Arte Soy

You are the sweat on the brow of a mother in her thirteenth hour of
labor. You are the fickle fingers of a child grazing a splintery fence
midday. You are a sixteen-syllable sentence uttered by a woman with
beautiful lips. You are the thousands of end-of-the-world kisses in
constant exchange at each terminal. You speak and rain falls upward.
You blink and butterflies dissolve. There are shells of people out there
trying, each day, to become an atom in the vast dance of your
movements, to seek the mode in the range of your emotions.
You are bottled nebulae with a cork that is waiting to pop.
You are lunar flora: prickly pear cacti which fill craters steeping in a
celestial marinade hailing from the Horsehead. And should you stand
beneath the sun for too long, the land which surrounds you would
recede into the dark recesses from whence it came, and the soft
luminescence of your eyes would suffice to lead your way.

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Mi piel frontera del dolor, sumisa
fiel puerta y cerrojo
de mi alma su camisa
reten de mi enojo

brava mi piel maltrata y reprime
la miel y el valor esconde
suda puta la vida mi piel y revive
gen asturiano gaita y monte

reviento tras la oda concebida
como efecto de la implosión
causa en el brillo que cegato mutila
por oro, bolsillo y mano sin perdón

mantel, cubiertos de plata
mero, cordero y jamón
codorniz que al viento arrebata
suspiro del ala, sostén de ladrón

balín reflejo del relámpago
combustión de pólvora y sol
mesa servida, sudor seco de zángano
desmayo de hambre y amor

la sal, la pimienta, el sabor
el cura la sotana y la misa
cuando duermo es negro el color
mis pestañas no hallan repisa

no reposa la conciencia, se remuerde,
solo un padre nuestro el precio paga
repite penosa, de odio maloliente
se pudre dorado, por crucifijo una daga.

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You make me die,
a little bit,
each day,
without even the tremendous helping hand
of time

By sundown, I’m but a million morsels
of decay
as atoms reverse their tap dance
in a delayed orbit
around each eye full of almonds:
two salty caverns

Your torture is as exclusive as it is
elusive,
swift, comparable to
a mere drizzle of honey; it’s funny
But not in a healthy way

(Sarah Martin contributed this.)

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My soul longs for old earth
no roads
machines
senseless noise

Just the wings of birds cutting through the air
The sound of sunlight as it rains through the leaves

The heartbeat of the planet as it throbs and moves and becomes

all

Rain falling and pooling and running down the rocks and washes, dancing on the leaves,
soaking ever so gently into the soil

That we silly humans, so bent on destruction

could

Turn our hands to healing
touching
loving our earth

(Sara Melnicoff contributed this.)

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SUDDEN POEM, APRIL 2010
STANLEY GEMMELL

“Before I praise the dead I should like to point out by what
principles of action we rose to power…” THUCYDIDES * Funeral Speech

To the claim of excellence
And a privileged place in the earth
We are of one mind
Seduced and thrown
By the voice of a woman

Of the slain hosts of men
Who before our hour
Had come to pass like
Red rain into the moss
And gave form to loss

Or of lightning brief and white
Whose thoughts are molten
And jagged to form links
With perfect things
Sought to destroy

Itself a fable
The quickening friendship
Between the sky and the earth
Surely a glance was enough
To retain immortal

The names between us holy
As how men may survive
Seasons as infidel
To themselves
Wrathful and traitorous

For one’s self is also a nation
Thus in love are joined two lands
The body of woman
The body of man
Their mouths slurred in bliss

For to starry heaven
Vast and eternal
Wings and silences
To scarlet lashes
Answers thunder

Fallen lightly as curious footsteps
Making their way past the vaults
Containing their own creations
And listening this became music
Itself the dance for alternates

Fragrant smokes were risen
Feasts filling with spiced loins
Eyes grown long with tears to cover
The shapes of beautiful girls
With parted lips

Tigers crowding the
Commanders’ countenance
Which ultimately became
The drums which are also
The shining sun

To the blind and venerated
Hopes of those shown strange
Favor from the sweet queen
Of paradise
So much favor given

_____
_____

Stanley Gemmell, poet
http://poetmage.tumblr.com
http://angelfire.com/il/surlsone

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Melvin Bravo live at Nikki’s birthday jam

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Get Low

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I stood at your grave,
with fists full of change,
change in the form of words,
words I couldn’t previously say,
due to tides of time,
ebbing and flowing in the form of
change, change in the form of words,
words I collect in a felt hat, as
I busk for saplings of change,
change in the form of words,
words written in ink, exchanged
between changing strangers,
in the rain, on the bus, in the
train station, as people change
hats and faces and trains,
trains in the form of thought,
thoughts I collect in a cup,
a cup I keep above my bed
with a straw, a straw in the form
of a speaker, a speaker moving
voices, holding song, above my bed,
talking about
change.

(Sarah Martin contributed this.)

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2:58 am: My feet are almost as calloused as your hands always were. These hands are virginal apparati with a texture similar to that of honey or warmed dough. Virtually unmarred and scrape-free. Clearly, they do not make nearly enough.

3:02 am: My head is buried in my pillow now and I’m thinking this can’t be healthy- being reminded of your life by the faintest sound of music that you never even got the chance to hear. I’m wondering if I’m sick for never wanting to forget; for fearing Alzheimer’s at age seventy more than Death at age thirty, for wishing for any physiological malfunction over amnesia. I’d like to always be able to recall the inflection of your voice when you would ask what it was I had learned in school that day. At twelve, it posed as a hideous question. But at twenty, not so much.

“What did you learn in school today?”   Now, that’s a poem.

(Sarah Martin contributed this.)

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