The September-October issue should be enough to keep you busy for a while. Enjoy.
Cooking
Over a boiling pot
we wait for small epiphanies
bemused by the stillness
of the branches outside.
Do our black cats make us
witches? Shall we burn?
The Inquisition says we shall.
The Weather
Sure, let’s talk about the weather
like our lives depend upon it
like our crops will fail
and famine will hit
our fatty brains.
Relieved that it won’t rain
we’ll go for a walk
step on our horseshit
and still come home miserable.
Better stay inside, watch a movie.
110/116
Between birthday parties
and treasure hunts
I have to explain
why I made him and
affirm I’ll still love him
after I die.
I’d never thought
I'd give myself up
but here we are
swearing by Jedi honor,
shovelling sand in ecstasy.
Nothing much in it
but abundant poetry.
Seaside Resort
Don’t scorn the floral patterns
and the doughnut-shaped waists
nor the high-pitched laughter
and the fuzzy stares.
Footsteps echo louder
at the end of August
and pining mixes with the smell
of fresher fish and ice-cream cones.
Grandpa
Old bones assembled by magic.
Nothing else seems to hold.
We all scolded him for lying
but he was the conqueror
of the seven seas
in my five-year-old mind.
He instilled in me two shipwrecks
an abstract love for Argentina
and going rogue under fake names
in the US in the 50’s.
The giant is folding in his seat:
An overripe camellia flower
that forgot to fall apart.
[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]
The May - June issue is out! Here you go:
American Football
Back and forth.
Circles disguised
in straight go routes.
Until you get things
right
things get you.
Until routes go straight
in disguised circles,
forth and back.
In Red
Those toes in the shower
I’m looking down to
belong to a Lynchian heroine.
They say depersonalization
results from violence
and I ponder over the form.
Do not knock, just enter.
Privacy is a luxury
only spoiling a good plot.
Alekaki
My friend likes the number eight.
It completes her broken parts
and promises the unity of one.
You will find her crouching
among quitting and lighting it up
on a white pile of unironed roles.
She’s the colour blue, as found
in nature: A wondrous reflection
of elusive light. A life of words.
Ode to Nothing
As a child I thought
I controlled the wind. Perhaps
the wind controls me.
Before great sorrow
the air stands still. I know then
something is coming.
Dry petals falling
like snow. Who’d have thought death would
be so beautiful.
Unhealthy are
Your stress relief habits
and the junk you eat.
How the world treats you
and what you think of it.
The screens you watch
and the dust you breathe.
But tomatoes won’t
save you from cancer.
Treating the symptom is
not the answer.
Wars will not be prevented
by treaties. And nobody likes kiwis.
[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]
The 17th issue is out, comprising a mix of formal and free verse. Read it here, and/or request a hardcopy, if you can't find one near you (which is most probably the case, except if you're in one of the common distribution areas or extremely lucky).
Impossible Grammar
I strive to tear down
the importance of the object
to the subject.
To breach meaning
I need the connectors to quit
their chatter.
The gerund at the end
forces me to think of action
as consequence.
Go, went, gone.
Paper skin, I will write on you
your conjugation.
Undecided
I was so fond of leaving
but then the crocuses bloomed
so I decided upon staying.
We just keep on astraying
when our conditions are poor
and I was so fond of leaving.
Then I thought that trying
was the grown-up thing to do
so I decided upon staying.
Seduced by the bird-singing
I had no choice but to stay put.
And I was so fond of leaving.
But the seasons are turning
and winter has a point to prove
to the one so fond of leaving
who decided upon staying.
Maturity Reversed
You’ve seen it in old westerns
how men in pain grind their teeth
in urgent operations in the desert.
That’s what it takes to beat the need.
Like a magpie desiring what shines
I habitually take dives in greed.
Indulging in you, who make me smile
I forget what it takes to beat the need.
Although I’ve dealt with most temptation
and have dared to declare myself free
in your presence I lose my persuasion
and don’t know how to beat this need.
Parents
Logs drifting down the
river, pretending to be
rooted, green-leafed trees.
And I
confused
by the false paradigm
I’m swimming
against the current
of my own disposition
hoping that
one day it will turn.
Can the fish ever change
the course of the sea?
Can the log ever grow
new rhizome or fresh leaves?
Birth
It's remarkable how life keeps on
creating life with irrational optimism
feeding on the throw-up of emotion.
Even as mere victims of darwinism
we still bridge what we aspired to be
and reality. Survival lies in surrealism.
The cat is licking her newborn lightly.
Her tongue a cloud flirting with the surface
of a velvet mountain of oblivious joy.
At times a long caress will suffice.
First you feel. Then you open your eyes.
[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]
Poetry Issues #1-21 is a compilation of the issues #1-21 of the Poetry Issues project. You will find all available information about the project as well as current issues here and you can download the e-book here.
