by Pablo Neruda: I’m going to wrinkle this word, / I’m going to twist it,
“As I say these words I see a bicycle leaning against a wall, / I see a bridge / And the official car disappearing between buildings” | by Nicanor Parra
by Roberto Bolaño: Hear me, my son: bombs were falling / over Mexico City
Farewell to the Führer, farewell to all Führers who have been or who will be. Farewell to all Führers true or false, good night, I say, good night, With an intimate reactionary sadness Farewell to the Führer who gobbled Black Forest Cake while his tanks fed upon the roads of Europe. Farewell to all Führers …
Rise up and look at the mountain, from where the wind, the sun, the water arrive. Thou, who determines the course of rivers, thou who scatters the flight of your soul. Rise up. Look at your hands. Join hands with your brothers, together in blood we go. Now is the time that can be tomorrow. …
And never, never again? Not on nights packed with a few stars, or in mornings’ first slender sun or afternoons sacrificed to afternoons? Or at the edge of a pale road that surrounds the farm fields, or a rim of a trembling fountain, whitened by a moon? Or beneath the forest’s lush poplars where, yelling …
by Roberto Bolaño: When Lisa told me she had made love / with another, in the eternal / telephone booth of life / in the market in Tepeyac, I thought the world / ended.
by Pablo Neruda: What have you done / you intellectualists? Rilkistas? / you fucked up mystifiers, fake witches?
by Nicanor Parra: I dreamed I was in a desert I was sick of myself
Poetry International Weblog
“Godzilla in Mexico”