My Welsh Name

My work, still for you to judge, published at Learning to Fly.


To Dafydd Apgwilym, author of "The Rattle Bag".


Do not play around around with my Welsh name, for the
Young find it fascinating, name from faraway
Lands, of wild dragons and of piled up books
And so they curve their mouths to say the sweet unknown "a", so with a Welsh
Name no poet steals your soul.

To every sound a jingling bell of the knapsack I
Hang around my shoulder, piled with fairy things, and the sweet sound of
O! when I take them out and stare at them and they are
Memories of other lands of wonders
And names where no one can take your
Soul.

Where pots rattle with the sweet unknown sound of something more than coins
And jewels, sweet sound of things nobody knows, of faraway
Lands, of dragons and knapsacks and unknown, where
Ever after has a Welsh name and no poet
Steals your soul.

Untitled (Producer's Cut) (Version 1.5)

Last line changed.



On the deserted pedestal
Lights go on and out. And all around
A thousand hands
Scream victory signs.
Heads nod so hard with more than understanding,
And then the symbol traced upon the heavens—
The followers of your creed. There’s no reason
To question the beliefs.
True are the word, the sighs, the spark of triumph,
The wings that grow from backs—
The wings of lovers.
Yours is the realm and yours is now the land.

Behind the shadows live
The sweet golden apostles,
The saviors of the cult,
The only ones who’re blessed. So beautiful, so young
These oh wild dreams of Eryx,
The purity in their soul
Has made them yours. Blindfolded by the light
They speak the sacred,
True cherubs of fidelity, the guardians of the sound,
All dressed up for you in the devil’s finest,
Have traded their spirits for delight,
For this moment, pray tonight alone.

Here lies the golden god
Just for the ones who listen. And back home on hell
Sly smiles call you fake.
But yours is now the key
Of all worldly dominions,
The power of a Genesis, a new land,
The power of this peace and this redemption,
All for you, you skinny dirty angel.
The freedom for the cursed, Albion in silver,
The promise of a man other than you
To stand up high and give away a sign for battle
In darkness bathed in diamonds until sunrise.

The Most Poetic Girl in the World

Work for you to judge. Please do, for this poem has met critics that either love it or don't seem to convinced, so I really don't know what I should do. Of course, it was written just for fun, as you will see.



One day I was out on the street I met this unique girl,
Believe me that she was the most poetic girl in the world.
She had long and full grown golden strands of wheat for hair,
Two flashing diamond stars tucked where eyes should have their lair.
Her poor pink cheeks were roses, she might just need to water them,
Maybe with her lips; they were wine and could not stand.
Her teeth were pearls; that they rolled off made her worry.
She could not speak, because her tongue was a big ripe strawberry.
Her skin was a soft mixture of cotton, silk, and lace;
She had to be pulling it or it fell about the place.
I didn't think her beautiful; I only thought her funny,
I sold her to a freak show and I made a lot of money.

Immaculate Daydream

Finished work. With luck, it shall be published in Rio Grande Review Magazine.



To Percy Bysshe Shelley


“A damsel with a dulcimer/in a vision once I saw...”
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Kubla Khan”


I say, good morning, Alastor.
How nice of you to drop by.
Would you like a cup of tea? Or prefer a glass of wine?
Your face has grown thinner ever since
Your ship has kept on running down a dream.
Whatever she is, it’s all the same to me.
Well, so, anything else to drink?

How far had you run home by yesterday,
Chasing your sparkling horizon-line?
They stand on clouds, and so hide from your sight,
Nothing but shadowplays of
Your mind. What, you say, want to ask where
She’s gone? To a region such as time.
Spare a dime for something else to drink.

For they all have the same deceiving eyes,
And the same flowing hair, the clichéd
Heart of ice. Little visions call the mind their mother,
Whelpéd by a sacred womb of gold,
But still their souls like ours shall be sold,
Their humors meant to smell, a mouth with words that bother,
She’ll drink more than we do, and leave you for another.

Say, have another glass, Alastor.
Don’t stare at me all the way whiskyfied—
Or mystified, I say. I have traveled and tried,
Have even seen the shores of the fountain of life:
It don’t taste any better than that glass.
Eternal life is also bound to pass.
They crawl out of their azure aura and die.

"For I have known already, known them all"
All ladies with a thousand
Dulcimers and lyres, and have felt
The silk roughness of their skin,
Alastor, have felt them slip through my fingers like sand,
Like old candy, they lose their taste, they can!
A toast to their brief beauty. Yet again.

Such a shame you have to go right now,
Alastor, to sail the night again upon your ship.
Shooting stars don’t fall upon this earth,
Remember, please, through crimson mist of gin.
You seem to have grown thinner by the second;
Your lady, too, is the original sin.
Go off to die: your memory is redeemed.

I will bury the lesson on these streets,
Bury her smile, her treason and her tears,
I never touched her—pure, here she remains
A dream—

Untitled (Producer's Cut)

Poem for you to judge. First published in Learning to Fly (www.circlingsky.blogspot.com).



