.

.:Poetry:.

.:August 09, 2004:.

I found out about this poet in an accident of sorts. Since then have seen him in Def Poetry, on HBO and everything that comes out of his mouth seems to come in waves of strength, sensitivity and intelligence that are just completly disarming.
It's ironic that he seems to contradict his own portrayal of men, but then again, I'm sure the irony isn't lost in him.
Personally I think I've been lucky, since my individual experiences as a woman have brought me in contact with men for whom I mostly have nothing but respect, admiration and love. From the standpoint of a human being, and yes, a proud woman, looking at society as a whole, my contempt for the whole macho attitude could not have been presented more beautifully and intelligently than by ... this man...a sketeboarder....an artist...a poet....Mark Gonzales..

AS WITH MOST MEN

As with most men, it is easier for me to give hugs than to accept them,
Let the truth be known that men are nothing more than emotional skyscrapers,
built with glass infrastructures, spray painted the color of steel and nicknamed "Strength"

Strange, isn't it?

What walking contradictions are we called men...

Men are taught to colonize at the age of 5 through games like cops and robbers,
cowboys and indians
At the age of 8 we are given helmets and told to hit each other on the head with it,
Bleed but do not bleed,
Cut but do not cry,
Be a man, join the military,
Die for your country, and if death comes to you,
Look it in the eye and say:
Bring it on, mother-fucker, I fear nothing but intimacy.

When it comes to intimacy men quiver like fault lines, crumble like cities

What walking contradictions are we called men...

Men sign peace accords while abusing their wives,
Accept the Nobel Peace prizes while reducing health care,
Pledge to rid the world of terrorism while simultaneously denying government aid to any country that defends a woman's right to choose

During the 1970's the US government forcebly sterilized an estimated fifty percent
of the indigenous population of America's Mid-West telling them the process was reversible

Can you say biological terrorism?

In a global war against terror, maybe testosterone is the real terrorist
And if so, how many of these Star Spangled singing, flag waving citizens would
continue to do so If terror was not racialized, but gendered?

Would the US military turn its guns on itself for a sex trap across Southeast
Asia, Africa and the Americas?
Would MTV be firebombed for its subjectification, hyper-sexualization of our women of colored bodies?
Would we stop looking towards the muslim world for misogyny and instead
turn our sights to Madrid, Montreal, New York, Los Angeles?

And I understand my sisters when they say every woman has a story that's been told a maxim of one soul, maybe less
And that is why you'll never hear me call a woman slut, bitch or a dyke,
No matter what she does, because I do not blame her
I blame the men who have emotionally and physically raped her,
I blame these corporations whose images tell them they hate her,
And I put my arms on her shoulder and tell her how great to life and
to God that SHE created her

Men, take note, this is how you give love,
This is how you receive hugs.
Press flesh to flesh till breast crumple,
Like emotional origamy.

.:May 21, 2004:.

The news have been so dreary I have in a way been depleted of words to express all that is going on. So due to inability to verbalize or just laziness to do so, I decided to post instead words from those who can say it better than I can:

To Him that was Crucified
by Walt Whitman

That we all labor together,
transmitting the same charge and succession;
We few, equals, indifferent of lands, indifferent of times;
We, enclosers of all continents, all castes—allowers of all theologies,
Compassionaters, perceivers, rapport of men,
We walk silent among disputes and assertions,
but reject not the disputers, nor any thing that is asserted;
We hear the bawling and din—we are reach’d at by divisions, jealousies, recriminations on every side,
They close peremptorily upon us, to surround us, my comrade,
Yet we walk unheld, free, the whole earth over,
journeying up and down, till we make our ineffaceable mark upon time and the diverse eras,
Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races,
ages to come, may prove brethren and lovers, as we are.



José
by Carlos Drummnd de Andrade

And now, José?
The party's over, The light is out.
The people have left, The night's turned cold,
And now José?
You who are nameless
You buzz about others
You who make verses
You love and protest,
And now, José?
You don't have a woman,
You have no one to talk to,
You don't get affection
You can't drink any more.
You can't smoke any more.
You can't even spit.
The night's turned cold,
You didn't see daylight,
Or the next streetcar,
Or laughter.
You didn't see utopia,
And everything's over,
Everything's gone away,
Everything's silent,
And now, José?
And now, José?
Your sweet word,
Your feverish moment
Your feasting and fasting
With your works of gold,
In your suit of glass
Your incoherence,
Your hatred - and now?
With the key in your hand,
You wanted to open the door,
The door doesn't exist.
You want to die in the sea,
But the sea has dried up.
You want to go back home,
But home's not there.
José, what now?
If you yelled, If you moaned
If you played a Vienna waltz
If you slept If you got tired...
But you don't get tired.
Alone in the dark
Just a beast in the woods
With no theology
With no blank wall to shelter yourself
With no black horse to flee at a gallop,
You're walking, José,
José,
but to where?

