Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]
Fair Andes! Thy arms reach high
Of iron-woven solid stone
Thu art a condor to the sky
Of glory hidden in thy heart
So many paths, a maze of art?
In thy old, Mantaro Valley
Where adobes, breathe and tremble
Beyond your rustic shadows
There lays the prettiest of brooks
Is my heart, within its stream!
My image deeply carved, rippled
In its undiluted shallow waters
Waiting, just waiting for me?
As it opens up, opens up my soul
My rippled soul-searching-eyes!...
Note: Between Lima, Peru, and the Andes, and just beyond is the Mantaro Valley; therein, lays the area and village called San Jeronimo; tucked away within its foliage, and rustic background, is a brook, a stream that runs down form the mountains. It is a lazy and peaceful place. It glistens with the sun. What more can I say. #725 6/10/05
A las Montañas
[ o : Arroyo de San Jeronimo]
¡hermosos Andes! tus brazos llegan alto.
De piedra tejida por hierro sólido
tu eres un condor para el cielo
De gloria ocultada en tu corazón.
Tantos caminos, un arte de laberinto ?
En tu viejo, Valle del Mantaro
Donde los adobes, respiran y tiemblan
Más allá de sus sombras rústicas
Allí descansa el más bonito de los arroyos
¡Està mi corazón, dentro de su corriente!
Mi imagen profundamente tallada, ondulada
En sus aguas no diluidas bajas
Esperando, solamente esperando por mí ?
Asi como esto se abre, se abre mi alma
¡Mis ojos de examen de conciencia ondulados!...
Note: Entre Lima, Perú, y los Andes, y solamente más allá està el Valle del Mantaro; allí dentro descansa el area y el pueblo llamado San Jeronimo; metido dentro de su follaje, y el fondo rústico, es un arroyo, una corriente que corre hacia abajo de las montañas. Esto es un lugar placido y pacífico. Esto brilla con el sol. Que más puede yo decir. *725 6/10/05
Fingers inside my Dream
"Who's inside this dream of mine?"
No stars, no orbits only pale dim light
A cold moon, with fleecy clouds-
Death, death within a crimson dream?
Shall I wakeup to find myself free? (or)
Closed in, stuck in this frozen dream??
?to fine I was never where I thought-
Nor exactly what I thought. I was
In this dream with fingers hanging?
?stinging, grabbing me in this dream;
Trying to wake me up-to reality?
To tell me, it was all a dream
Dedos dentro de mi Sueño
¿" Quién està dentro de este sueño mio?"
Ninguna estrella, ninguna órbita sólo palidez de luz débil Una luna fría,
con nubes lanudas-
Muerte, muerte dentro de un sueño carmesí ?
¿despertarè para encontrarme libre?
¿Metido, pegado en este sueño congelado ??
?Para bien yo nunca estuve donde pensé-
Ni exactamente lo que pensé. Yo era
En este sueño con dedos prendidos....
?hiriendome, agarrándome en este sueño;
tratando de despertarme a la realidad ?
Para decirme, era todo un sueño
Ceasar Vallejo: Black Roses [In English and Spanish]
Cesar Vallejo: Black RosesBow down your head ol' poet-To face God's grace aheadThere are no more trenchesTo dig today?In the forest of your head,So-:Bow down, bow down,Ol' barbaric poet!Death rides the horse aheadI hear the crackling of a whipSee the crazed eyes of death.He summons you to his den-The devil and his wind,So-:Bow down, bow downYour blood stained browsHe will take you to the edge.
Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the proper word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster events that are said to take place; and two poems dealing with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.Aztec BabyOn December 25, 2012 ADThe Devil had an idea-He'd clone himselfIn the form of a baby;Called the Antichrist.
The Gaul of La Laguna de Paca
Part OneI tell you a legend of long agoOf the sunken city of La Laguna de Paca,(Where I had met a lingering ghost)Within this region of Huancayo--Peru;Truth lies, but only the soul knows.Part TwoSo the legend goes, of long ago:During the rising of the full moonThe Mermaid of La Laguna de Paca, appearsAnd to the nearby towns folks, she echoes.
Ode to: The Ice Maiden of Ampatos Summit [now in: English and Spanish]
Dedícate to Antonio Castillo. L.
The Time Has Come and Buzzing
Most of my poems are written late at night, often, as this one was, after I have turned out the lights to go to sleep. It seems that is the time when I am most creative.
