Este es un poema que escribí hoy. Hacer esto me llena y me da esperanza para vivir el mañana :)
EXPLOTAR COMO ESTRELLAS
Vamos a explotar como esas estrellas,
Esas que vemos por el telescopio,
Pero, yo no tengo uno...
Entonces ¿Cómo las ves?
Por fotos
Ver fotos no te llevan a ese lugar
Entonces, ¡vamos a ese lugar!
No podemos, no hay dinero...
Tanto tiempo hablas de meter tinta en tu cuerpo
y hasta ahora no te dibujas pajaritos y flores en el,
Eres una "quiero y no puedo"
Pero no te lo digo por miedo...
A veces tengo dìas de mierda,
esos dìas donde el pánico está golpeàndote las sienes,
esos dìas que parecen disco rayado,
esos dìas que temo el futuro por la medianía espiritual...
Es por eso que he decidido explotar como una estrella,
y que mis átomos vuelen y lleguen a donde yo quiero llegar,
a esa piedrita en el río, a esa aurora boreal que llena la gélida oscuridad,
a esas grietas en las manos despues de escalar una montaña,
A esa nada que es un todo para mi.
Y tu ¿Quieres explotar conmigo?
Bianka B.S.
Translation
This is a poem that I wrote today, these are pieces of inspiration of these days, I'm feeling a little unwell today, about my job situation but I'm going to try and try, that's all I have.
Bianka
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Remember how to forget
Sometimes I wonder what would happen to me in the future if I forget the words while I'm talking to someone... Sometimes I pay attention to many things and then I realize that I don't pay attention to anything, sometimes I wonder if my decisions would be alright, in the future, I'm worry about the future and I'm not doing nothing in the present, it's like I'm sleeping and the time is passing and the things are passing. I feel afraid about making mistakes in my decisions but then I think I wouldn't know if I don't try...
Today I watched a documentary about a writer called Edwin Honig, the documentary is called First cousin once removed. I really loved to watch it, Edwin Honig was always a poet eventhough he had Alzeheimer, and as you watch it you can see the reason of his disease and it was to forget things... He was a good writer, poet but he wasn't an excellent father... No one is perfect right?
This documentary inspired me to write to comeback to my words roots, to my need to write a legacy...
And this phrase, by Edwin Honig, was the ringing bell to wake up my inspiration: "Forget me one day, one week, one month, one year..."
Here's a poem by him and a clip of his documentary made by Alan Berliner.
Death is closer
to infinite eternity
than life is
and each life closer
to each least breath
than the blankness of
infinite eternity itself
II
To think blankness
rouses certain terror
and in the feeling
the sudden sense
of self responding
down to the smallest
unaided particle
of its existence
as answer to
the blankness of
sure nonexistence
III
Then infinite eternity
may be the opposite
of felt existence
durable as any
measurably
felt time
IV
I say hello
to myself
and to break
the terror
of nonexistence
I restore my self
to existence whatever
the consequence
Bianka
Today I watched a documentary about a writer called Edwin Honig, the documentary is called First cousin once removed. I really loved to watch it, Edwin Honig was always a poet eventhough he had Alzeheimer, and as you watch it you can see the reason of his disease and it was to forget things... He was a good writer, poet but he wasn't an excellent father... No one is perfect right?
This documentary inspired me to write to comeback to my words roots, to my need to write a legacy...
And this phrase, by Edwin Honig, was the ringing bell to wake up my inspiration: "Forget me one day, one week, one month, one year..."
Here's a poem by him and a clip of his documentary made by Alan Berliner.
To Infinite Eternity
IDeath is closer
to infinite eternity
than life is
and each life closer
to each least breath
than the blankness of
infinite eternity itself
II
To think blankness
rouses certain terror
and in the feeling
the sudden sense
of self responding
down to the smallest
unaided particle
of its existence
as answer to
the blankness of
sure nonexistence
III
Then infinite eternity
may be the opposite
of felt existence
durable as any
measurably
felt time
IV
I say hello
to myself
and to break
the terror
of nonexistence
I restore my self
to existence whatever
the consequence
Bianka
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Saber declamar
Today I watched a video where a guy named Neil Hilborn performed a poem that he wrote but that wasn't interesting but the fact that he had a compulsive obsessive disorder called my attention and that was because he knows how to live his art, it's beautiful.
