sábado, 7 de abril de 2018

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)


"Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer.
His writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles. His work addresses the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work. He died of leukemia."
                                                                                  (source: https://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bukowski)




Bluebird


there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?


Resultado de imagen de charles bukowski quotes

                                 # sharepoetry

miércoles, 4 de abril de 2018

"(Des)cosidos", un poema de Lourdes Vicente.


He descubierto que la poesía cose.
Por eso escribo.

A ti, lector-a.

                                                                                          Obra de Lucio Fontana
                
(Des)cosidos

Tres tajos limpios
recorrían
de arriba abajo
el órgano lánguido que
acuchillado
dejaba marchar
entre sus carnosas vulvas
memorias  que fueron y
sueños que
nunca serán.

La palma de mi mano
buscó apretadamente
tu corazón
aún atado
a tu cuerpo casi sin vida.

Las líneas del destino
convertidas
en hilos de oro
atravesaron tu piel
amoratada ya
y te cosieron
algunas de
tus muchas heridas.

Si tuviera superpoderes
me gustaría que
mis manos sirvieran
para coser heridas
con hilo dorado y
convertir
cada cicatriz
en  seda
de un brocado.
Si tuviera.

De momento no.
Tiro de algunas palabras amables
un poco de poesía y
toneladas de ternura.
De momento solo tengo eso.
Eso también cose.

De momento.




Maruchi, este poema lo escribí para ti.
Aunque ya no puedas leerlo.