Ballade of an Inca King
Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and landSays the Inca King?;In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,For sail to Peruvian shores;The murmur of the gold is sweet,It glows and glistens like the sunA mountain of gold, or the graveAwaits the human, Inca-god?!Spaniards sing their songs of victoryWhere breaks the green Peruvian sea;Who now, worships the Inca King (?) Guarded behind prisons doors-?They chatter about his golden ringsThey watch the winds cross the shores?They count the days that idle by,For gold they worship and will die.Envoy.
Four Poems: Harvest of Apoplectic Horses [Katrinas Pathway]
Four Poems: Katrina's PathwayHarvest of Apoplectic Horses((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)It has happened before:Nearby and afar,Where the four-horses ofApocalypseWith their flaming nostrilsBreathed in the fury of the windsOnly to vomit out, disaster; -Then galloped away,Against pale faces!..
Poetry "Reborn" Emerges In Thriller Mystery Novel
Since Mohamed Ali-then Cassius Clay-announced that he had written "The world's shortest poem," I have known that I would be a poet. "ME? WHEE!" His triumphant proclamation evoking shivers within my troubled teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme.
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I huddle down, inside my coat,a commuter clone, just waiting for a train.Insidious rain, just drizzling down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and vision bleary, all night sat there writing COBOL, coding spread across the bed sheets, changing syntax for the mainframe,having checked my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand,I then invoked the SAVE command,but there below my effectuation,appeared the cryptic communication,"Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nothing more.
Infected Ideologies [a Poetic Portrait]
the disease of extremismis infectious-;whoever cannot think oftheir childgrowing up without itis part of the phenomenon! (the choice of the day).fanaticism,--with a powerful ideologyare seeds for suicide!murder: givingreasons to rage!.
Two Poems: Boyhood, and Old Age [with a note on style]
BoyhoodOh me! Thy glorious days have flown!I mealy noticed, now they're gone,How quickly passed the flowers!Time does not stop youth's bells;It was like I was in a spell,And my face now shows the hours!Ah yes! My youthful past days,Still lively in my golden age,When all was quick and newNow wrapped in pictures and books,And friends and family were all I knewAnd love was shown by friendly looks!#741 6/26/05Old AgeThey stop by to see me nowTo find what's old and new,They peer into my-everything, And criticize my views;They tell me what I should like,And that I should be grieved-These are my fragile friends That takes the strongest liberties?I mean to take the buzzer off;And put the phone outside the door;In vain I speak to tell them why-I shan't live here anymore!#742 6/26/05A note on Style: some people ask, "What style of poetry to you like the best?" I can never answer that question; it is open-ended to me. If I feel like breaking free from tradition as in the poem of: "Old Age," so be it; and if I feel traditional verse, a stricter formal pattern should be used, as in "Boyhood," and can contribute richly to the poem, so it is.
The Ballad of: Brawling Mad-dog Sergeant Rook [Now in: SPANISH and English]
English VersionA bunch of us guys in the hutIn ?NamWere playing cards, singing songs;In a solo-room, back of the hutLay mad-dog, Sergeant Rook;And watching from a distanceWas his sidekick, Corporal Cook.When out of the night, he wantedTo fightThis bully of six-foot-twoDog-drunk, smelling like a skunkI wanted to fight him too.
Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Famous Poets
"For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious attention than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley(English version)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Two Poems Written During Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we've been going through our things as most people must, to prepare for the new location, and in doing so, I found two poems, ones I wrote in 1990, now 15-years old, never published, and so I'd like to publish them today. I was a heavy drinker up to 1984 (some twenty years drinking), when I quite, and so these poems must have something to do with it, a slight reflection perhaps.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they sayWhen don Simon BolivarSlept in the arms of beautiful-Luisa Crober(of Jamaica); thus anAssassin missed his markWhen he stabbed Major AmestoySleeping in the darkIn Bolivar's hammock!.
Feelings, O How Glorious!
Sometimes we feel hard-pressed, Our backs against the wall; Sometimes we feel lightheaded, As if we are going to fall.Sometimes we feel fierce angerAt those who misuse guns; Sometimes we feel ashamedOf how we treat God's little ones.
The Lull of Twilight [Over Mantaro Valley] In English and Spanish
Twilight, was now beginning. As forthe sun, it was down-down overthe Mantaro Valley of Peru.
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most important poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was enchanted by the beauty of the natural world, frequently portraying its cruel and savage temperament in his work as a reflection of his own personal suffering and mystical beliefs - convinced that modern man had lost touch with the primordial side of his nature.