MEDITACIÓN: LAURELES EN PLEAMAR

PUBLICADO EN CARACAS, VENEZUELA EL 17 DE ENERO DE 1993, EN EL SUPLEMENTO CULTURAL DEL DIARIO ULTIMAS NOTICIAS, No. 1287, DIRECTOR, NELSON LUIS MARTÍNEZ.

(c)copyright, 1993, By Carlos Mijares Poyer.

https://issuu.com/samiabulhosen/docs/morphos_ed._especial_diciembre_2019?issuu_product=document_page&issuu_context=action&issuu_cta=like_publication
publicado REVISTA DE LA UNIVERSIDAD INTERAMERICANA DE DESARROLLO MORHPOS DIGITAL MAGAZINE, HAGA CLICK.

 MEDITACIÓN:

LAURELES EN PLEAMAR (Laurels in High Tide)

                        A Rafael Alberti, poeta español

1

Ante el ancho impacto del horizonte

Una corona de laureles navega

Con el mensaje del porvenir

Sobre la frente mansa de las aguas

Sobre un pez sombra que merodea

El fondo de columnas rotas. Atlántida.

Ideal del escondido

Que ahogó sus gestos rotos

En púrpura de sombras,

Con el repentino ademán del pez quebrado

Que con su yema de ojo parpadea, sutil...

2

Nadando con brazos de langosta

En la bahía verguenza de mareas,

Ante una población súbdita del litoral,

Del tul submarino hacia las rocas,

Al ceceo de los cirrópodos donde implotan

Como un orgullo de plumas.

Y las humaredas breves del pincel

Que no son más la gaviotas filósofas 

En sus días de un ciar inepto y a la brisas...

Donde una condensación de lágrimas en ascenso

Suspirara por separado, un millar de estrellas.

Espantando un vórtice de versos

Antes de un anochecer opalescente,

Evitando el moruno albedrío de los charcos

Al pie de la montaña

Que moja su pico en los truenos

De un cielo aborregado.

3

Aromas de gloria en sal

Ante una luciérnaga fogata del naufragio eventual

-diamante silencio de esperanza que gira al pulsar-

Como el asombro de la nota atonal

Que evitan tus manos al piano

Y aún emergen en el plenilunio

Como deidades de la profundidad

Sonriendo...

4

Y esa Luna solaz lupa estelar

Diadema del Sol

Sobre el lome pardo del delfín,

Recordando al César teatral

Con el puñal líquido en su mano.

Y nosotros oníricos:

Por los oceánicos espacios,

En los rellanos donde nos encontraron

Muertos,

Como el oleaje alrededor de la poesía

Como países corolarios de las guerras

Sobre el papel,

Al bautismo con los manes de Plutarco

Antes de la inmersión:

...a inhalar muerte por mar, a vidriarnos

En busca de la poetisa, ánima de los caseríos;

Aquella suicida seducida por un velo de respuestas,

Como libélulas de refranes Kierkegaard y su augur:

“...los nueve meses que he pasado en el vientre de mi madre

Han bastado para hacer de mi un anciano”.

5

Al belio de las sílabas que insisten en el romance.

Oh William Wordsworth, decide el uso de la belladona,

Que yo tomaré de esa copa una vez más

Allá con la bealdad en pleamar,

Asomado y despavorido

A bogar con la distinción de los laureles

Que no merezco,

Porque ya tengo los míos:

-un corazón rodeado de espinas-

Como esas bohemias que caminan bailarina

Fingiendo oler una rosa.

6

Y medito:  Rafael,

En el mar se esconde el gemido moderno,

Ebrio y resguardado como arcos de pie en la marea.

Porque vemos hacia el mar como vemos hacia el aire,

Libres.

En aquella lejanía donde transcurre el canto ameno

De las sirenas seudónimas sentadas sobre las rocas.

-un balbuceo de senos Capo di Monte entre las algas-

Y las aguamalas monocúlas, cual escalofríos rupestres

Que distienden hilachos hasta el fondo craneal.

Lenta donación de un zumbido lineal y pequeño

En el oído

Que solloza y nos recuera la locura etérea,

Esa flor con pétalos de dinero manoseado

Que te regalaron y quemaste como poemas

En el eco solipsista de un lavamanos.

