sequence patterns (metrics). It can even be horrible but true.
IS THEN MUSIC POETRY?
If you ask the guys giving a Nobel to a singer… yes. And there won’t be a lack of complainers saying the next Nobel to this one could go to a comic drawer (back then it wasn’t time for the next Nobel yet). That won’t make a lot of change in the way storytelling works but it might change this or the other country’s PIB.
SENSORY AND ABSTRACTION
And again, I’m updating this entry. You’ve seen what Scott McCloud says in The invisible art of reading comics about abstraction. The more abstract, the more intimate. The more intimate, the more we identify with.
Such is the power of poetry, It evocates. It summons from nowhere the scalding cold of rain drops. It is the drained tuna or the novel without the blah blah… Niet. Not that last one sentence.
It has flow. It is relentless. It requires a more sophisticated literacy than anything. And it has survived conquests, darkness, religious debates and many other happenings. It can be heretic and still adore a being. It has evolved from chants accompanied by choruses and music to simple drawings ordered with an intention (poemojis). It has taken the shinkansen of rap and staid exactly the same as crocodiles. No changes.
Such is poetry, ineffable but something we know upon sight or hearing. A bundle of words [I know…stanzas]. Something idiotic. Something sublime.
How much poetry have you done this year? No matter of written or drawn. Pasto kalo.
[1] Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. All his poems are called Rima (rhyme)… and numbered. I don’t remember the number. Not sorry. My memory is not Asimov’s memory. It is mine.
[2] Mythical since I’m not reading it ever. And I won’t pretend I did.
[3] In the video I watched trying to define a poem, it was a no. But I wonder if the money people [I know, invertors] behind the movie Free Guy had a Chinese AI as CEO [AI’s can be nepotist already]. And, a lot of years after I wrote this entry in Spanish; Sunbaenim, my friend’s ChatGPT, can write short stories.
A while ago,
Still kicking up in verdor.
Indeed on ground.
Now a dried corpse.