And would like to share? Especially if it pertains to anything related to this subreddit. I'd love to hear it:)
13 Comments
[-]
u/IndridColdwave
9 points2022-12-03 08:37
I am no one
And on the way to nowhere
My legs buckle
I fall to my knees
Under the crushing weight of nothing
All that remains is a sound
A ragged cry
Calling from somewhere
At the beginning of time
[-]
u/Fluffy_visuals
7 points2022-12-03 09:20
ONLY DREAMS ARE TRUE
The tangible and real, On which our lives are based, Was yesterday’s ideal,
A rosy picture traced
By some quaint visionaryImpractical, “half-cracked”Painting his fancies eerie; And now it’s solid fact.
Whatever we hold stable, Dependable and sane Was once a hopeful fable Of “castles built in Spain.” Before the fact, the fancy, Before the deed, the Dream, That builds by necromancy
The hard, material scheme.
So all your towers that shimmer, Your lamps that light the sky, Were once a tiny glimmer Within some seer’s eye.
Time makes our empires scatter; But we shall build anew, For only visions matter,
Carlos read poetry a few times in private classes. Even written by women in his inner circle.
Myself, I find it embarrassing.
If there's a "poetry reading" and I'm near the exit and no one is looking, I go get coffee hoping it'll all be over when I'm back.
Once I was driving in my car with friends, and they found a book of poems my father wrote. I'd tossed it under the seat.
He'd given it to me hoping I'd read it.
I come from a family of writers.
Nina Stanley, Ausley Stanley's lovely daughter (he was co-inventor of LSD) asked one of the men to read from it.
"Unchain those pale breasts!" was the first line he read.
"Is that about your mom?", they joked.
Actually it could even have been about Joanie Baker, the women who took Carlos to Morongo when he first started searching for "an informant" (don Juan).
There was no way to tell. He was a college professor associated with the UC System anthropology department, like Carlos.
Like I said, I find poetry embarrassing...
[-]
u/growlikeaflower
5 points2022-12-03 15:59
There is nothing in the future
No equal girl or boy
No sunset on the blank horizon
No nothing to destroy
No mind to understand my soul
No soul to calm my mind
Just the silent reassurance
I am meant to lag behind
To only fight beside myself
A purpose lost in space
On a curve where mirrors used to lie
And I used to know your face
I wrote this when I was 16 (20years ago now)inspired by the feeling that something was missing, something imperative. Now that I'm beginning to remember the truth of my existence...is it actually starting to make full sense.
[-]
u/physique
4 points2022-12-03 17:20
. . . and I will leave. But the birds will stay, singing: and my garden will stay, with its green tree, with its water well. Many afternoons the skies will be blue and placid, and the bells in the belfry will chime, as they are chiming this very afternoon. The people who have loved me will pass away, and the town will burst anew every year. But my spirit will always wander nostalgic in the same recondite corner of my flowery garden.
[-]
u/goochbot
3 points2022-12-03 20:17
Hurt Hawks
BY ROBINSON JEFFERSI
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
II
I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
[-]
u/PlayDirtyInViceCity
2 points2022-12-05 03:23
" At night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, but the dawn ruins it"
Love that part
[-]
u/Jadeyelmonte
4 points2022-12-06 15:32
u/physique already posted a poem from Juan Ramón Jiménez, here is another one:
I am not I.
I am the one
Who walks beside me without me noticing;
Who, sometimes, I go to visit,
And who, sometimes, I forget.
The one who is silent, still, when I speak,
The one who forgives, kindly, when I hate,
The one who travels where I have never been,
The one who will keep walking when I have died.
Original in Spanish:
Yo no soy yo.
Soy este
que va a mi lado sin yo verlo,
que, a veces, voy a ver,
y que, a veces olvido.
El que calla, sereno, cuando hablo,
el que perdona, dulce, cuando odio,
el que pasea por donde no estoy,
el que quedará en pie cuando yo muera.
13 Comments
I am no one
And on the way to nowhere
My legs buckle
I fall to my knees
Under the crushing weight of nothing
All that remains is a sound
A ragged cry
Calling from somewhere
At the beginning of time
ONLY DREAMS ARE TRUE
The tangible and real, On which our lives are based, Was yesterday’s ideal,
A rosy picture traced
By some quaint visionaryImpractical, “half-cracked”Painting his fancies eerie; And now it’s solid fact.
Whatever we hold stable, Dependable and sane Was once a hopeful fable Of “castles built in Spain.” Before the fact, the fancy, Before the deed, the Dream, That builds by necromancy
The hard, material scheme.
So all your towers that shimmer, Your lamps that light the sky, Were once a tiny glimmer Within some seer’s eye.
Time makes our empires scatter; But we shall build anew, For only visions matter,
And only Dreams are true.
Hell ya
All (Or Most) Of The Poems From The Books
And from the cover of my old Moleskine
Famous Argentinian guy!
Do you know Julio Cortazar as well?
Nope! Unfortunately...but that can be corrected.
[deleted]
Carlos read poetry a few times in private classes. Even written by women in his inner circle.
Myself, I find it embarrassing.
If there's a "poetry reading" and I'm near the exit and no one is looking, I go get coffee hoping it'll all be over when I'm back.
Once I was driving in my car with friends, and they found a book of poems my father wrote. I'd tossed it under the seat.
He'd given it to me hoping I'd read it.
I come from a family of writers.
Nina Stanley, Ausley Stanley's lovely daughter (he was co-inventor of LSD) asked one of the men to read from it.
"Unchain those pale breasts!" was the first line he read.
"Is that about your mom?", they joked.
Actually it could even have been about Joanie Baker, the women who took Carlos to Morongo when he first started searching for "an informant" (don Juan).
There was no way to tell. He was a college professor associated with the UC System anthropology department, like Carlos.
Like I said, I find poetry embarrassing...
There is nothing in the future
No equal girl or boy
No sunset on the blank horizon
No nothing to destroy
No mind to understand my soul
No soul to calm my mind
Just the silent reassurance
I am meant to lag behind
To only fight beside myself
A purpose lost in space
On a curve where mirrors used to lie
And I used to know your face
I wrote this when I was 16 (20years ago now)inspired by the feeling that something was missing, something imperative. Now that I'm beginning to remember the truth of my existence...is it actually starting to make full sense.
. . . and I will leave. But the birds will stay, singing: and my garden will stay, with its green tree, with its water well. Many afternoons the skies will be blue and placid, and the bells in the belfry will chime, as they are chiming this very afternoon. The people who have loved me will pass away, and the town will burst anew every year. But my spirit will always wander nostalgic in the same recondite corner of my flowery garden.
Hurt Hawks
BY ROBINSON JEFFERSI
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
II
I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bones too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him for six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
" At night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, but the dawn ruins it"
Love that part
u/physique already posted a poem from Juan Ramón Jiménez, here is another one:
I am not I.
I am the one
Who walks beside me without me noticing;
Who, sometimes, I go to visit,
And who, sometimes, I forget.
The one who is silent, still, when I speak,
The one who forgives, kindly, when I hate,
The one who travels where I have never been,
The one who will keep walking when I have died.
Original in Spanish:
Yo no soy yo.
Soy este
que va a mi lado sin yo verlo,
que, a veces, voy a ver,
y que, a veces olvido.
El que calla, sereno, cuando hablo,
el que perdona, dulce, cuando odio,
el que pasea por donde no estoy,
el que quedará en pie cuando yo muera.