If you happen to be in Leiden from 15 January to 22 February and you are interested in poetry, drop by BplusC, Nieuwstraat 4. The library's theme this month is poetry and there's an exhibition running in its spaces.
I'm happy to report that Poetry Issues has a display case of its own, thanks to Alida van Leeuwen, who noticed and invited my work to the library.
Poetry Issues #16, out now!
In Rhythm
Unsalted roasted
almonds chewed in half the pace
I walk up and down
always rehearsing the who
told what with which intention.
No matter how much
love you invest in four walls
they always remain
the unmoved victims of their
objective definition.
Up and down on a
herringbone wood floor. Chewing
unsalted roasted
almonds on the double. Who
told what and for what reason.
Prosperity
In between abysmal hollows
her golden teeth would glow
competing with the hearth
that fought the winter.
The fat rooster on her lap
twitched and still bled
as if alive, at each plucking
of a feather.
She had no reason not to laugh
with two gold teeth, a crackling
hearth and a fat chicken
for blessed supper.
Supermarket Dystopia
I can't tell if it’s going to be in California
and I doubt it that it matters
but you will be walking alone
along the great aisles
with a blinking laser gun
scanning products and people alike.
It’s among the frozen peas and spinach
that you’ll find the best green.
On the Wall
They co-existed, the darkness and the light.
And a fine defining line set the question
of together or apart. Relationships
were never meant to be like that, devoid
of shades, trapped in awkward shapes
with twisting edges. Most legends adorn
the shadows with bright stars to be
followed and adored while treading in
the mud of an unforgiving world. Back on
my wall, a show of open ends, attempting
to quickly stitch the cracks while the lights
still burn outside, just before they leave us
in the dark, without shades or decisive lines
foreshadowing the rise of our regrets.
The World
I asked how come there were no windows
and the voice said there was no point.
Behind those walls there were more walls
and who would care about bricks on bricks.
I meant to ask about the light coming in.
The house felt decreasingly like home
and I sold pewter charms for charcoal
to keep my hopes comfortably warm
by drawing rough gardens with trees
and doors with locks that I could pick.
[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]
Since the previous issue was all free verse, there's a fair share of formality in this one: "Retribution" is a pantoum (which happens to be one of my favorite forms), "Northern Beach in Bref Double" a bref double of course, and "Coming at the Florist" a golden shovel. Poetry Issues #15, out today:
Retribution
Memory should not be exercised.
Like a packet of quit smokes
it better remain undisturbed
in a locked box in the closet.
Like a packet of quit smokes
I hide your grayscale picture
in a locked box in the closet
in all-encompassing silence.
I hide your grayscale picture
mummified and fossilised
in all-encompassing silence
like an angry ancient god.
Mummified and fossilised
you better remain undisturbed
like an angry ancient god.
Memory should not be exercised.
Northern Beach in Bref Double
They arrived at the haven of bronze sun gods
and said: “We want five ships of fine sand.”
The pale seafarers got nasty sunburns but
were back home in time for the Indian summer.
They strewed it wavy, golden and silvery and
the children combed it by hand for better shells.
Even the fish came out of the sea to check it
when the workers headed home for hot supper.
Once, a lion’s mane jellyfish fell for a seagull
who was cruising the shore for leftovers at
a crowded spot. Before she died dehydrated
they both agreed the sea was their mother.
The children relished at the beast’s bad end
but a sudden limp burdened the seagull’s strut.
B Sides
Inside red apples fat worms inside the letterbox
a rageful cat inside dreams spiraling labyrinths
inside a struggling dignity marginalization inside
a deep-chest scream confinement inside unvarnished
sentences run-down desires inside the doll another
doll inside delusion the need to escape inside.
Sociology or That’s How You Rule the World
Your affordances will be reduced to one
as ecology will variate between
plastic A and concrete B.
As long as you let them engage with
stable fables peasants will trust
that one day they’ll be kings.
Turn sacred symbols into commodities
rob the fruits of their juicy essence
but give the natives beads.
Coming at the Florist
The iron door was left open by nobody
and the black cat assured me it had not
been her. Had I sniffed in the shop even
the slightest trace of evening rose, the
doubts would’ve dispersed. With such rain
it was hard to tell. But only my woman has
this sweet marmite blood that shoots such
piercing scents of love through the small
pores of her sweaty, rosy, cosy hands.
[You will learn more about the Poetry Issues project here.]
This twelfth issue, whose distribution started today, completes the first cycle of Poetry Issues. It has been a full year of poetic expression and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. From now on the publication will become bimonthly, in order to dedicate some time to other works.
You can read this issue below:
April’s Fool
It’s a joke, all this rain,
and I’m reminded
only by date that this
is the advent of spring.
And I envy the trees.
