Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's Rim
It still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frame Her footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around her A drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her figure etched against the wooden frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopes She yielded before the sluggish advance of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a crimson moon hurled a flame across The shadowy clouds, burning throughout the sky The tormented sky above her?
Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped it Rocky images, highest points Thrusting herself up boldly from to the ledge The painted morning blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face against the granite stone Massive injuries was taking form, Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting against life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her slender body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling.
In Spanish Translated by Nancy Penaloza
Las memorias del Borde de una Tierra desértica
Todavía estaba iluminado cuando ella pausó en el borde de la tierra desértica- Sobre, el borde descansaba como un bruto durmiente, un marco de madera Adyacente hacia el azul donde estrellas mañaneras colgadas como lámparas de aceite, colgando desde viejos rayos y dando sombra? al marco de madera? Su equilibrio cogiendo los rayos, mientras ella había caído sobre esto
Sola, ella miró la mañana, subiendo hacia ella Una mujer trainera, marcada por la vida, y sueños inclinados Con el aspecto de dolor y el músculo moldeado sobre su cara Su figura inclinada contra el marco de madera, Ella trató de brincar, y perdió el equilibrio, colgando como un pájaro Ahora bebiendo a sorbos la penumbra en la repisa y esperanzas trastornadas
Ella cedió antes del avance inactivo de la puesta del sol La Sangre goteó, con su oscuridad mortal
Y una luna carmesí lanzó una llama a través De las nubes vagas, ardiendo en todas partes del cielo
El cielo atormentado encima de ella?
Cruzando el piso del valle su ojo agarró esto
Imágenes rocosas, lo más altos puntos. Desde donde se empujó ella con audacia hacia la repisa,
La mañana pintada ruborizada sobre el borde Sus frentes y nariz, de cara contra la piedra de granito,
Heridas masivas tomaban la forma, Su silueta flotando tan indolente a través del sol
Esto fue demasiado una gran tarea - para morir sola?que ella deseó ahora
Ella no había brincado?miles de pies abajo, aún ir.
Demasiado para cualquier mujer en un mundo perdido
Fuera de la madera débil su mente tenía paz; Ella sabía que pronto todo esto estaría sobre ¡ay! Muda y protestando contra la inutilidad de la vida
Un camino estrecho descansa debajo de su cuerpo delgado Entre la muerte y el logro, un pie descuidado Las rocas debajo de su debilitamiento, ella se sumergió Sumergida a su muerte, en las manos de talladura del valle
Pensando en ello, mientras ella se cayó, pensando con una sonrisa, Diciendo, alzando la vista-muerta ante sus ecos: "¡El tiempo es corto, el tiempo es corto?. El tiempo es corto!"
Cuando ellos la encontraron, su cara estaba sin miedo a la caída.
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Poetry in motion: enter the world of the 'scrap metal poet' - Journalducameroun.com - English - (press release)
Three Sweet Poems, and Two Not So Sweet [now in: SPANISH and English]
1) End PoemWherever you are today- Is where you were meant to be; It's where God, dotted the 'i' and the 't'?!2) God's AngelsGod asked his angels: "Why do you look so sad?" Responded one angel: "Sir, we can't find the shade."3) An Empty SpaceOut of wisdom one will wait, travel far for love; the thirst will not kill them.
Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Famous Poets
"For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious attention than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one.
Two Poems with Triggers [and a commentary]
So Many Einstein'sThe morning mist, insists there is a God. The earth remains faithful to its orbit.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind.
Tale of the Brick Maker, of San Jeronimo, Peru [In English and Spanish]
Tale of the Brick Maker, Of San Jerónimo, Peru [A Cup of Sorrow]-1In the Andean mountains, within theMantaro Valley region of Peru, Isolated, secluded, tranquil, is the littlevillage of San Jerónimo. Near the village, here lay the fertile valleywith bent-grass, and huge Mountains stretching northbound,And heading towards the ocean's coast.
You cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved.
Three Poems: Dona Leonors Revenge; The Old Moon; Common Sides [All in Spanish/all in English]
1) Doña Leonor's Revenge [1627 AD]Rafael Ortiz's fate Was on the plate Of Doña Leonor'sWhen she arrived In Lima, Peru; To taste revengeFor the beheading Of her husband. And so the plot?was now played out (in an alleyway) As she gutted her trout!In SpanishTranslated by Nancy PenalozaLa leyenda de: La venganza de doña Leonor (1627 después de cristo)El destino de Rafael Ortiz Estaba sobre el plato De doña Leonor.