Aumentando..., el abejeo mundanal, las calles abarrotadas....

Una andrómeda de música dirigida por cierto Arcángel(1),

Un refulgir de premisas condecoradas

De esas hojas individuas embaídas por el viento.

Sombra espiral sobre el anacoreta

Que trafica el abertal, silencio

De ese hijo espúreo que piensa:

LOS CALAMBUCOS QUIEREN DOMINAR UN MUNDO.

7

Al andar por el camino, espejos en lágrimas,

El mar y las ideas

En ese vasto cuerpo olivo

Mecidos en ingles y subrepticios

Y amarizar...

En la verdad eufórica y remitente,

Como una luz de neón moribunda

En tu pecho de valiente vida

Llamada lucha.

Por respirar un aroma de conclusiones

Utiles cuando miramos hacia atrás.

La libertad,

Existente después de la muerte,

Total y procedente la poesía, fuera de la mente...

Como estos laureles en pleamar 

Conociendo el Sol,

En aguardo ansiolítico

Del soliloquio dominante de las estrellas obreras.

(1)ARCANGEL: Como lo representa la pintura de Tiepolo y Caravaggio

Un ángel de cabellos negros y piel morena.

Dícese que cuidad el orden en el Reino.

Espíritu celeste del octavo en el cielo.

La fila desde donde cantan los poetas.


https://www.facebook.com/museothyssen/videos/10153811479702833/ 

OVERLAND: A MIDWESTERN POSTCARD IN ITS ORIGINAL ENGLISH 1985

An Overland is a stagecoach, it symbolizes the saga, the legacy of millions of people in America who traversed first from the East to the West in search of Manifest Destiny. Later came the Overland trains the transpacific route, and later the the Overland car 1901, all transportation systems in the history of Americana which issued the innovations which arrived from the Old War to the New World and to the West Young Man. note by Carlos Mijares Poyer.

photo courtesy of wikipedia.

copyright(c) 1985, by Carlos Mijares Poyer.

Overland: A Midwestern Postcard

That sells for 2 cents

It’s sitting over there

A piece of good country on my desk.

It sports a scene to breathe

Yellow-freckled gals

And hard-eyed mining men,

Living in farms, condecorated with barns,

All harbored by a wattle fence.

All below,

Under a sky loitering and hung

That to the glance ripples away,

Then settles to a blue steppe

Dappled by nimbused clouds

Like goblins in cumulus crowds,

Smiling for a Rockwellian sun.

And a dusty road 

Long and leaving;

An old Chevy on it,

Honking and rattling over a brawny hill,

Lying with legs spread

Sunbathing its rusted grass.

This is the postcard of fabled town

With its farmers swimming in fields

Plowing at scarified dreams.

Here, in the home of world’s tallest wheat,

It’s surprising to see all this;

In a 2 cent postcard

That I know,

Is more than light captured on a piece of sheet,

I can hear one Overlander

Struggling amongt the tall sunburned wheat,

Hidden near the parting Chevy, to its right,

Playing with thought puzzles and

Picking the last thorns

From his bare knuckled feet.

Over the hill

And lost in their own stillness,

Stoic folks, moxie just breathing,

In their large shingled homes;

Are seated with the whispered air on the veranda,

Dandling their feathered hair

Like air dandles a scarf,

Like air to their noses mellered;

By the smell of wisterias

Coiled and smiling

From white, soiled portico columns.

So to the good country a town

So to Overland

A down-town named Ur-ban;

Blue and puddled,

Painfully buzzing with the sound

Of dying neon signs

And the young cackle

Of blanche gals in summer dresses,

Waiting like hens in long cinema lines.

And every night the grand Chevys close in

Exhibiting their fins

Converging at a diner

In a restless cloud of soporous dust,

Honking like red-nosed clowns

In supercilious lust.

In a monotone chain of time, link by noisy link,

The days that move in Overland,

Like an old turtle’s trot

In heavy steps that drop

A low hum from the heart.

