One art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. -- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Autorretrato por Adam Zagajewski

Entre ordenador, lápiz y máquina de escribir
se me pasa la mitad del día. Algún día se convertirá en medio siglo.
Vivo en ciudades ajenas y a veces converso
con gente ajena sobre cosas que me son ajenas.
Escucho mucha música: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
En la música encuentro la fuerza, la debilidad y el dolor, los tres elementos.
El cuarto no tiene nombre.
Leo a poetas vivos y muertos, aprendo de ellos
tenacidad, fe y orgullo. Intento comprender
a los grandes filósofos -la mayoría de las veces consigo
captar tan sólo jirones de sus valiosos pensamientos.
Me gusta dar largos paseos por las calles de París
y mirar a mis prójimos, animados por la envidia,
la ira o el deseo; observar la moneda de plata
que pasa de mano en mano y lentamente pierde
su forma redonda (se borra el perfil del emperador).
A mi lado crecen árboles que no expresan nada,
salvo su verde perfección indiferente.
Aves negras caminan por los campos
siempre esperando algo, pacientes como viudas españolas.
Ya no soy joven, mas sigue habiendo gente mayor que yo.
Me gusta el sueño profundo, cuando no estoy,
y correr en bici por caminos rurales, cuando álamos y casas
se difuminan como nubes con el buen tiempo.
A veces me dicen algo los cuadros en los museos
y la ironía se esfuma de repente.
Me encanta contemplar el rostro de mi mujer.
Cada semana, el domingo, llamo a mi padre.
Cada dos semanas me reúno con mis amigos,
de esta forma seguimos siendo fieles.
Mi país se liberó de un mal. Quisiera
que le siguiera aún otra liberación.
¿Puedo aportar algo para ello? No lo sé.
No soy hijo de la mar,
como escribió sobre sí mismo Antonio Machado,
sino del aire, la menta y el violonchelo,
y no todos los caminos del alto mundo
se cruzan con los senderos de la vida que, de momento,
a mí me pertenece.

How to speak poetry

From "Death of a Lady's Man"

Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words. Never try to leave the floor when you talk about flying. Never close your eyes and jerk your head to one side when you talk about death. Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself. If ambition and the hunger for applause have driven you to speak about love you should learn how to do it without disgracing yourself or the material.

And so on util we come to... (there's a par missing from the original text) Speak the words with the exact precision with which you would check out a laundry list. Do not become emotional about the lace blouse. Do not get a hard-on when you say panties. Do not get all shivery just because of the towel. The sheets should not provoke a dreamy expression about the eyes. There is no need to weep into the handkerchief. The socks are not there to remind you of strange and distant voyages. It is just your laundry. It is just your clothes. Don't peep through them. Just wear them.

The poem is nothing but information. It is the Constitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps ans sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.

Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you're tired. You look like you could go on forever. Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty.

Ábreme la herida por Jesús Sanoja Hernández

Ven y ábreme la herida.
Quiero de ti la ofensa,
la palabra que me ponga en dolor,

Quiero de ti el negado Paraíso, aun sin ti.

Basta del paso sosegado,

de esta quietud de sombras. Quiero que me metas

en la queja, surco hondo del rencor.

El saldo simple, la cancelación de lo que me fue dado.

Quiero de ti el desespero, aun en la esperanza.

Logra en mí la angélica posición

del cuerpo.

Contémplame desde ese aparte sin número,

juzga mi adentro desde tus afueras,

embravece mi preciosa intimidad, viólame

y sácame de ese punto fijo. Mátame con lo tuyo,

pura inundación del ser.

Dame el toro, la lidia interminable.

Ivan Ivanov-Vano - Blek end uait (Black and White - Noir et blanc) - 1933 (vostfr)

Waltz.-2 Shostakovich

Love of lesbian - Shiwa

El círculo

Bríndate cuerpo a la contorsión

halla tu centro

pies y corona

que en el truco sinuoso

expresen lo que llevas

de emociones y cánticos.

