in which the girl faces her fears

i was telling the tree

i don't want to be afraid anymore,

help me be free, help me be real

and then it dawned on me

o'keefe + rexroth

¿Quién sos vos? ¿Quién soy yo? Atormentados
Por los muertos, los muertos y el pasado,
La inercia decadente de personas
Y cosas muertas e irreales. Por la amenaza de
Lo impersonal, eso que
Jamás admitirá a los individuos,
Ese mundo cerrado de las cosas.
¿Quién sos vos? Que salís
De la tierra y los minerales, una
Pálida hoja como ninguna otra,
Desenvolviéndote, y después otra,
Nueva y extraña, completamente diferente,
Lo opuesto de lo que esperaba, alimentándose
De la cálida sangre de mi corazón, crece.
Algo nuevo, extraño, diferente.
Tu propia hoja, tu propia flor frutal,
Pero nutrida por una raíz,
Raíz de nuestros cuerpos hechos uno.
Vos y yo, desde el único
Al doble, y del doble
Al otro, al hermoso
Proceso eterno e incomprensible de
Crecer y convertirnos cada uno en
Nosotros mismos para el otro.

Growing, de Kenneth Rexroth.

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

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.

schiele+moromisato

Amo este cuerpo que me ata

El pezón erguido sobre el pecho triste

La breve amargura de su boca

El tierno desamparo de sus pies.

Amo este cuerpo que me atrapa en el espejo

Donde ese cuerpo se refleja y se hace uno

El bello abismo de su sexo

Su dulce continencia

Su fondo azul

El clítoris mojado que medita.

Amo este cuerpo que me ata y condena

Ser de esta simple simetría

Hembra que se habita solitaria

Amando aquel otro cuerpo que refleja

Desesperada

Dentro de un espejo

Que ya no existe.

mark twain

Yin and Yang de Kenneth Rexroth

Una vez más la primavera llega,
Cálida y perfumada, a las montañas
De la costa, con la luna de Abril.
Regresan a sus sitios esas flores,
Los pájaros regresan a sus árboles.
La estrella del invierno se pone en el océano,
La del verano sale por entre las montañas.
Átomos de mercurio en el aire,
Es la resurrección que impregna a la tierra.
Geométricas, brillantes, aún vivas,
Figuras de animales y de hombres
Realizan ceremonias secretas en el cielo.
El León a la Virgen le entrega la luna.
Ella se para en la encrucijada del cielo:
La luna llena en su mano derecha,
Una espiga dorada en la otra mano.
El rito del renacimiento alcanza su climax,
Su luz asciende desde los infiernos
y se revela al alcanzar el zenit.
En el infierno nada
el sol entre dos peces
que se llaman Sí y No.

pictures of you

de las chicas, yo soy la de la izquierda.
de los chicos, vos el de la derecha.
estamos caminando por la playa
de noche. vos adelante, en silencio,
yo atrás, cada uno por su lado.
yo pensaba: ¿no te das cuenta de que
te quiero, que quiero quedarme con vos?
entonces te diste vuelta, viniste
y sin decirnos nada, nos besamos,
en esa playa húmeda y eterna.

songs of love, moon and wind

Plaint

Spring flowers, Autumn moons

Water lillies still carry

Away my heart like a lost

Boat. As long as I am flesh

And bone I will never find

Rest. There will never come a

Time when I will be able

To resist my emotions.

Chu Shu-Chen

(Trad. de Kenneth Rexroth)

a veces me parece que puedo todo

otoño

It has turned cold.

The mountains grow more vast and more blue.

The Autumn waterfalls are louder.

I take my cane and go out to the gate for a walk.

I can hear the last crickets

Singing in the chilly evening.

I am happy. The rays of the setting sun

Shine through the evening smoke

That hover over the village.

I throw back my head,

Drunk with beauty,

And sing the "Willow song"

At the top of my lungs.

Wang Wei (Trad. de Kenneth Rexroth)

celia en the cocktail party

otoño se dice fall

ola hola ola

se abre paso

mientras afuera llueve,

nieva, quizá;

aquí adentro, aclara

kandinsky y dickinson

who are you?

are you nobody too?

then there's a pair of us - don't tell!

they'd banish us, you know.

how dreary to be somebody!

how public, like a frog

to tell your name the livelong day

to an admiring bog!