So here you have this video.
Bianka
So here you have this video.
Bianka
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Poems I love
Today is the international day of poetry and as a tribute to this day, I leave you one of my favourite poems.
By the way, I'm not feeling well, I don't want to eat... And I miss my mom, she traveled today to another city and I will be in charge of the housework... Which I don't like but I have to help my mom... But I'm getting tired to stay at home all day....
Here you have a poem by Alfonsina Storni, who was an argentinian writer who committed suicide.
Have a nice night, drink wine with a a piece of chocolate cake.
Bianka
By the way, I'm not feeling well, I don't want to eat... And I miss my mom, she traveled today to another city and I will be in charge of the housework... Which I don't like but I have to help my mom... But I'm getting tired to stay at home all day....
Here you have a poem by Alfonsina Storni, who was an argentinian writer who committed suicide.
I Am Going to Sleep
Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard;
a constellation; whatever you like;
all are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through . . .
a celestial foot rocks you from above
and a bird traces a pattern for you
so you'll forget . . . Thank you. Oh, one request:
if he telephones again
tell him not to keep trying for I have left . . .
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard;
a constellation; whatever you like;
all are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through . . .
a celestial foot rocks you from above
and a bird traces a pattern for you
so you'll forget . . . Thank you. Oh, one request:
if he telephones again
tell him not to keep trying for I have left . . .
Alfonsina Storni
Have a nice night, drink wine with a a piece of chocolate cake.
Bianka
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Árbol de Diana
Read this poem by Alejandra Pizarnik, she was an argentinian writer who committed suicide in 1972. This poem is written in Spanish, I couldn't find an english one.
If your learning spanish, you're going to feel every single word of her poems.
Árbol de Diana
1
He dado el salto de mí al alba.
He dejado mi cuerpo junto a la luz
y he cantado la tristeza de lo que nace.
2
Estas son las versiones que nos propone:
un agujero, una pared que tiembla...
3
sólo la sed
el silencio
ningún encuentro
cuídate de mí amor mío
cuídate de la silenciosa en el desierto
de la viajera con el vaso vacío
y de la sombra de su sombra
4
Ahora bien:
Quién dejará de hundir su mano en busca
del tributo para la pequeña olvidada. El frío
pagará. Pagará el viento. La lluvia pagará.
Pagará el trueno.
5
por un minuto de vida breve
única de ojos abiertos
por un minuto de ver
en el cerebro flores pequeñas
danzando como palabras en la boca de un mudo
6
ella se desnuda en el paraíso
de su memoria
ella desconoce el feroz destino
de sus visiones
ella tiene miedo de no saber nombrar
lo que no existe
7
Salta con la camisa en llamas
de estrella a estrella,
de sombra en sombra.
Muere de muerte lejana
la que ama al viento.
8
Memoria iluminada, galería donde vaga
la sombra de lo que espero. No es verdad
que vendrá. No es verdad que no vendrá.
9
A Aurora y Julio Cortázar
Estos huesos brillando en la noche,
estas palabras como piedras preciosas
en la garganta viva de un pájaro petrificado,
este verde muy amado,
este lila caliente,
este corazón sólo misterioso.
10
un viento débil
lleno de rostros doblados
que recorto en forma de objetos que amar
11
ahora
en esta hora inocente
yo y la que fui nos sentamos
en el umbral de mi mirada
12
no más las dulces metamorfosis de una niñ3; de seda
sonámbula ahora en la cornisa de niebla
su despertar de mano respirando
de flor que se abre al viento
13
explicar con palabras de este mundo
que partió de mí un barco llevándome
14
El poema que no digo,
el que no merezco.
Miedo de ser dos
camino del espejo:
alguien en mí dormido
me come y me bebe.
15
Extraño desacostumbrarme
de la hora en que nací.
Extraño no ejercer más
oficio de recién llegada.
16
has construido tu casa
has emplumado tus pájaros
has golpeado al viento
con tus propios huesos
has terminado sola
lo que nadie comenzó
17
Días en que una palabra lejana se apodera de mí. Voy por esos días
sonámbula y transparente. La hermosa autómata se canta, se encanta,
se cuenta casos y cosas: nido de hilos rígidos donde me danzo y me
lloro en mis numerosos funerales. (Ella es su espejo incendiado, su
espera en hogueras frías, su elemento místico, su fornicación de nom-
bres creciendo solos en la noche pálida.)
