Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuéesQui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer;Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.

Poetry is inspired by the elements of random thoughts, an overflow of gazing at the unseen.

SPOILER ALERT: EVERYONE FALLS IN LOVE & DIES!

The subtleties of the mind cannot be transmitted in words, but can be seen in words.

Os poetas vão ficar no desemprego, em breve, muito em breve.Os algoritmos sem erro, perfeitos de pesadelo, escreverão melhor.

where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die,

We have no quarrel with the German nation,One would not quarrel with a flock of sheep.But, generation after generation,They throw up leaders who disturb our sleep.

Don’t go far off, not even for a day,because I don’t know how to say it – a day is longand I will be waiting for you, as inan empty station when the trains areparked...

I do think that poetry is important though, if you don’t strive at it, if you don’t fill it full of stars and falseness.

I stalk certain words… I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me,...

A Blessing on the PoetsPatient earth-digger, impatient fire-maker,Hungry word-taker and roving sound-lover,Sharer and saver, muser and acher,You who are open to hide or uncover,Time-keeper and –hater, wake-sleeper, sleep-waker;May language’s language, the silence that liesUnder each...

Yo te he nombrado reina.Hay más altas que tú, más altas.Hay más puras que tú, más puras.Hay más bellas que tú, hay más bellas.Pero tú eres la reina.Cuando vas por las callesnadie te reconoce.Nadie ve...

I don’t existmetal pressed to pagesspilling blood, inkin vein each thought ragesSunlight shootingthrough a forest of pinesblack top windingand yellow dotted linesI am not hereonly a deep aching,a lightning flashand a tree trunk breakingSheets once...

She’s always looking for poetry and passion and sensitivity, the whole Romantic kitchen. I live on a rather simpler diet.’ ‘Prose and pudding?”I don’t expect attractive men necessarily to have attractive souls.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

Women who have been disappeared by violence are howling. The voices of disappeared women are echoing. I sing with these voices.

Inconstancy of every second punishes me.The wind, the rain, the clouds, the days,I try to grasp the hours but they banish me,And I remain in the vortex of incongruity.The lone coyote shrieks,Startling my soul into...

It must have been an endless breathing in: between the wish to know and the wish to praise there was no seam.

If the incision of our words amounts to nothing but a feeling, a slow motion, it will still cut a better swath than the factory model, the corporate model, the penitentiary model, which by my...

…the religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky…

To whom shall I offer this book, young and sprightly,Neat, polished, wide-margined, and finished politely?To you, my Cornelius, whose learning pedantic,Has dared to set forth in three volumes giganticThe history of ages—ye gods, what a...

Though I knew how this failure would hurt you, I had to fold like a grey moth and let go.You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Color is the overpowering of black; white – the final victory over black.

… only darkened trails of rain could paint your face upon a pane…

Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it’s a product of an assembly line.

Dear Forgiveness, you know that recentlywe have had our difficulties and there are many thingsI want to ask you.

Pretense cannot sustain blind power.

REQUIEMUnder the wide and starry skyDig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where...

You are not what you are; You are darkness Looking for light within.

Seed Leaves Homage to R. F. Here something stubborn comes,Dislodging the earth crumbsAnd making crusty rubble.it comes up bending double,And looks like a green staple.It could be seedling maple,Or artichoke, or bean.That remains to be...

To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.

technology murdered childhood.

No reason for a feverish rush For we will all arrive in the same place At the right time. Justice will be served. There will be no better or worse, No big and small, no...

With all honesty, somewhere between the hello and the dreams I saw you in I fell in love.

Consider, O Lord, how You sit atop the sky;like a man in a glass bottom boat.Consider sky elsewhere; worn thin as a mattress.

Nothing is more natural than mutual misunderstanding; the contrary is always surprising. I believe that one never agrees on anything except by mistake, and that all harmony among human beings is the happy fruit of...

I can hear the library humming in the night, a choir of authors murmuring inside their books along the unlit, alphabetical shelves, Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son, each one stitched...

I can blend words easily with my pen, and show concepts from deep within. Yet not everyone gets the message I send. So why do I even let these words begin? Maybe they will soak...

We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards.

And wonder, dread and warhave lingered in that landwhere loss and love in turnhave held the upper hand.

After Homer and Dante, is a whole century of creating worth one Shakespeare?

You were just another stranger in the room,In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you,I became your tiny dancer,I became everything to you,Little did you know,That I’m just a dancer, Not your...

Forever, if she promises to never part the ocean where the river sings.

The will of life and death, never share the same motivation…we all know that love is the ultimate motive to die for…but let’s not kid ourselves……we all know the ultimate motive to rise back from...

you can take this mouththis wound you wantbut you can’t kissand make itbetter.

Poetry is not an art, it’s a symptom.

hate blows a bubble of despair intohugeness world system universe and bang-fear buries a tomorrow under woeand up comes yesterday most green and young

We were hooked when we woke.We had arms for each other.But I yearned to resumeMy dreams of another.

I will come back to you, I swear I will;And you will know me still.I shall be only a little tallerThan when I went.