Do you ever stare at the paper, waiting for poetic inspiration? Well, you can stop waiting and start using systematic techniques for creating poetry. If it seems too mechanical or artificial at first, don't worry.
AFRICA (to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africa africa of the black soul the soul of an ancient culture the culture of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the talking drums your beaded drums and the royal trumpeter the metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your ageless minstrels have i not heard of your swinging hips! i have heard enough and have come to watch wouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribes the timid tribes of your sweetened tongues the varied tongues of your virtuous menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the mother earth your gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africa your kings of the ancient dynasty the ancient dynasty of rusted spear and shield africa, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awake pelting on men as well, the gods gathering itself drop by drop.
Asha of Darfur [A poem with a commentary by the author]
Asha of DarfurCry, cry-oh little Darfur woman For your sister Janjaweed- [in Sudan's merciless region-who was raped to death); Where rape and death run ramped;And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hear Here sobbing little black tears? ?in fear she will be chained to a bedIn Darfur, by the insidious justice Of the Arabs, who run ramped?Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed, It is not a crime to raped and arrested; By the very one who raped, and terrorizedYou; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!..
Tsunami -a Poem Dedicated To Help Aid and Awareness and Encourage Future Harmony. Make Peace Not War
Real Power.One Tsunami, and all our armies, Seem belittled by their wars, What Animals fled, and tribesmen read, Finally Arrives with crushing roar, Wholesale slaughter, purely by water, Makes us seem an irrelevance, Concepts of power, change by the hour, Faced with primal elements.
Poetry and Popular Culture
Is poetry too complicated for the average reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of average people what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few different answers, but there is an overwhelmingly common category of responses.One of the main reasons that people say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Truth is stranger than fiction according to many people who have seen what happens around me and to them, on many occasions. Sometimes I have had others affect me in the same way.
I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I WANTED TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
You make me smile like I've seldom done before You give me a reason to want more and more..
My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.She loved me like nobody else has ever loved me in my life.
THe Monster Mash, A Graveyard SMASH (short story I wrote when I was 11)
The Monster Mash The Graveyard SmashHave you heard of the Monster Mash? I suppose you know the story of how it came to be, right? Well, I'm here to tell the TRUE story to you.It sarted out late one night, when all monsters where out of human sight.
Thank You To Our Soldiers And A Tribute To Old Glory And A Prayer For Peace
Thank youDedicated to soldiers and their loved onesFor those who have laid in fox holes,carried guns,marched for hours.For those who have had cold sleepless nights,endless days of discomfort.
New Poetic Work By Ethiopian Immigrant Promotes Respect, Courage And Cultural Sensitivity
McLean, VA - "The Healing Conscious" tells the story of an Ethiopian immigrant boy on his fascinating journey to America and adulthood. Author Kifle Bantayehu, a 23 year-old second-generation Ethiopian immigrant, recounts this poignant tale in poetic format.
Like a cat I slumber, blissfully unencumbered, Through eighty per cent of my allotted span, Occasionally awoken, when dissent is spoken, And I invent another cunning five year plan, Lately it was pensions, that were being mentioned, So I borrowed from the French and Robespierre, Scrap all that went before, saved by tooth and claw, And let my all equal Citizens appear, Currently it is time, for me to be in my prime, For there is another election looming, I have to appear sincere, for part of this coming year, And assure everyone that everything is booming, Never mind strict quotas, Ive imported multitudes of voters, And told them which party let them stay, Though Ive rigged the postal vote, and defamed everyone of note, You never know what might happen on the day.So to be on the safe side, I swallow all my pride, And allow my people to hear my hallowed voice, And roll out the charade, put on the facade, And even make believe they have a choice, Next time around the crown, will be trampled underground, House of Lords and Lord Chancellor history, With the other Chancellor gone, I alone will soldier on, Yes, then there will only ever be me, Ill hold elections for you, as all dictators do, And fill positions with those that grease my palm, As for civil unrest, there is always house arrest, Or secret imprisonment for those that mean me harm.
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