20
a Laure Bataillon
dice que no sabe del miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que tiene miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que el amor es muerte es miedo
dice que la muerte es miedo es amor
dice que no sabe
21
he nacido tanto
y doblemente sufrido
en la memoria de aquí y de allá
22
en la noche
un espejo para la pequeña muerta
un espejo de cenizas
23
una mirada desde la alcantarilla
puede ser una visión del mundo
la rebelión consiste en mirar una rosa
hasta pulverizarse los ojos
32
Zona de plagas donde la dormida come lentamente
su corazón de medianoche.
33
alguna vez
alguna vez tal vez
me iré sin quedarme
me iré como quien se va
34
la pequeña viajera
moría explicando su muerte
sabios animales nostálgicos
visitaban su cuerpo caliente
35
a Ester Singer
Vida, mi vida, déjate caer, déjate doler, mi vida, déjate enlazar de fuego,
de silencio ingenuo, de piedras verdes en la casa de la noche,
déjate caer y doler, mi vida.
37
más allá de cualquier zona prohibida
hay un espejo para nuestra triste transparencia
38
Este canto arrepentido, vigía detrás de mis poemas'
este canto me desmiente, me amordaza.
If your learning spanish, you're going to feel every single word of her poems.
Árbol de Diana
1
He dado el salto de mí al alba.
He dejado mi cuerpo junto a la luz
y he cantado la tristeza de lo que nace.
2
Estas son las versiones que nos propone:
un agujero, una pared que tiembla...
3
sólo la sed
el silencio
ningún encuentro
cuídate de mí amor mío
cuídate de la silenciosa en el desierto
de la viajera con el vaso vacío
y de la sombra de su sombra
4
Ahora bien:
Quién dejará de hundir su mano en busca
del tributo para la pequeña olvidada. El frío
pagará. Pagará el viento. La lluvia pagará.
Pagará el trueno.
5
por un minuto de vida breve
única de ojos abiertos
por un minuto de ver
en el cerebro flores pequeñas
danzando como palabras en la boca de un mudo
6
ella se desnuda en el paraíso
de su memoria
ella desconoce el feroz destino
de sus visiones
ella tiene miedo de no saber nombrar
lo que no existe
7
Salta con la camisa en llamas
de estrella a estrella,
de sombra en sombra.
Muere de muerte lejana
la que ama al viento.
8
Memoria iluminada, galería donde vaga
la sombra de lo que espero. No es verdad
que vendrá. No es verdad que no vendrá.
9
A Aurora y Julio Cortázar
Estos huesos brillando en la noche,
estas palabras como piedras preciosas
en la garganta viva de un pájaro petrificado,
este verde muy amado,
este lila caliente,
este corazón sólo misterioso.
10
un viento débil
lleno de rostros doblados
que recorto en forma de objetos que amar
11
ahora
en esta hora inocente
yo y la que fui nos sentamos
en el umbral de mi mirada
12
no más las dulces metamorfosis de una niñ3; de seda
sonámbula ahora en la cornisa de niebla
su despertar de mano respirando
de flor que se abre al viento
13
explicar con palabras de este mundo
que partió de mí un barco llevándome
14
El poema que no digo,
el que no merezco.
Miedo de ser dos
camino del espejo:
alguien en mí dormido
me come y me bebe.
15
Extraño desacostumbrarme
de la hora en que nací.
Extraño no ejercer más
oficio de recién llegada.
16
has construido tu casa
has emplumado tus pájaros
has golpeado al viento
con tus propios huesos
has terminado sola
lo que nadie comenzó
17
Días en que una palabra lejana se apodera de mí. Voy por esos días
sonámbula y transparente. La hermosa autómata se canta, se encanta,
se cuenta casos y cosas: nido de hilos rígidos donde me danzo y me
lloro en mis numerosos funerales. (Ella es su espejo incendiado, su
espera en hogueras frías, su elemento místico, su fornicación de nom-
bres creciendo solos en la noche pálida.)
