AN ODE FOR IRONING
Poetry is white
it comes dripping out of the water
gets wrinkled and piles up
We have to stretch out the skin of this planet
We have to iron the sea in its whiteness
The hands go on and on
and so things are made
the hands make the world every day
fire unites with steel
linen, canvas and calico come back
from combat in the laundry
and from the light a dove is born
purity comes back from the soap suds.
- Pablo Neruda E-mail for moi: showmancine@yahoo.ca
Tus rodillas, tus senos
tu cintura
faltan en mí como en el hueco
de una tierra sedienta
de la que desprendieron
una forma,
y juntos
somos completos como un solo río,
como una sola arena.
Your whole body
holds When I let my hand climb, Your knees, your breasts, |
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  | --Stephen Mitchell |
copa o dulzura destinada a mí Tus rodillas, tus senos |
Your whole body holds When I let my hand climb, Your knees, your breasts, |
  | --Stephen Mitchell |
A whiff from the pubs has me sobbing my eyes out.
All I want is a break from rocks and wool,
all I want is to see neither buildings nor gardens,
no shopping centers no glasses no elevators.
Comes a time I’m tired of my feet and my fingernails
and my hair and my shadow.
Comes a time I’m tired of being a man.
Yet how delicious it would be
to shock a notary with a cut lily
or to kill off a nun with a blow to the ear.
How beautiful
to run through the streets with a green knife,
howling until I died of cold.
I don’t want to go on like a root in the shadows,
hesitating, pushing forward, trembling with dream,
down down into the dipped tripe of the earth,
soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.
I don’t want for myself so many misfortunes.
I don’t want to keep on as root and tomb,
alone, subterranean, in a vault stuffed with corpses,
frozen stiff, dying of grief.
That’s why Monday burns like kerosene
when it sees me show up with my mugshot face,
and it shrieks on its way like a wounded wheel,
trailing hot bloody footprints into the night.
And it shoves me into certain corners, certain damp houses,
into hospitals where bones sail out the window,
into certain shoestores reeking of vinegar,
into streets godawful as crevices.
There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
adorning the doors of houses I hate,
there are dentures dropped into a coffeepot,
mirrors
that must have bawled with shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons and belly buttons.
I pass by with serenity, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury and forgetting,
I go cruising the offices and orthopedic stores,
and patios where clothes hang from a wire
where underwear, towels and blouses cry
drawn out, obscene tears.
design: |
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design: <" class="abner">abnerpeacock & canoas |
"Soneto XII: Plena Mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente / Sonnet XII: Full woman, fleshy apple, hot moon" |
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