Four from long ago.
===============
Canción para Aracné
Aquella mujer le dicen
Araña
Con sus greñas castañas
Y sus mñas tejidas
Agujas e hilo en manos torcidas
Aquella mujer le llaman
Araña
Araña castaña de mañas extrañas
Aracné
Carta de amor a un comunista (Fidel dice)
Fidel dice que el amor cobra impuestos, querido
Pero, ¿cómo pudiera ésto ser verdad?
Fidel dice que hasta el presidente fuma mis cigarros
Que los tiene escondiditos en su oficina
En una caja fuerte detrás del cuadro de Washington.
Fidel dice que no está muerto, pero
¿Cómo le puedo creerle
las palabras a un ciego?
Si por los ojos se notan
Las infidelidades que
Cometimos contra la verdad.
Fidel dice que todo hombre
Merece un buen whisky
Después de una cena de arroz
Y habichuelas negras.
Fidel dice que la vida es una preparación para la verdad,
Una muerte solitaria.
Fidel dice que hasta el amor cobra impuestos, querido
Pero, ¿cómo ésto pudiera ser verdad?
Fidel dice que la sinceridad es
Un precio mínimo
Para pagar por ser el dueño de tus lunes.
Fidel dice que no hay uso con preocuparse con el futuro
Porque el presente está justamente vivido.
Fidel dice que hasta el amor cobra impuestos, querido
Pero...
¿Cómo ésto pudiera ser la verdad?
Yo, felicidad y una
hormiga Contemplando tus ojos De chocolate con caramelo Y tus rizos de brea y humo, Me di cuenta que sería feliz Si pudiera vivir en tu pecho. Quisiera ser yo una hormiga Para balancearme en las colinas de tus pómulos Y colgar una hamaca entre dos pestañas rizadas; Para besar tus labios con cada paso de mis pies Y vivir detrás de tu oreja. Quisiera ser una hormiga Para dormir encima de tus clavículas Y sentir el latido de tu corazón, Hasta cuando tu voz es ausente. Quisiera ser una hormiga Para que cuando te olvides de mí Puedo ser feliz de que seguramente Fue debido a mi tamaño Y no a tu opinión de mí. Nunca basta Aunque sostenga mis pómulos Con lujuria indentada El rojo de mi rubor nunca basta. Aunque adorne mis costados Con encajes y bordados La dulzura de mi pudor nunca basta. Aunque suavize mis labios Con mil halagos y agravios La sinceridad de mi sudor nunca basta. Y si encojo mi cintura Con mil dietas y pinturas La inocencia de mi rencor nunca basta. Fiel artista, fiel pintor, ¿Por qué cambias la obr Para no alterar el cuadro? Si por frasco sin igual Me llevas a algún mol Para escoger otro envase. Fiel poeta, escultor, ¿Por qué el espejo no muestra mentiras? ¿Por qué esta cintura no basta y estas caderas me sobran? ¿Por qué me tendrás si no te agradan? Es que si mi ser fuera perfecto, De pies a cabeza en todos aspectos, La fieldad de mi amor por tí Nunca te basta.
You'll have to excuse the lack of spanish grammar, as my new comp is unable to do such things. Ah, advances in modern technology, I bite my thumb at thee.
Search
I am
searching.
for something I have
no intention
of finding
no contentions.
I am
being.
in the bottom of my soul
alone
no perceptions
no
misconceptions.
no
compromise.
when I
look at you
you shine so
true
so
dull
you are so
different
now.
you've forgotten
who I was to you
and you don't even try
to
remember.
“Verde que te quiero verde
verde viento, verdes ramas.”
-fgl
el particular amarillo
de tus ojos de anillo
se suben por balcones
que se quiebran de marfil
que clase de anis
guardaras en tus labios?
pensaras en mi
hasta cuando te agravio?
quiero colgarme de tus cortinas
hacerte el amor sobre una cama de telarañas.
todo por ver tu ojos dorados
mientras tus manos hacen hazañas
dibujo tu cara
con cada oportunidad que me da la vida.
y siempre termino pensando
en tus ojos amarillos
que me miran
con preguntas obvias en sus pupilas
Dream Lover
I close my eyes
when I feel your lips on mine
I
forget to take my time
and I
remember exactly why
it is that
I dream about you.
I close my eyes
when I want to
fantasize
about
a
great night together
forget
the weather
or that
I’ll probably never see you again
even
though
we're
perfect
for each other
to love
each other over
and dream
and forget.
about herWhat is the meaning behind your birth name?
Submitted by turtlegod.
My given name is Alexandra.