20
a Laure Bataillon
dice que no sabe del miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que tiene miedo de la muerte del amor
dice que el amor es muerte es miedo
dice que la muerte es miedo es amor
dice que no sabe
21
he nacido tanto
y doblemente sufrido
en la memoria de aquí y de allá
22
en la noche
un espejo para la pequeña muerta
un espejo de cenizas
23
una mirada desde la alcantarilla
puede ser una visión del mundo
la rebelión consiste en mirar una rosa
hasta pulverizarse los ojos
32
Zona de plagas donde la dormida come lentamente
su corazón de medianoche.
33
alguna vez
alguna vez tal vez
me iré sin quedarme
me iré como quien se va
34
la pequeña viajera
moría explicando su muerte
sabios animales nostálgicos
visitaban su cuerpo caliente
35
a Ester Singer
Vida, mi vida, déjate caer, déjate doler, mi vida, déjate enlazar de fuego,
de silencio ingenuo, de piedras verdes en la casa de la noche,
déjate caer y doler, mi vida.
37
más allá de cualquier zona prohibida
hay un espejo para nuestra triste transparencia
38
Este canto arrepentido, vigía detrás de mis poemas'
este canto me desmiente, me amordaza.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
A poem
Read this lovely poem by Dylan Thomas, it's called "And the Death Shall Have no Dominion". And if you wonder who are in this picture I shall say that the only one who is alive is a friend of mine, a lovely lady called Emma, she is an amazing woman and this poem is dedicated to her.
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas
Bianka
Monday, November 19, 2012
Just in my dreams
I wrote this poem today in english, I didn't translate it. This is the first poem that I write in this language, I hope you like it.
Whisper a name you never mentioned before.
Just in my dreams
It's difficult to discover the truth,
It's difficult to forget,
It's hard to let go
Nothing is the same,
the dream is over,
There is no love anymore,
There never was...
I don't want any victim
I don't want any killer,
I don't expect anything,
not even a message from you.
I asked you once not twice, no three times
Do you want to see me? Do you still love me? Why you're not with me?
Those are questions that I won't ask you ever,
Just in my dreams...
Bianka
Whisper a name you never mentioned before.
Just in my dreams
It's difficult to discover the truth,
It's difficult to forget,
It's hard to let go
Nothing is the same,
the dream is over,
There is no love anymore,
There never was...
I don't want any victim
I don't want any killer,
I don't expect anything,
not even a message from you.
I asked you once not twice, no three times
Do you want to see me? Do you still love me? Why you're not with me?
Those are questions that I won't ask you ever,
Just in my dreams...
Bianka
Friday, November 16, 2012
Talking about stones
I simply love Mario Benedetti, his poems are amazing, they touch and caress your soul... When you read them you believe in love and you begin to dream with the love of your life... We don't know if we're going to meet them but it's good to dream.
Here's a poem by Mario Benedetti, it's called Little Stones at My Window. And for the people who want to know why the name of my blog, I got inspired on this poem.
Feel happy about the truth, open your eyes.
Bianka
Here's a poem by Mario Benedetti, it's called Little Stones at My Window. And for the people who want to know why the name of my blog, I got inspired on this poem.
Feel happy about the truth, open your eyes.
Bianka
Little Stones at My Window
Once in a while
joy throws little stones at my window
it wants to let me know that it's waiting for me
but today I'm calm
I'd almost say even-tempered
I'm going to keep anxiety locked up
and then lie flat on my back
which is an elegant and comfortable position
for receiving and believing news
who knows where I'll be next
or when my story will be taken into account
who knows what advice I still might come up with
and what easy way out I'll take not to follow it
don't worry, I won't gamble with an eviction
I won't tattoo remembering with forgetting
there are many things left to say and suppress
and many grapes left to fill our mouths
don't worry, I'm convinced
joy doesn't need to throw any more little stones
I'm coming
I'm coming.
joy throws little stones at my window
it wants to let me know that it's waiting for me
but today I'm calm
I'd almost say even-tempered
I'm going to keep anxiety locked up
and then lie flat on my back
which is an elegant and comfortable position
for receiving and believing news
who knows where I'll be next
or when my story will be taken into account
who knows what advice I still might come up with
and what easy way out I'll take not to follow it
don't worry, I won't gamble with an eviction
I won't tattoo remembering with forgetting
there are many things left to say and suppress
and many grapes left to fill our mouths
don't worry, I'm convinced
joy doesn't need to throw any more little stones
I'm coming
I'm coming.
Mario Benedetti
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