On the deserted pedestal
Lights go on and out. And all around
A thousand hands
Scream victory signs.
Heads nod so hard with more than understanding,
And then the symbol traced upon the heavens—
The followers of your creed. There’s no reason
To question the beliefs.
True are the word, the sighs, the spark of triumph,
The wings that grow from backs—
The wings of lovers.
Yours is the realm and yours is now the land.

Behind the shadows live
The sweet golden apostles,
The saviors of the cult,
The only ones who’re blessed. So beautiful, so young
These oh wild dreams of Eryx,
The purity in their soul
Has made them yours. Blindfolded by the light
They speak the sacred,
True cherubs of fidelity, the guardians of the sound,
All dressed up for you in the devil’s finest,
Have traded their spirits for delight,
For this moment, pray tonight alone.

Here lies the golden god
Just for the ones who listen. And back home on hell
Sly smiles call you fake.
But yours is now the key
Of all worldly dominions,
The power of a Genesis, a new land,
The power of this peace and this redemption,
All for you, you skinny dirty angel.
The freedom for the cursed, Albion in silver,
The promise of a man other than you
To stand up high and give away a sign for battle
In darkness, darkness bathed in diamonds until sunrise.

Missing/Manque (ver. 2.0)

Texto todavía disponible para correcciones. (Primera versión publicada en circlingsky.blogspot.com)




I have a secret space
Upon the walls of loneliness
A gaping hole of time
Once the owner of your absence
Now naked and uncovered
Faint smell of horror vacui
Faint smell of I was used to
When the disdain of your shadow
Placed a mirage in the mirror
Victory disintegrated
The heart banged against the wall.

El Metro

Texto completo, dedicado a Verónica Guijarro, co-autora del mismo.



Lentamente avanzaba el metro, gusano de las pestilentes coladeras de la ciudad. Me sentía apretada entre los niños con paquetes de chicles, los hombres con portafolios, albañiles con las manos llenas de cal. Estaba lloviendo; la electricidad se había ido; llevábamos una hora y media esperando. Odiaba los comentarios estúpidos y la frecuente repetición de "güey" de mis compañeras de infortunio; si hay algo que odio son las aglomeraciones, y más con un coágulo de incultura postrado tan cerca de mí. Preferiría estar desangrándome colgada cerca de Cristo a ser parte de esta infamia. Como estamos a oscuras, no puedo verlas, así que no puedo grabarme sus patéticos rostros para desear borrarlas de la faz de la Tierra.
Siento que alguien me toca. No sé qué hacer. Me siento molesta. No me importa si es un Don Juan oficinista o el maestro de la obra; la sensación es igual de desagradable. No comprendo por qué los poetas y los románticos aman la oscuridad; no comprendo. Tampoco entiendo por qué me tachan de chica de cascos ligeros; el que me vista raro no significa nada. Mis compañeros de oficina sólo lo dicen porque no me he acostado con ninguno de ellos, y no quiero. Ni siquiera soporto la mano que aún me sigue tocando. Me desespera. Ya no escucho este monólogo interno. No sé si es mejor estar a oscuras para no ver la cara del degenerado; creo que se la desgarraría si lo viera.
Ya. Ahora sí, ya me colmó la paciencia. Con discreción, me quito el zapato de tacón muy alto que uso. Él no se ha dado cuenta, ya que sigue sin quitar la mano. Dejo caer el golpe. ¡Al fin he dejado de sentir la mano de ese maldito aprovechado!
Una leve sacudida. El metro vuelve a avanzar. La luz regresa. Suspiro profundamente y con alivio, cuando escucho que de mis compañeras ya no salen sandeces, pero hay gritos de espanto. Hay un círculo de gente y no alcanzo a ver. Me acerco a ellos. Se apartan. Hay mucha sangre, y en medio... un niño, una mano en su caja de chicles, con la cara marcada y roja, y, en su frente, la huella de mi tacón.

Muero en tu silencio (Ver 1.5)

Texto todavía disponible para cualquier corrección que quieran hacerle.



Muero en tu silencio
De alas de cuervo
De horas hendidas por el filo de los huesos

De sombras cual espectros
En trenes solitarios
De miles de venas en hilos enredados

De versos agotados
Que lloran un fin
Cargando la condena de hundirse en la nada

Y tan solo
Tu silencio

Love Your Way (ver. 1.0)

Texto que puede ser sometido a críticas y/o correcciones. Gracias.




Ámame, pero hazlo a tu manera.
De esa manera tan tuya, que hace que todos crean
que mi tabla de salvación son nubes de tormenta
y los cimientos de mis templos arenas difuminadas.
Ámame como tú sabes.
Ámame de esas formas que conoces.
Ámame como aman las paredes,
ámame a la manera de las piedras,
ámame con el amor de los desconocidos,
que, quizá, alguna vez vuelvan la cara,
y te observen, sin decir nada, con sus ojos de horizonte.
Ámame, pero hazlo a tu manera.

Haiku

(Finished text.)


The Snake

Sliding silver jewel,
Unsolved signs upon the sand
Follow silent steps.