Back just one more time, here

And pure, in the Overland church-like homes

And local little boys and girls,

Wearing knee-patched trousers

And wool knitted socks.

School is out,

And their young mothers, already sagging,

No longer have to wait

Outside the back school doors.

Where they would stand

Playing with their weight,

Sometimes right or maybe left, saying:

“Where is that kid of mine?”,

Then puzzled and bored

Hating all motherly chores, wishing

“Please!!!”

For the school to purchase a bus.

Good-bye,

Perhaps this postcard

Will be a stamp to collect.

A classic trace of the real midwest.

Perhaps next century,

Looking at it and not finding that same piece 

Of good country.

Only an American Tundra

Dressed with scattered cold stricken barks,

And ravens hovering, circling

Imitating the methods 

Of hungry sharks.

Here where,

Beetles used to cling to the reeds of wheat

And sway viciously with the kick of all winds.

But that was long ago,

When there was a will

In the soul of living things.

Now a fly stands over this postcard

And then it dashes away

   “Sometimes the flight of the fly is welcome,

Because it reflects our laziness.

The laziness of mind

That we don’t possess.”

But all in all,

I show this postcard,

That sells for two cents,

The going price to pay

For a glance at emptiness.

Over a basket of fruit

Kneel the Overland youth,

Over them lingers their saddening souls,

Over them, dies their mirth.

Like an old turtle’s trot

In heavy steps that drop

A low hum from the heart

The drowning ant in silence

And Overland in greater silence dies.

Like an old turtle’s trot

In heavy steps that drop

A low hum from the heart

The numb dust of things

The distant hum of things.

A low hum from the heart.

OVERLAND: A MIDWESTERN POSTCARD, POEM, Author’s note:

Poem I began writing in Kansas City, Overland Park and later finished in Caracas, Venezuela 1985. First published in the “Piper” Literature and Arts Magazine of Guilford Liberal Arts College in Greensboro, North Carolina, USA, in the winter issue of the magazine in the winter of 1987. Translated later by the author and the translator of the Ultimas Noticias Newspaper in Venezuela it’s Cultural Supplement:  published in the Ultimas Noticias Newspaper in Spanish in December of 1989. Published in The Galway Review of the National University of Ireland on February 21, 2016.

http://thegalwayreview.com/2016/02/21/carlos-mijares-poyer-two-poems/

TRANSLATION TO SPANISH

http://periodismo-journalism.blogspot.com/2015/02/poema-originalmente-escrito-en-ingles.html?spref=bl 

If for some reason someone has the shallowness of thinking this an anti-american poem you go argue that issue with Prof. Henry Taylor Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1987 for his book “The Flying Change” of American University and Hollins College, who invited me to the MFA in Creative Writing at American University, I did not go because I did not graduate from Guilford College for already known reasons, and argue with the editorial board of the Ultimas Noticias Cultural Supplement publication awarded in Paris and the world for including the best writers from different countries.

CARLOS E. MIJARES POYER, POEM, THE ARRIVAL, PG 59, THE YELLOW CHAIR REVIEW ISSUE 5

http://issuu.com/yellowchairreview/docs/yellowchairreviewissue5

http://issuu.com/yellowchairreview/docs/yellowchairreviewissue5

PLEASE CLICK AND SEE PAGE 59 THE POEM THE ARRIVAL BY CARLOS E. MIJARES POYER, BORN IN CARACAS, VENEZUELA, BRED IN THE U.S.

HAGA CLICK PAGINA 59 VEA EL POEMA THE ARRIVAL, LA LLEGADA, POR CARLOS E. MIJARES POYER, NACIDO EN CARACAS, VENEZUELA, ESTUDIO Y SE CRIO EN ESTADOS UNIDOS DE NORTEAMERICA.

EROTIC BALLAD, POEMA, 2008

http://www.moma.org/
http://www.artinamericamagazine.com/
http://elpimentn.blogspot.com/ (revista digital de Carlos Mijares Poyer, digital magazine by the author.)

-EROTIC BALLAD- poem by Carlos E. Mijares Poyer, 2007-08 (all rights reserved).


At the dawn of your thighs
the liquids shook my thirst
the archs tightened my being
to the fulfillment of passion.

