Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
[Summer of 2002]
?wind was blowing furiously
It never left for a moment
Bursts of fury
I found it difficult to keep
My feet placed, thus,
I clung to my knees
For one blissful moment
I could not now disguise it
Some subtle feeling
Then the current drew
Sharply away from me
With her mystery-
Back out into the open sea
Yet-, still it roared back at me!
It was an expressed release
It made my head swim
I noticed it kept-step
With my exultation!?
Notes: There are mysteries to the sea, at times it seems as to have its own mind, its own character; as if nature was plugged into all that exist. Earth itself being an entity with its own lively soul. We all seem to be somehow connected do we not, to the sea, to its ghosts that live within it; to the earth that holds it, and its atmosphere about us that seems to a balance between man, nature and space. Even the moon has its duties to the earth, and man, to protect us from harmful elements. Who gave them such a command? Someday it wall all fly into space, the oceans and all, and earth knows it, and wants to share with us-as it is part of us-its accommodating mystery, while time lasts.
Do not be afraid to shine.This world needs what you have to give.
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.
Burning Autumn Leaves [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]My long steel pointed rake punctured And twisted through tons of autumn leaves(back in the '50s);And there's a hill yet, I didn't rake, I seeBehind it, two embankmentsLeaves I didn't rake a day ago;The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.
How to Write Bad Poetry
"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."--Oscar WildePeople write poetry for a plethora of reasons, but this article has a sharpened arrowhead aimed directly at the fingertips of amateur poets who wish to be published yet refuse to learn the attributes of a well-crafted poem.
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is representative of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by rheumatic heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey through poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and financial success can be identified by all Scots and common men the world over.
Opposites Do Attract Quite Well
When I am climbing up, you are stepping down.When I wear a smile, you wear a frown.
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.
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.
Tale of the: Old Hunter and the Golden Hare [In SPANISH and English now]
There once lived an old man and his goodwifeOn the edge of the thick of the woods;They lived in an old run-down shackFor forty-years and some.The old man hunted for his living,And his wife sewed on her lap.
The Butcher of Lima and Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley(Peru; in English and Spanish)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? .
AFRICA(to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africaafrica of the black soul the soul of an ancient culture the culture of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the talking drumsyour beaded drums and the royal trumpeterthe metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your ageless minstrelshave i not heard of your swinging hips!i have heard enough and have come to watchwouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribesthe timid tribes of your sweetened tongues the varied tongues of your virtuous menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the mother earthyour gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africayour kings of the ancient dynastythe ancient dynasty of rusted spear and shieldafrica, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awakepelting on men as well, the godsgathering itself drop by drop.
Contract of Death [Now: in SPANISH and English]
Contract of DeathI heard today, the preacher say:"Daniel has warned us long ago,Of the trials and tribulations weAre now facing, with our foes?"He says the 'Antichrist' was nowIn Europe crying: 'peace,' and the'Axis of Evil,' had already placedHidden Atomic Russian weaponsUnder our feet, here in the goodOle heart of the United States; 'Palestine's cry for peace,' he adds,Is a loaded Gun for Revelation 3:10;America. A 'Contract for Death,'Is what he called it.
Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem
Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the worries I brought you.I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue.
For My Mother
I cannot bear to thinkof when you will be gone.I do not understandhow I will get along.
Exalted Poetry; Two poem [and commentary]
Bells for Belphegor!..
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.
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree.
Write Your Way to Fame
Have you ever thought about how nice it would be to see your poem discussed in the New York Times? Think you have what it takes to become a famous poet? Well the unfortunate truth is that no one has what it takes to be a famous poet. Here's a little exercise: Name the most famous contemporary poet you can think of.
Publishing Your Poetry
If you are serious about seeing your work published by reputable publishers, there are a few points you should consider. Firstly and most obviously, you need to determine if you have poetry worth publishing.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tightAgainst her skeleton-Rose no more, just drapedLoosely over unpadded flesh;Un-tightened muscles, and tissue,Lost its courage, no-fortitude-,Gone are the days and yearsThat stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmarkHidden under flesh and bloodGuts and moral fiber, backbone?Collapsed from drudgeryTime, time: cascading inside-.Bones now leaving impressionsAccepting fateLike tarnished silver!.