The Gods As They Are, On Their Planets - The Poet's Press

la sombra de ala de un águila,
el paso de cuervo,
los murciélagos volantes,
una memoria de lilaces.
Lees mis lineas.
Me inhalas,
repitiendo mis palabras,
repitiendo mis ideas rotas.
Sobre tus labios, nazco.
Yo lleno el aire
con la tensión de té verde.
Me salto, una chispa, de tus cabellos
al conductor más cercano.
Entonces yo vuelo ascendente,
y parto por la ventana.
Cántame el poema
a los gorriones!
Enseñales a los cuervos
mi locura otoñala!
Recitales a los búhos
mis encantos nocturnales!
WHY POETRY?
My book I write for all to see,
of things as they are
or wish them to be —
no private thoughts concealed,
bright words, not camouflage,
spark gap to reader’s consciousness.
My trees, although they stand
for many things, are trees.
The self herein
though confessing little,
expresses all,
words hammered hard
on the anvil reality.
My wrinkled leaves
go not to Heaven,
that silent boneyard;
they fall to earth instead,
food for the common eye.
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My books heap up unread,
an obelisk, a spire
of ink and cursive lettering,
a pyramid of utterings,
a shrine of sound.
If these words please you,
nameless reader,
to whom I am a faceless voice,
if but one stanza leaps afire
and makes you sing it,
then the heart-blood of my pen
is worthy.
What makes a poem great?
It is great if it leaves you —
as the earth always is
when the first snow falls —
astonished.