The peak of your lips
enveloped my manlihood
in the rosy turgence
of the pinnacle-the nation of love
unmeasured.

Fingers that everywhere widened
crevices of pleasure and depths
pain and shadow in your whimper
made stars spiral like windmills
of eyes accessed. White semblances in ecstasy.

I constantly, remember that last scream
goose as in bumps of gaze
tangerine and honey pubescent jungles
cinammon that rounds that last stupor.

Sometimes, sublime claims and petitions
at your feet, through dislocated desire
totality of slavery in enjoy-
of being loved, ...your burgundy boots.

Even though, I desire always
the long nights in the sand
humid inclusions of the multitudinous ocean
that witnesses us like Crusoes
and Sea Horses, in our intimate kisses.

Do not cry, I say,... like I have cried
laugh like the breeze in my eyes, your reflection,

touch and caress the palpitating thickness
and evoke your lively tongue
over what I know is yours,
my bitten lips
by your french finger-nails.

You gave me turquoise eyes
I rendered you ebony of latin gaze of fire,
of solitary "raven"
that flies high among the snow
and evokes light.

Your fingers love, like petals in ceramic basins
swimming
befall, -aromas...

like a tear perils.
I succor the passion, you deny in your bliss.

______________________

quotes of the day:

"love"

"Where does it come from?"

"Have you been loved by all?"

(narrated in the screensplay of the american second world war movie The Thin Red Line, with the superb acting of Sean Penn, Nick Nolte, John Travolta, and other excellent performances.)

a first version of this poem in english by venezuelan-american writer Carlos E. Mijares Poyer in www.myspace.com/carlosmijaresp

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Antique stanza 1990's to be added to american poem, Overland: A Midwestern Postcard 1987 U.S.A.

(...)... I grip the cold mud and I sing
with immemorial tears
never thrown from the sky.

Only
drawn arid like bones
brittle and forgotten
in the pages of large wise books
as poems. (...)

(...)



note: transcribe from ink marker black long hand writing September 20, 2015. (c) Copyright 1985 and 1987 THE PIPER ARTS AND LITERARY MAGAZINE, GUILFORD COLLEGE, WINTER OF 1987, EDITED BY DEMETRA GATES, SUPPORT FROM PHIL POLO A GREAT AMERICAN POET !!!

JULIO CORTAZAR, DEL LIBRO DE CUENTOS BESTIARIO, EL CUENTO CASA TOMADA

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGGOv3t3BMo

AMERICAN SOLTICE, POEM BY CARLOS E. MIJARES POYER/SOLSTICIO AMERICANO, POEMA IN INGLES POR CARLOS E. MIJARES POYER, PUBLICADO EN CALIFORNIA, ESTADOS UNIDOS DE NORTEAMERICA

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/01/21/american-solstice-by-carlos-e-mijares-poyer-i-am-waiting-poetry-series/


Two days ago, The Silver Birch Press Publisher, in Los Angeles, California, U.S.A., published in a homage poetry series, in honor of the great american Beat Generation Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Carlos Mijares Poyer' s poem entitled: American Solstice (in its original english), along with the poems of another national and international poets, honoring the Ferlinghetti's theme based on his poem entitled: I Am Waiting. Click the link above to see Carlos' poem in english.

Hace dos dias, la editorial de Los Angeles, California, Estados Unidos de Norteamerica, public'o en una serie po'etica en homenaje y en honor al gran poeta norteamericano de la generaci'on Beat, de la palabra Beatitud o buenaventuranza, el poem titulado: Solsticio Americano (en su original ingl'es), de Carlos Mijares Poyer, junto a otros poemas de poetas nacionales e internacionales, honrando al poeta norteamericano Lawrence Ferlinghetti, bajo el tema del poema de este mismo autor, de su famoso poema titulado: Estoy esperando.  Haga click en el enlace arriba para ver el poema de Carlos.

IMAGO, POEMA

(c)copyright December 29, 2012 translation of his orignal poem in english-a version- by Carlos Mijares Poyer.