Necesarias invocaciones

Voy a imponerte el peso

de noventa poemas

sobre la carne y mis

palmas sobre las rodillas

que el sudor con su fino rocío

nos bendiga como amantes de oro

que cada palabra se hunda

temerosa entre los poros

que tus ojos de ónix perlas

no rehúyan de la luz

que se entretejan

nuestros cabellos

de emociones profundas

y una mano resguarde la otra

mientras llegan los estrépitos

del sueño

libaciones

imploraciones

ofrendas y alabanzas

para invocar entre las sábanas

los destellos escasos

de la divinidad.

Vigilia de las luces

Me he entregado al

paso lento y firme

recorrido de senderos

y sus iteraciones

arrojemos un conjuro desesperanzado

rindámosle una sonrisa al aire

a lo que se pensó

mantengamos este paso

aunque la fragilidad de la rosa

no se haya vuelto permanente

cuando abracemos el reposo

el sol habrá hecho su trazo diagonal

sobre nuestras coronas.

Caetano Veloso - Jorge de Capadócia

Jorge sentou praça

na cavalaria

eu estou feliz porque eu também sou da sua companhia

Eu estou vestido com as roupas e as armas de Jorge

Para que meus inimigos tenham maõs e não me toquem

Para que meus inimigos

tenham pés e não me alcacem

Para que meus inimigos

tenham olhos e não me vejam

E nem mesmo o pensamento

eles possam ter para me fazeram mal

Armas de fogo

meu corpo não alcançarão

Facas e espadas se quebrem

sem o meu corpo tocar

Cordas e correntes se arrebentem sem o meu corpo amarrar

pois eu estou vestido com as roupas e as armas de Jorge

Jorge é de Capadócia

Bob Dylan - One More Cup of Coffee

Your breath is sweet
Your eyes are like two jewels in the sky
Your back is straight your hair is smooth
On the pillow where you lie
But I don't sense affection
No gratitude or love
Your loyalty is not to me
But to the stars above

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go.
To the valley below.

Your daddy he's an outlaw
And a wanderer by trade
He'll teach you how to pick and choose
And how to throw the blade
He oversees his kingdom
So no stranger does intrude
His voice it trembles as he calls out
For another plate of food.

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go.
To the valley below.

Your sister sees the future
Like your mama and yourself
You've never learned to read or write
There's no books upon your shelf
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go.To the valley below.

Pau Casals: El Cant dels Ocells

Paul Robeson - Summertime

Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child-Paul Robeson

Sam Cooke - A Change Is Gonna Come

Poemas de Antonio Simón Calcaño. (Fieles de la soledad 1978).

Nido del pulso

Hay un ruido del tiempo

en la pared

No interrumpido.

Cavar alegre y engañoso

Búsqueda de un tesoro

ya perdido.

Nido del pulso

Bellas la forma

y el heraldo intruso.

Perverso trae al oído

el recuerdo fatal

Mas en la soledad suéname amigo.

El tapado

Acaso protegerlo

del aire, del insecto

o exagerada notación de duelo.

Ante sedoso muro

se frustran

las imágenes.

Añorante su sueño

de completas venus

y parejas aves.

Aquel lento

primaverarse labios

y anochecerse cejas.

Ahora luce nada

en su piel de recubierta

estatua.

Mas un día de sol desesperado

recobrará su entero cuerpo

Volverá entre los vivos.

Vanidad de vanidades

Tus méritos te digo

A tu pequeño mundo

los transcribo.

Complácete

este solemne

yo con gafas.

Tu vanidad

aún más pretende

que me avecinen lauros.

Resígnate

tu nombre

se me perdura en alto.

Espacios

A uno le entregan

espacio grande

Montañas, ríos, parte de mar le entregan.

Los mayores espacios

El cielo profundo

aunque no lo comprenda.

Llena espacios de amor

Ocupa los de pena

Cada quien un espacio sobre tierra.

Ahora

el solitario dice

mi cuarto es bueno.