For Carlos Drummond de Andrade books, CLICK HERE

.:April 16, 2004:.

There once was a Brazilian poet named Carlos Drummond de Andrade. Born in 1902, he dared to spend his life writing poetry with decadent abandonment until his death in 1987.

His musical words gave voice to moments of political inquiry and personal happiness, but mostly, resonated in the hearts of those going through moments when you feel like:

"Your Shoulders Hold Up The World"

A time comes when we no longer can say: my God.
A time of total cleaning up.
A time when we no longer can say: my love.
Because love proved useless.
And the eyes don't cry.
And the hands do only rough work.
And the heart is dry.
They knock at our door in vain, we won't open.
We remain alone, the light turned off,
and our enormous eyes shine in the dark.
It is obvious we no longer know how to suffer.
And we want nothing from our friends.
Who cares if old age comes, what is old age?
Our shoulders are holding up the world and it's lighter than a child's hand.
Wars, famine, family fights inside buildings prove only that life goes on
and not everybody has freed themselves yet.
Some (the delicate ones) judging the spectacle cruel will prefer to die.
A time comes when death doesn't help.
A time comes when life is an order.
Just life, without any escapes.

"To Remember Life"

How to remember without suffering?
to recollect without horror?
The sound has transported me to that kingdom
where life does not exist
and I remain inert without feeling.
How to repeat, next day after next day
the unfinished story,
how to bear the image of harsh things of tomorrow
with the harsh things of today?
How to protect myself from wounds
that keep the event that caused them always present in me?
Any event that brings back to the earth its purple madness.
And most of all that wound I inflict on myself every hour,
something from the innocent I no longer am.
Nothing answers,
life has turned to stone.

For Carlos Drummond de Andrade books, CLICK HERE

Excerpt from
ELOISA TO ABELARD
by Alexander Pope

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain--do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

.:January 05, 2004:.

If You Forget Me
by Pablo Neruda

If you forget me
I want you to know one thing
You know how this is
If I look at the crystal moon
At the red branch of the slow autumn at my window
If I touch near the fire the impalpable ash
Or the wrinkled body of the log
Everything carries me to you
As if everything that exists - aromas, light, metals
Were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours
that wait for me
Well, now If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you
Little by little
If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you
If you think it long and mad
the wind of banners that passes through my life
And you decide to leave me
at the shore of the heart where I have roots
Remember
That on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
And my roots will set off to seek another land
But, if each day, each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
With implacable sweetness
If each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me
Ahh my love,
ahh my own,
in me all that fire is repeated
In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten
My love feeds on your love, beloved
And as long as you live,
it will be in your arms without leaving mine

.:October 25, 2003:.

My Heart

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar.
And if some aficionado of my mess says
"That's not like Frank!", all to the good!
I don't wear brown and gray suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart
— you can't plan on the heart, but the better part
of it, my poetry, is open.

Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)

.: September 1st, 2003 :.

"I Like For You to be Still"
By Pablo Neruda

(Click here for the recording with Glenn Close)

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove. And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

.: August 31st, 2003 :.

People seems to have forgotten the poem at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. So here it is.

The New Colossus
byEmma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome;
Her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!"
Cries she with silent lips.
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


.:August 25, 2003:.

No political ranting today, no suggestion of shows you must see or art pieces to discover. No NY insight or picture. Nothing but a poem.. This is meant to translate my mood and the mood today is somber.

Distance

Distance creeps in...
Its icy fingers slowly taking hold of mind and senses,
making the soul grow weary
with the weight of longing

It freezes the heart,
until pain, and fear that it might shatter,
prevents the fine line that keeps you connected
from stretching any further

Contact becomes a burden,
full of guilt,
more like a favor,
or worse yet, an imposition...
the ever present feeling that we are but weight
on someone's else's shoulders

Its cold breath turns memories into sketches
and close friends into ghosts..
longed, not existing.
Turns lovers into bitterness,
passions into mistakes

It's a gentle destroyer,
this creature called Distance.
It moves in, at first, uninvited
It settles itself, diguised as freedom
It takes over until there is nothing left,
nothing but chill ...
the heart struggles to remember what it is you had
but lost,
only to be silenced...
since it's now too late