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.
Mirror mirror,
Hanging in the wall.
Can you tell me,
Who is this old hag looking back?
Mirror mirror,
Can I ask
When did I become wrinkles and despair?
My reflection of today,
Not the photo of yesterday.
Time to burn those mementos i treasured more than time!
Arriba en el tejado,
Narra con el ceño fruncido un cuento.
El cigarrillo es el único que escucha.
Recuerda las luces de neón en el portón.
Dira dira up, up.
Los lazos del vestido se agitan con libertad.
Se hurga en la media agujereada,
El zapato sin tacón,
Medio rimmel embarrado.
Ayer....
Liba de la copa,
Muda de color.
Sobre el escenario su rival.
La aceituna se fue por mal lugar.
With a galaxial name,
It has nothing of the stars out earth.
No much but a humble maid,
Waltzing in a prairie among other skirts plied in eight.
Soon a rugged rebel,
Pinching skin,
Hitch hiking way.
Going to foreign patches of lawn across the stone divided fields.
Cracked skull,
Its contents leaking onto earth.
A white tentacle probes the air.
Gravity pulls,
Down the anchor tries bed.
A little hard, a little raw.
Down and down and down.
The skull explodes.
A green hand salutes.
And the once zombie chap
Waves November's light.
Ton la hoja rebota,
Ton el cosmos se dobla.
Ton sobre el pasto cae.
Un ejército mordelon.
Invisible.
Ton, ton, ton.
Solo audible.
A cada paso,
El rumor.
Hoyos en el verdor.
Such a faint forgotten being.
It was so soft a snore deep down.
No one could have called on.
Dragon and storm,
The sky blue black no where on sight before.
Until I was spitting salt and sand,
Without ground under my walk.
How did I get so close to sea,
To be swept by the stream?
How can this tiny being,
Tsunamis create?
Ominous lack of fangs.
Living in a small can.