mundos nuevos

qué lindo

una, aunque sea

Si vuelvo alguna vez
por el camino andado
no quiero hallar ni ruinas ni nostalgia

Lo mejor es creer que pasó todo
como debía.
Y al final me queda
una sola certeza:
haber vivido.

Certeza, José Emilio Pacheco

en ese caso, elijo la banana

canta, canta, cantalo

"no sé por qué te pensás que cantás bien,

si cantás re mal",

me dice siempre

una amiga muy querida.

pero a mí... no me importa lo que digan, 

lo que digan los demás.

bien o mal,

yo canto

porque me gusta

cantar

tu, trasparente pensiero di vetro

IV

Può finire un amore, può cessare

di scorrere il sangue, così improvvisamente,

bloccarsi un corpo, tacere una mente,

e dicono non ci sia nulla da fare.

Io ti scuoto e ti scuoto, Euridice,

non è possibile che non mi rispondi

lì dove sei finita e ti nascondi,

tornata sottoterra, mia radice.

E' uno scherzo, non può essere vero

che rimanga di te solo il dolore:

tutto intorno più nero del nero.

Per questo alzati, cara, non fingere

un silenzio adirato, accusatore.

Non restartene lì come una sfinge.

Euridice (fragmento), Alida Airaghi

shakie

aguas quietas y profundas

Non sono onde. Ne avrebbero forse
l’intenzione; increspature leggere,
rughe dell’acqua, e basta.

Non sarà mai tempesta,
questo lago, scarso coraggio
di farsi mare: se accoglie un fiume,
lo placa, lo annulla in una quiete
casta. E così niente corse né fughe
di pesci, ma vaghi girotondi,
guizzi di piume d’anatra in festa.

Bisogna aver paura di chi non sa osare:
laghi colline periferie.
Acque chete e profonde celano
malefici, stregonerie.

Il Lago, Alida Airaghi

meant to be

it will always be you

half of what I say

is meaningless

but I say it

just to reach you

julia

klimt + ferlinghetti

They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed

  He

       has just caught her there

                                    and holds her still

      Her gown

                     has slipped down

                                               off her shoulder

He has urgent hunger

                      His dark head

                                  bends to her

                                              hungrily

And the woman the woman

     turns her tangerine lips from his

             one hand like the head of a dead swan

               draped down over

                                          his heavy neck

                        the fingers

                            strangely crimped

                                         tightly together

       her other arm doubled up

                           against her tight breast

          her hand a languid claw

                                      clutching his hand

           which would turn her mouth

                                                    to his

  her long dress made

                    of multicolored blossoms

                            quilted on gold

   her Titian hair

                    with blue stars in it

And his gold

                   harlequin robe

                               checkered with

                                             dark squares

    Gold garlands

                         stream down over

                                          her bare calves &

                                              tensed feet

Nearby there must be

                    a jeweled tree

                              with glass leaves aglitter

                                   in the gold air

 It must be

                morning

                             in a faraway place somewhere

 They

      are silent together

                                 as in a flowered field

                   upon the summer couch

                                                which must be hers

    And he holds her still

                                   so passionately

             holds her head to his

                                 so gently so insistently

               to make her turn

                                       her lips to his

 Her eyes are closed

                              like folded petals

She

      will not open

                          He

                               is not the One

Short story on a painting of Gustav Klimt, Lawrence Ferlinghetti

vuela esta canción

para tí, lucía,

la más bella historia de amor

que tuve y tendré

van gogh + rexroth

There are no images here
In the solitude, only
The night and its stars which are
Relationships rather than
Images. Shifting darkness,
Strains of feeling, lines of force,
Webs of thoughts, no images,
Only night and time aging
The night in its darkness, just
Motion in space in the dark.
It is a night full of darkness,
And space, and stars, and the hours
Going by, and time going by,
And the night growing old, and all
The webs, and nets, of relationships
Changing, and it is Spring night
In Provence, here where I am,
And under the half moon the almond
Buds are ready to burst. Before noon
The blossoms will open, here by
This peach colored house amongst
The steel gray pines and the gray
Limestone cliffs. Now the buds
Are round and tight in the dim
Moonlight, in the night that
Stretches on forever, that had
No beginning, and that will
Never end, and it doesn't mean
Anything. It isn't an image of
Something. It isn't a symbol of
Something else. It is just an
Almond tree, in the night, by
The house, in the woods, by
A vineyard, under the setting
Half moon, in Provence, in the
Beginning of another Spring.

