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LACRIMAE RERUM

 


"Sunt Lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt" 

(Virgil, Aeneid, Book I)


Tears of things are gleaming

in the darkness of memories.


Camellia, cherry blossoms

fill the ground of my mind.


Tears of things like dew drops

on the bones of springtime

picked clean by the moon.


(the memory 

that the moon lost

is mine)


Tears of things 

sparkling like stars,


the stars are tears

of the unknown

forever









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BEES

 


When I was a child a dense swarm of bees

Poured into my mouth pure forest honey.


So it happened with Isidore of Seville

when he was just a nipper, legend says.


Everyone expected of me the eloquence 

Of a saint in Damask, a rethorician in Athens.

But nobody, not even my mother knew 

About those bees having already sipped 

into the white asphodels down in Hades  ,

into the delusive oleanders in Arcadia.


Nobody expected of me to be a poet,

a secret polisher of words, the amanuensis 

of the invisible...


I still can listen their humming on my lips.


(2006)





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SUNDAY, 4/05/2025

 


I cried the louder at birth

but I was not orphan like Oliver Twist

in Pentonville, London. 

Though twisted I was 

brought into this world,

sired by the sullen glare

of tropical sunsets.


I cry now -even louder- 

at my mother's ascent

into the unknown as a skylark

from a garden of blue roses

by the sea.


I saw her soaring embracing the sun.




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METAPHYSICS OF THE SHADOW


    

  

Pindar said

a man is just a dream 

of his shadow

I am the nightmare

of my walking shadow

 not even sure

it's mine.


*


Plotino refused to be

portraited because his self

was only the shadow

of his platonic prototype.

The shadow of a shadow

of a shadow of a shadow...

And the last shadow just

a seagreen twinkle

 in my cat's gaze.


*


Sat upon a rock in Montségur 

stronghold of the hapless 

Cathars and songful birds

the poet aligned his heart

to the sun in summer solstice

The poet became one of the Perfecti:

his shadow went back to his loft 

in the old Paris  in Montmartre.


















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FLASHES

 


Wild geese

where are you going now?

Sweet day not to alight

where the clan of hyenas

drink at sunset.


*


the past is not a foreign country

the past is already my country

for good. A country with no flag

other than laughter and the erect

phallus of an African god.


*

(The birth of Venus) 


She sprung like a goddess

from the whirling froth

of dream-seascapes


He stepped into her glance

with the randomness

of a fallen card

following the saline fragance

of her vellus hair


She embraced him with a touch

of a dolphin playing around

dissolving him

in the sunblind waves.

*


Etiolated like a daffodil

trodden upon by footfall and rain

I was in a cafe

of the station concourse

but the last glance

 she gave me at leaving

became a robin redbreast

 in the garden

staring at me with hope. 


*


I am a mortal who made love

with a goddess

and must die

and will never know

the goddess'name.


*


Don't bite again

the wrong side of the apple

-said the Sphinx squatted

in the middle of a vast desert

among the italianate ruins

of my mind

A sandstorm coating

her lion-wise head


*


The dogs scenting me.

I am already a wolf.

Maybe the moon.


*


like Anaxagoras I point to the stars

as my native home

even beyond the dark matter


*


All day long 

I've been smelling deep

the moonshiny aroma

 of jasmine trellises.

All night long

I've been smelling deep

the jasmined aroma

of the moonlight.


*


Odd times

I write to God

and she replies to me

in form of dancing cranes.








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BEHOLDING THE LONDON GLOOM FROM THE OVERGROUND....(SUNDOWNER)

 

'He triumps now, the dead,

Beholding London's gloom'

(Lionel Johnson)



Beholding the London gloom

 from the overground

                                bound to Gospel Oak. 

There is a beam of fickle sunlight

 that glares onto the buildings plateglass

a succession of drystone walls 

with all the verdigris

of centuries and drizzles.

*

Komorebi

                     -so call the Japanese 

the sunbeams filtered through the trees.

 I want to be called Komorebi, Komorebi,

 even the tender sound of the word

subdues the clicketyclack of the train

alighting on West Hampstead.

Call me Komorebi, Anne, when I am already home

with your favourite Jaffa cake and white carnations.


Conatus 

               -so called Spinoza the strength

driving each human being to carry on...

Carry on in this gloominess, Jo, 

keep at watching those strands of light 

along the bridges and fences.

But how could I avoid watching all that knackered

people in tracksuits and elegant suits?

How can I get rid of that voices chewing

like cows trite and rain-streaked words?

How can I turn all that mud into memorable light?


I can listen outside the leaves 

of the ash trees hissing in the wind.

I can see a posse of thugs that pull

a mooney to the train passing by.

I can see a pigeon pecking at a dog-end.


Carry on, mental Jo, sing along with the rain

pitter-patter on the cobblestones.

"Something will turn up"

                            -says Wilkins Micawber 

with his eye-glass and walking stick

 waving at me a silk hankie from a park bench.

I smirked him back.

Disabused of reality, down-trodden by hope...


Carry on, mental Jo, ya scum of the earth

enlisted to drink, ya closet poet, dotty low-lifer,

man up and stop nursing the same flummery moans...


*


A smell of deep-fry 

cast my reveries away.

Still don't know

 if I got off at Gospel Oak

or rather at a purple  desolate

 seaside in Devon at dusk.









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THE BAREFOOT POET





The barefoot poet walks carelessly

over the last shards of his wisdom:

crimson, green, blue, yellow shards

glinting by the autum gloam.

Far from bleeding his feet sing out

all the paths he never wandered

all the paths he is just traversing

all along the next life.





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POEMAS DE ERROR Y MISTERIO is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at habaneroerrante.blogspot.com.