I am fat

The mother criticizes her son for being fat, while her partner finds him attractive, creating tension between them, but both know that the truth is a perpetual escape.

Pastel notes

In an evocative, poetic landscape, mottled with pastel notes, a few schoolchildren in a circle spin the Earth as two intertwined hands plow through fertile soil.

Senselessness: the whims of the muse of poetic inspiration

Sometimes, the muse tarries, peering at me expressionlessly, then mysteriously disappearing in an aura of enchantment, leaving the bitter taste of fleeting inspiration imbued with melancholy.

Five sparrows

In this short love poem, five sparrows fly over a rooftop where an antenna picks up the wail of angels while you perhaps still dance among the wilting confetti of an autumn field.

Short poems: the structure of haiku and how to write them

Discover how haiku and short poems can express images that stir memories and emotions, and learn how to write them efficiently.

Unveiling Fernando Sor's impact on the evolution of romantic guitar music

Discover Fernando Sor, master virtuoso of the classical guitar, who left an indelible imprint on Romantic music through his compositions.

Surrounded by a shriveled hubbub

Abandoned footsteps, waiting for human hubbub, and the blue sky are interwoven into a poetic picture of stillness and beauty.

Australia

The mule track is sultry, Havana sand stint.

"She says she wants to live in Australia."

As she descends the stairs, (secretly) I take a picture: She's from the back. Loose hair forms a shadow in front of her.

"...the smile of a traveler. Behind the grating of a freight train..."

In this prison in the desert, The red-hot bars are already unraveled. Intangible and useless Are those boundless expanses, cloaking of sterile linoleum. The tracks you barely glimpse appear and go away without any (if there were someone), may ever imprint their gaze on it (nor even a fleeting twinkling of eyes on ephemeral glimmers).

Scripta volant. Verba manent. In this abbey of electro-hydraulic miners, only abulic automatons tirelessly copy the days that were ours from light to dusk. Just automatons, sterilized even before the burning Helios, Would initiate them into the irrepressible voluptuousness Of the evergreen pure forms.

...

"...don't turn back to the tracks. And let the shadow of your hair walk proudly, like a lone guide, Always before your uncertainty..."

...

In this land, freedom belongs only to those who hold hands on their interminable slavery.

There is no time

Against the backdrop of destruction and despair, the poem describes a timeless and irredeemable atmosphere in which crumbling houses and wars draw a transcendent picture.

In praise of rain

Original page:

They told me of a father

I was told of an adamant Father under the tramontana breezes, whose memories of children's homes and nests are narrated before falling asleep in this poem.

Nymphs, elves, gods and goats They wait, crammed behind misty wings. No clapperboard, just the look that you look To start the motionless dances. Wax statues wink at rocky mists, electric impetuses pop While Venus, smiling, files her nails. Pan runs and stops, He laughs, he cries, he screams to hear himself scream, and then, He slumbers, exhausted of himself. The endless days of mathematics shorten their robes, and a sassy group of flamenco dancers, Gasping at the onset of emotion, Is holed up in the useless hubbub of Echo. An immense spark on the tip of a hair Blinds Polyphemus frozen on the rocks, While the dreamy Ulysses, With victory on the bow, shamelessly sets out Into the arms of sublime damnation. Paradise, dusty, waits patiently for the clueless patrons.

My affections

Like water in a mill, the affections indulge toward the last caress of parting, awaiting the moment when life will crumble new grain.

Clench your fists. Breathe. Whisper your groans within yourself.

Curved, white, without night, sleepless, Without souls to free, without lights too far away Nor vain torments to make one die.

Clench your fists. Breathe. Speak to your deities, Sing to your spirits, And your finger trace harmonies, trace ancestral names, capitals, clouded glimpses, live the curses, Die under the drops of lightning floods.

And you, blinded, deaf of me, infirm and barefoot, may you Wake the sleep of the mountains.

May you, You who speak to the multitudes, You who weep with sparse creatures, you who exist In the space of a bare speck, you who do, And with you, everything; you who moan, And so, everything; every me, Every soul not freed, every dream, every form, and with me The itch that clenches my fists, And the wind whispering inside me, and the night, and the day; The day that doesn't come back.

That doesn't return. As of now Ahead.

...

Never again.

Crystalline luminescences. The bees, enamored of the noonday collapse And the enchantment is yours. You possess me like a gulp of air.

I watch my thoughts, today, Like the baskets of a water mill: overflowing, essentials, filled with being, ready to empty So that the wheel can keep turning.

...

A few flocks, On my roof, announce a blizzard.

Riding on the back of a flea

Explore the poetry of memories hidden in the shadows, ride the inspiration, and be transported to surreal and evanescent places.