think twice

Go ahead: say what you're thinking. The garden

is not the real world. Machines

are the real world. Say frankly what any fool

could read in your face: it makes sense

to avoid us, to resist

nostalgia. It is

not modern enough, the sound the wind makes

stirring a meadow of daisies: the mind

cannot shine following it. And the mind wants to shine, plainly, as

machines shine, and not

grow deep as, for example, roots. It is very touching,

all the same, to see you cautiously

approaching the meadow's border in early morning,

when no one could possibly

be watching you. The longer you stand at the edge,

the more nervous you seem. No one wants to hear

impressions of the natural world: you will be

laughed at again; scorn will be piled on you.

As for what you're actually

hearing this morning: think twice

before you tell anyone what was said in this field

and by whom.

daisies, louise glück

a pedido del público

mi sono innamorato di te perché non avevo niente da fare

punk is never dead

persepolis

this is major tom to ground control

ésta es de cuando estuvimos en otro planeta

the other way about

STARTING FROM SAN FRANCISCO

Here I go again
crossing the country in coach trains
(back to my old
lone wandering)
All night Eastward... Upward
over the Great Divide and on
into Utah
over Great Salt Plain
and onward, rocking,
the white dawn burst
across mesas,
table-lands,
all flat, all laid away.
Great glary sun-
wood bridge over water...
Later in still light, we still reel onward-
Onward?
Back and forth, across the Continent,
bang bang
by any wheel or horse,
any rail,
by car
by buggy
by stagecoach,
walking,
riding,
hooves pounding the Great Plains,
caravans into the night. Forever.
Into Wyoming.
All that day and night, rocking through it,
snow steppes and plains of November,
roads lost in it -or never existent-
back in the beginning again, no People yet,
no ruts Westward yer
under the snow...
Still more huge spaces we bowl through,
still untouched dark land-
Indomitable.
Horizons of mesas
like plains of Spain high up
in Don Quixote country-
sharp eroded towers of bluffs
like windmills tilted,
"los molinos" of earth, abandoned-
Great long rectangular stone islands
sticking up on far plains, like forts
or immense light cargo ships
high on plains of water,
becalmed and rudderless,
props thrashing wheat,
stranded forever,

no one on those bridges...

Later again, much later,

one small halfass town,

followed by one telephone wire

and one single iron road

hung to the tracks as by magnets

attached to a single endless fence,

past solitary pumping stations,

each with a tank, a car, a small house, a dog,

no people anywhere-

All hiding?

White man gone home?

Must be a cowboy someplace...
Birds flap from fences, trestles,
caw and caw their nothingness.
Stone church sticks up
quote Out of Nowhere unquote
This must be Interzone
between Heaven and Brooklyn.
Do they have a Classified Section
as in phonebooks
in the back of the Bibles here?
Otherwise they'd never find Anything.
Try Instant Zen...
Still later again,
sunset and starnge clouds like udders
rayed with light from below-
some God's hand sticks through,
black trees stand out.
The world is a winter farm-
Cradle we rocked out of-
prairie schooners into Pullmans-
their bright saloons sheeted in oblivion-
Wagon-lits - bedwagon over the prairies,
bodies nested in them,
hurtled through night,
inscrutable...
Onward still... or Backward...
huge snow fields still, on and on,
still no one,
Indians all gone to Florida
or Cuba!
Train hoots at something
in the nowhere we still rock through,
Dingding crossroads flicker by,
Mining towns, once roaring,
now shrunk to the railhead,
streetlights stoned with loneliness
or lit with leftover sun
they drank too much of during the day...
And at long last
this world shrunk
to one lone brakeman´s face
stuck out of darkness-
long white forehead
like bleached skull of cow-
huge black sad eyes-
high.peaked cloth cap, grey-striped-
swings his railroad lantern high, close up,
as our window whizzes by-
his figure splashed upon it,
slanted, muezzin-like,
very grave, very tall,
strange skeleton-
Who stole America?

Myself I saw in the window reflected.

LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI

para la versión en español, visite esta misma página prontamente.

tenés dos opciones

o...

deseos psicomágicos

gracias a malala

rindiéndole cuentas a quién

con tus dólares me voy a ver a devendra y quedo como estos chicos, and there's nothing you can do about it... je, je, je.