IMAGO


Escarabajo transparente
donde puedo ver el reflejo
de todos los cielos y océanos

tus ojos están allí como
dos universos inmediatos
esperando a ser conquistados
por esta desvastada sociedad

vengo y merodearé
a través de los más exquisitos bosques de tus galaxias
y disfrutar de los hoyos negros
de tu maíz interno
y el tímpano
de tu noche blanca.

IL MIGLIOR FABBRO, THE BEST BLACKSMITH

BY CARLOS MIJARES POYER

IL MIGLIOR FABBRO

            Many people do not know who Ezra Pound was.  A major american poet, with poems like Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, he was il miglior fabbro, the best blacksmith that could churn the metal to shape the art and equal universal art at the hand of this master of literature and translation.

            Ezra Pound, died in Italy in prison accused as traitor for broadcasting fascist and non-fascist and anti-fascist radio talks through italian radio, during the Second World War.  Why do poets always have to end this way, I know... but I will not tell you, it is interesting research in the library and on the internet, noone talks about that subject.

            Pound was a multi-linguist, a scholar and a genius of art and poetry.  The mentor of poets like T.S. Eliot, THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT, author of the The Waste Land, poems like The Hollow Men, edited by the prestigious publishing house in London, Faber&Faber.

            Eliot wrote a very know poem entitled: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (I grow old/I grow old/I wear the bottom of my trousers rolled), it is a piece of poetic art in english and american literature, for Eliot lived the rest of his life in England and everyone fights over him and the extraordinary legacy of his heritage.

Let us go, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table (begins the character Prufrock)

But who is “us”?  Then, “you” and “I”. How many people are to go, this is the mystery of the poem for some scholars. And, if you translate to spanish you have to be careful with this twist, a psychological and sociological turn, that must say:

Vayamos, tú y yo

Cuando el anochecer esta esparcido por el cielo

Como un paciente en éter sobre el mesón…

It could also mean to use the verb vámos, but it would not imply the existence of more than two people that are going as Eliot wants to perhaps imply.  There is a “you” and “I”, perhaps the third entity is the patient etherized upon the table to symbolize the precarious death of humanity, the end of all numb things, or the start of life, in its implicit beginning.  In the beginning... the bible says.  I would not dare translate the bible.

ARE WE TO INVEST IN WRITING AND LITERATURE

WRITING.



Why write? An infinite question, indeed. Answer: Why not!

To expose ideas through writing in a style reached, and of your own, is a purpose in art and life: The Art of Writing.

The consequence of words and their beautiful and precise selection, in an intimate choice of how to judge, mainly, oneself. Has the ability to acquire happiness and collect outcome as innovation, of results.

In history, writing stands at different levels of colors, tastes, sounds, rythmic elements, edifications, and the architecture of our minds, could indeed be a necessity and a chance.

What are we to unveil, but our power to be free?

In any case, those unhappy and lost beings who think they try to laugh at writers, write always in hiding, themselves or have tried to, sometimes afraid or amazed, of the joy and surprise it harbors, in the struggle of giant hearts. Like opening that window towards communication, a christmas gift, the discovery insued is only the beginning of a thoughtful paradise, our world in an infinite galaxy.

Unlike, and like, as it is, so many human endeavours, writing is at the core of all conventions and curriculums, riding across mysterious chasms and crowds looking at you from their interpretation, at times, in science, as some languages sometimes also aspire to mediate our many encounters with the nature of this world, as its origin -human beings. Because language, aside the ample controversies of codes and ciphers and secrets and theories and techniques, is, above all, an innate telegraph, and pacemaker, as often occurs in jazz music, and cubism in art, meddled with some of those numerous scenarious seen as thoughts, complied with our hope to enhance and promote the smile of others; or the attention of ourselves in others, as others come to be, variegated and one.

So, why write? An old question, an old profession, which is constantly renewed by the same question and answer;...because we as human beings care, and always will. We need. We desire. We reach through writing at our dreams and through all of our activities. The promotion of civilization and its truths accepted, or begotten, they are our treasure, unlike any other. Fantastic reality and fiction of purposes in the thought process and philosophy of ...ACTION....-

by: (copyright)(all rights reserved) 2008, Carlos E. Mijares Poyer.

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