I share it with the Greek prophet Alexandra, more commonly known as Cassandra, who spent a night in Apollo's temple. The snakes licked her ears clean, and because of this, she was able to forsee the future. Apollo fell in love with her, but she didn't love him back, and he placed a curse on her to prevent everybody from believing her prophecies.
There were many Alexanders in Czar Nicholas II's family, and it is from his maternal grandmother, Maria Alexandrovna of Heese-Darmstadt, that I take my name.
My grandmother nicknamed me Araña, the Spanish word for "spider."
I have since used it as an artistic pseudonym, and its roots are also found in Greek mythology.
Arachne was a master weaver in Athens, and she was so proud of her work that she boasted that her weaving was better than that of the goddess Athena. Athena transforms into an old lady and warns Arachne to respect the deities, but Arachne, true to mythological form, not only challenges the goddess herself to a weaving contest, she weaves a tapestry of the twenty-one episodes of the gods' infidelities. In one telling of the myth, Arachne hangs herself when she realizes her mistake. In others, Athena punishes the foolish girl by turning her into a spider.
Araña is also the alter ego of Anya Sofia Corazon, Marvel's latina female Spider-Woman.
Show us an awesome mustache.
Submitted by Soup.
In honor of the upcoming Olympics, what could you win a gold medal in?
Submitted by TheFiercestCalm.
I think I would win an Olympic medal in awesomeness.
I don't know if any of you on the big bad internetz know this, but I am the reason why Saturn is still in one piece.
A couple of years ago, several races of aliens threatened the civilization on Saturn. I had been going to Saturn almost every weekend for about a year in my friend's minivan and already I had built a nice little gas lake-front house and a reputation to go with it.
Around the first year anniversary of my first visit to one of the outer planets, we were visited by several groups of malevolent aliens who wanted to get rid of my nice little weekend home and the gas lake that was in front of it. Now, me and my other human friends love the tanning on Saturn. It's nice and cool, and it's much too far away from the sun that the UV doesn't reach you as fast as it does on Earth. I was not about to let this happen.
And so, a rubber band, two glow sticks, an out-of-tune Fender guitar, and seven shorn sheep later those fuckers were back on their home planet with a few sore appendages.
That's pretty damn awesome.
I've got a podcast, na na-na- na-na nahhhh.
*dances around*
I'm still at home, and I'm still editing last night's audio.
I got a sweet surprise and am still reeling from the memory of it.
Can't wait.
ugh.
Just got back home and finished editing a couple of episodes for the podcast, and now I'm freaking dying because I am extreeeemely tired.
I also have no new anything for poetry night, which means that I have to stop listening to Timothy Francine Henson and start writing.
I also have to shower.
Bad.
It is currently one oh seven, and I have counted the blog entries I'm supposed to have to the ones I actually do, and have come up short. As of July second, I am supposed (emphasis on the word "supposed") to have ten blog entries, and including this one, I have seven.
And so, in order to rectify this amazing mistake, I am going to...
rectify.. it.
Yes.
Moving on.
Let me give you a slice of my life.
(Hence the cunningly and cleverly crafted title of the entry.)
I am seventeen.
I am currently enjoying what is left of my summer vacation and what is starting to become a very enjoyable indie rom-com in which I am currently the co-star.
I'm the host/editor/bumbling creative breeze behind The Poet's Passage Podcast. If it's on the internetz, that's my fault. I am very sorry.
And I am in Puerto Rico.
Sure, yuk it up. You'll laugh now because I'm on a ridiculously small island that has a ridiculously high humidity percentage, but when hell freezes over and global warming turns the Arctic Sea into a hot tub, I'll be wearing a wool sweater and going "What?!!?!?! Betch."
Let's see. Most people I meet consider me to be a poet, but I prefer to be labeled as "stable."
My hands don't like being still, and my ears love to hear new and strange things.
My motto has always been : If you love it, set it on fire and then film it and frame the cat.
(I'll get you, cats.)
The wind will shape us.
The wind will make us.
The wind will unravel what we worked so hard to weave.
The wind does not care when it blows your face in my hair, and to the wind it does not matter that your lips are glued to mine. It's so terribly ridiculous.
For a moment there, I forgot how to spell that word.
It's almost 1AM, and sometimes I wonder whether I am writing a blog entry, a poem, a slice of my actual life, or a piece of fiction. This is one of those times.
Have you ever been watching a movie and found yourself panicking because you don't know how it's going to end?
You know, you find yourself missing the pedictability you set out to avoid by renting an indie film or a foreign movie about cars and you don't knw how to quell the thirst for something mindless? Also, when you don't know how long the movie's going to last and if you'll have to plan your next meal around this spontaneous combustion of cinematic proportions?
I don't know what's going on, only that I am thoroughly enjoying it.
Yup, you did it.
I'd ask you to fix it, but it feels too good.
