Posts Tagged ‘ poems ’

seedings issue 1 duration press

the body is a sacred place
because it bursts with life and lasts



in between clouds and
the moon ideas
drift . . .



the loved one won’t go to the Night
Palace where women and wine
are waiting


from Etel Adnan – At Two in the Afternoon (tr. Sarah Riggs)

seedings issue 1 duration press


Three Poems by Vittoria repetto – EOAGH

a poem of thanks

in my 20’s,
coming home
3am from the dyke bar
i climb the stairs up from dekalb station.
a monarch butterfly flutters on the stair lights;
lost from its course.
thinking someone might hurt it,
i wait ‘til it closes
its wings together,
softly grab the paired wings
wait for it to relax its legs;
once taught to me
when i was a kid
by the old italian guy
who grew morning glories
next to the bocce court on leroy.
i cup the monarch in my hands like a prayer.
out on the street,
3 young guys
coming from where i need to go
hey dyke!
where you going, dyke!
i figure i’m in trouble
then i remember
i still have the butterfly
and need it let it go.
i turn,
face my future beaters,
lift buddhist prayer hands to my face,
open and push the butterfly away.
it flies towards their faces.
the 3 guys duck,
confused and startled.
as the monarch goes safely to its course,
i too
go safely home.



poems by Vittoria reperto at EOAGH

“La poesia è un ologramma del mondo” – Shuntaro Tanikawa: ‘Letters’ e poesie – vengodalmare


Video Lettera n.6

Before We Were Born

When you were yet unborn
and I was yet unborn,
we smelled together the scent of the air
when lightning sliced the cloudy sky.
And I realized that
some day suddenly we would meet
on an ordinary street corner here on Earth.

Shuntaro Tanikawa

from “La poesia è un ologramma del mondo” – Shuntaro Tanikawa: ‘Letters’ e poesie

Source: “La poesia è un ologramma del mondo” – Shuntaro Tanikawa: ‘Letters’ e poesie – vengodalmare

Pictures of Elk | Boston Review


Pictures of Elk
Noelle Kocot

Source: Pictures of Elk | Boston Review

Fernando Pessoa: Alberto Caeiro: The Keeper of Flocks

from The Keeper of Flocks

by Alberto Caeiro da Silva

from I

* * *

I don’t have ambitions or desires.
Being a poet isn’t my ambition,
It’s my way of being alone.

* * *


When I look, I see clear as a sunflower.
I’m always walking the roads
Looking right and left,
And sometimes looking behind…
And what I see every second
Is something I’ve never seen before,
And I know how to do this very well…
I know how to have the essential astonishment
That a child would have if it could really see
It was being born when it was being born…
I feel myself being born in each moment,
In the eternal newness of the world…

I believe in the world like I believe in a marigold,
Because I see it. But I don’t think about it
Because to think is to not understand…
The world wasn’t made for us to think about
(To think is to be sick in the eyes)
But for us to see and agree with…

I don’t have a philosophy: I have senses…
If I talk about Nature, it’s not because I know what it is,
But because I love it, and that’s why I love it,
Because when you love you never know what you love,
Or why you love, or what love is…

Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not thinking…


Live, you say, in the present;
Live only in the present.

But I don’t want the present, I want reality;
I want things that exist, not time that measures them.

What is the present?
It’s something relative to the past and the future.
It’s a thing that exists in virtue of other things existing.
I only want reality, things without the present.

I don’t want to include time in my scheme.
I don’t want to think about things as present; I want to think of them as things.
I don’t want to separate them from themselves, treating them as present.

I shouldn’t even treat them as real.
I should treat them as nothing.

I should see them, only see them;
See them till I can’t think about them.

See them without time, without space,
To see, dispensing with everything but what you see.
And this is the science of seeing, which isn’t a science.



I went out very early in the morning today
Because I woke up even earlier
And there was nothing I wanted to do…

I didn’t know which road to take
But the wind rose strong, sweeping up from one side,
And I followed the road where the wind pushed at my back.

That’s how my life has always been, and
That’s how I’d like to be able to have it always be —
I go where the wind leads me
And don’t feel like thinking.



The Last Poem
(dictated on the day of his death)

It may be the last day of my life.
I saluted the sun by raising my right hand,
But I didn’t really salute it or even say good-bye to it.
I showed it that I’ve liked seeing it before. Nothing else.


Alberto Caeiro Blogspot

Pier Paolo Pasolini: Eight poems for Ninetto (1970–73) | Jacket2

Pier Paolo Pasolini and Ninetto Davoli

Source: Pier Paolo Pasolini: Eight poems for Ninetto (1970–73) | Jacket2

Five by Chia-Lun Chang | The Brooklyn Rail

The Scar


He crouches to kiss my scar on my right knee softly and raises his head to sniff my
blue shirt. He does not know that I am looking at him with an unknown sentiment.
The odor of his neck, the color of his skin and the sentences from his mouth all
belong to me at this moment. He looks back at me with a pair of glistening animal-like
black pupils.

The scar is pink and dark brown. Like a little monster reborn, it roars on my body. I
got it in a car accident. That year summer was hotter than any summer before. I
had just come back from a southern kingdom, my body still smelling like fish
sauce, sea breeze and aimless traveling. But the adults said it was the time to settle
down, so my auntie found a job for me. I began a routine life like a hamster in her

No one knows what happens under the sea. When the surface is calm and
peaceful, something may be growing underneath.

I started to go to sleep on time, and food tasted like paper. I read the newspaper but
pretended nothing had happened in my little and narrow world. I talked politely to
everybody and I rode my scooter faster and faster. I thought there had to be an exit
to this life and I tried so hard to find it. But every morning was still a nightmare

I knew it was going to happen, but just did not expect when. I felt one part of my
brain tear and call, “bleeding is better than boredom.” Maybe I was just waiting.
The morning was as hot as usual. The traffic light turned red, and I thought I had
one more lucky chance. I sped up the throttle, and suddenly a row of soldiers came
out. From a side street I turned my steering wheel to the left and my scooter
instantaneously slipped on the ground. Sunshine beamed directly into my eyes. I
was lying on the ground with my wounded body and the sky was an extremely
beautiful cyan-blue from that angle, just like the summer before. I had not seen any
color for a while because I did not even think about raising my head to the sky.

After the accident, I quit my job and now I am lying on his arm sobbing for no
reason. Both of us are drunk on a bottle of red wine.

He says, “It is okay, everything is going to be fine.” With his deep voice, he gently
calls my name. Both of us know it is a lie, but we live in this lie. And we need the
lie, like a baby needs amniotic fluid. Just as when you go swimming, you need
water to move through; we rely on lies, and then we can keep going on. It is not
fine. I know I have to find a job as soon as possible or my family will be angry and
I will be broke.

But I am not in a rush. I am lying and listening for something to happen. I am
looking at the wall and waiting for something to happen. I am sitting by the side of
the wind and waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens but the birds are
singing, the kettle is emitting clouds of steam, the ants are walking across the
wooden table, the dictionary whispers, the chairs are posted as sentries, the flowers
are blooming, the soap is exuding a smell, and the tap is dropping its tears and my
scar is waiting to be kissed.

I want to hurt him so badly. But I decide to lie on his arm, kiss his scar back and

by Chia-Lun Chang


Source: Five | The Brooklyn Rail