They seem to possess
the right time for everything:
Like clockwork they go
through winters and springs
accepting, always in majesty,
each turn of season that I
try, strong-headed and vain,
to manipulate and command.
You refused to hold my hand.
Life Without Temptation
I didn’t die nor resurrect
at the age of thirty three.
I’ve lost my chance.
And now I watch myself
mature to death –
an unappealing apple
without an Eve’s hand
to save me from counting
how many meters
before I hit the ground.
Afterwards
Pestered as they were by what happens next
they left their sentences undone, hanging
annoying as fruit flies, unsure of their direction
overwhelmed by the vast possibilities ahead.
But once, fueled by a whole night’s drinks
they raced into the pink-gold dawn that painted
all their hopes anew. That’s when they learned
that language is redundant when your soul
is smooth and it’s not only youth that burns with instinct.
Letter
I don’t have to tell you
that we are not what we seem.
You know it better than I do.
Your chatoyant eyes reflect some
passion you dismiss. I have proof
in the shivers I get when you come
to have a coffee under my roof
and rehearse your staged words.
Still, I hear nothing but the truth.
It must be an augmented chord,
what tunes us in each other.
Life before you was a chore.
I’m a moth heading to the lantern
for what is love but death, dear lover?
In Therapy
Most days I don’t remember my dreams.
It’s just that I often wake up with a sigh.
I’m quite hard and detest looking back.
Cicadas and lilac skies don’t amuse me.
In my youth I grieved imaginary deaths
far as I was from the need of an afterlife.
I found purpose in the half-time. I was
meant to be the eye of the universe.
[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]
The distribution of the 11th issue began today. Read the contents here:
You, Yes, You
I’m scared of your dark potential.
It unwinds serpentine
as you avoid collision and
– god forbid! – correlation
with other bodies on the street
all too efficient from having had
brushes with perceived fiends
but mostly eager to possess
a shallow pride you defend
by throwing tantrums of
unchecked greed and insecurity.
The Wanderer
Longing
often comes
in strange shapes.
Californian vineyards
and Australian seas
I haven’t seen you.
I don’t know if
I’ll get a visa for my dreams.
Of all the things
I left back home
I miss the hills.
The Drama-King
“I’m alone,” he cried
and pulled his hair
in desperation
from the small seat
on his high throne
but never looked beyond
his own reflection.
Victim
On the up side,
I’m not afraid of darkness
anymore. Horror
found me in broad daylight
and the hand was known.
In the Inside Pocket
An item or two of no importance.
An acorn or a corner of a leaf.
A marble and a hair clip.
Found poems meant to guide
and keep us grounded
respecting that we once
were children too.
By Your Sickbed
To attest the fact that
“our life is not our own”
I invent bunches of meaning
and lay them clustered
in the functions I perform.
I can be described at best
as mediocre or even arrested
in a wild adolescence of feeling.
But being given
one
more
chance
at efficient action, I twist
with abandon the wet towel
that will cool your forehead.
[If you would like to learn more about the Poetry Issues project, read this.]
Poetry Issues has just reached double digits! Enjoy this tenth issue right here:
February
The breeze stirs and then it moves us forward
with tangled hair and whirling splintered thoughts
and locks us in the chase of portentous
shapes in the low clouds. The soft grass writhes to
break free and its crystal prison of frost
stays relentless in its albinity.
But there is something in the lengthening
of light and the sonnets of the swallows
that travel from the lands of velvet warmth
that begs me to endure and join the strife.
It’s in the slight murmur of the willows
when the grey skies push upon their backs and
instead of lamenting they sing: “Perhaps
this isn’t such a bad month to be born in.”
Bus Commuters
Not the servants of a dark empire
of fast-drying concrete and steel
with hands and faces worn
by the tiredness
of a joyless looping life
but princes and queens
of flourishing kingdoms of the sand
with peach orchards where horses run free.
Distance
There is a longer
space between your words and mine.
We are diverging.
Just Watch
The history of
mankind is nothing but a
plucky fist raised high.
But now the fight is over
the color of our new couch.
Rectitude
Trying to rectify the wreckage
caused by the rectangularity
of the wretched electorate
the pious asked the rector
who exclaimed that there
was nothing to correct.
Anatomy
She ordered the surgeon
to remove her organs
and take pictures of her innards.
He was then asked to put them back,
and the money was good and the life
was tough. “I don’t understand,”
she said later, ignoring the sore
while her eyes still searched
on the photographic paper.
“My liver looks perfectly fine
but, where is my soul?”
Student with Purple Glasses
“And where do you dispose
the oil from the frying pan?”
She asked the landlady,
sincerely worried about the lack
of environmental planning.
There was a halo of smoke
rushing around her platinum hair:
“Just pour it on your trash.
It’s excellent sauce
for the lunch of the seagulls.”
[If you would like to learn more about the project, read this.]