SONG FOR MY FATHER BY HORACE SILVER, POEM CARLOS MIJARES POYER THE NON RECORDED VERSION POETICS

Tema de Jazz. "Song for My Father"(Canción para mi padre de Horace Silver)(la versión no grabada)

por (copyright)2008, Carlos E. Mijares Poyer.


Cuando Joe Henderson
saxofón en piel
oro dado:
tonada lírica de un amor
humano. Es improvisación virtual...

Una canción para un Padre
que estarció la noche
como una hebilla estrella de plata
en el estruendo de otra figura;
La descendencia del Jazz Padre Único
y su niño prodigio, el público.

Hiciéramos rugir los pechos
como dos baúles henchidos
encontrados y llenos de ansias tumultuosas de sangre
que decoran el aire. Lo animan.
La miel de la música viva.
La canción de otrora legión.
Las caderas del baile.

"Canción para mi padre"
es una expresión de sencillez como enamorarse
en la beatitud de una humanidad.
Condecorada por el jazz de terceros,
solistas...

______________
www.youtube.com/canalvaletv
http://www.transtel.tv/

JANIS JOPLIN LIVE(S) PROEM & OATH

JANIS JOPLIN LIVE(S) poem/oath by Carlos E. Mijares Poyer - email: cmijarespoyer@gmail.com


Janis, like you, I had a prom away, or was I ever to be there.
Yes, I was there as a puppet whose strings were handled,
whose curried heart hungered for growth.

I am not you Janis
you are a good person
that some people call a genius
I like to see you as Youth, sincerity and art,
in this obstinate world of mannequins
running to and fro
"Talking of Michael Angelo..." as Eliot once wrote.

You talked about love and romance in your songs
how hard is to find oneself in it.
You told us to try hard for this love,
and, when I heard your voice, I found
a great part, if not all, of what love is or seems to be.

I heard you say once in one of those "TV interviews"
that the people in your high school in Texas
ran you out of the state,
but you returned as a Star
as you still are
not compromised with success
much less money
because you are a leader of heroic people
the people of an unjustified
World
struggling to move ON, as you once said.

Next to you I am a speck in a speck in the twilight of the stars
no poet, and this is not a poem, but an Oath.
I recollect in tears shed
for your remembrance
your eyes casting light
& sombre blues precisely at once.

Your mane of indian
in colors not of your flag but of your blood
in heart that pangs justice
and goodness.

I can not begin to express
what your song and life
means to the world,
because I am no prophet.
Indeed, quite, you are
the art that is life in its brevity;
and the concert of life in its universal expanse,
and in the capture of common thoughts
never to be jailed or rejected by comformist inhibition,
assailed with roman daggers by tin stars
or the color of stoplights.

Your spirit live(s)
in the breeze
that cajoles the roses
and happy sunflowers
from whites and yellows to eternity,
from the violet of history
in your dance,
the sense of freedom
in a not what equilibrium
not to be forgotten.

You tell us to "move on!"
"push on"
and you said that the world in your days
was getting a little into it
and I know the world
is not enough
in the gleam of your art
your utmost sensuality
embraced by the velour
of poetry, expressed in the might
of your hands and hips.

Dear World, come to know this woman
of sanctified hymn
among the roses of folk, jazz. rock
and rivers azure of blues in your dreams
the cascade of happiness
of the young and old folks
and the retention of life
from death.
Janis, you are the expanse of your world, and of the world,
in the muteness of ours.


by Carlos E. Mijares Poyer
copyright registered 2007.

el poema de la noche NOCHES

Escritos poéticos (1)

Noches

(por Carlos E. Mijares Poyer)


En las noches, cuando todo vuela,
el corazón palpita bienes del mismo vuelo,
como otrora la canciòn anunciara
y todo se perdiera en la brisa.

La obra cadenciò como oruga empobrecida
y el alma apenada por sus logros maltrechos
decisiòn malhumorada y libros desechos.
¿por què tanto desamor en el amor?
en una tànatos que insiste en suicidarse
como poema perdido y quemado
en el fondo de un lavamanos.

La oruga comenzó y perdió su balance
como orquìdea atestigûada en la noche
de esos mismos faroles que la atestiguaban
el hecho que nunca aconteciò
como el pulso manchó a su amada
y el estrépito acusó a la noche
en las cortes virtuales.

por Carlos E. Mijares Poyer          cmijarespoyer@gmail.com

todos los derechos reservados, all rights reserved