Friday, October 25, 2013

The Defeat of Philematology

When our lips embrace in flaming kisses,
And our tongues lead rivers of saliva,
We drink each other, thus, in little pieces,
And our life begets our love's revival.
So every time we kiss, our souls accrue,
For when our lips do part, the particles
Of you in me make me part you, and you
Part me from mine in you. Such articles
Of love provide the basis for one art
Whereby we trump philematology,
So cold, impersonal, and lacking heart,
And found ourselves our own ontology.
   Our love is single, for though we are two,
   There's just one couple made of me and you.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Thursday, September 5, 2013

The Private Discourse of the Soul

When I converse with you or someone else,
I talk to no one other than myself;
Yet when alone I parley with my bells,
Their toll is not I, but the world itself.
A thousand tiny people speak in me,
A mock society of those I've met,
And those I'll meet, and those will never be
All come together in this vocal net.
Their say is louder than of people living,
For in myself they're with my self confused;
Their praise is taunt; their judgment, unforgiving;
That actions pondered on are seldom used.
   Then silence all the tongues that speak so free:
   Yes! acting is the sole soliloquy.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Life's a problem

A problem is, by etymology
An issue carried forward, at a loss;
A question as adherent as a flea,
And just as sharp. A problem is a cross
A concrete charge of life-affecting doubt.
It's not some abstract intellectual game
To occupy the mind of some proud lout:
A pastime's not deserving of that name.
We all have crosses of our own to take,
Some known, some overlooked, and some bestowed;
Yet carry them we must, make no mistake,
Whether we choose to love or hate the load.
   And still there is a cross that we all share:
   The cross of life, the one we all must bear.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

There is an inward flame that flares the blood

There is an inward flame that flares the blood
Of every man; an ever burning blaze
An ember now, but then a scorching flood
That gulfs his innards in a lifelong feeze.
How many times have I aspired to quench
This steadfast pyre of hot discomfort cold,
Quaffing myself down through a dulling drench
Of touch, and taste, and tumult uncontrolled.
Yet this consuming ardor, I have found,
Is life itself and dies when I'm put out.
It ought thus to be kindled on, not drowned,
Consumed in action, not subsumed in doubt;
   Then let me feed upon anxiety,
   Or else its starving fire shall feed on me.

Thursday, June 20, 2013


Between dull Autumn and dark Winter, Spring
Came earlier this year, and filled with dreams;
Dreams of an earth renewed supposed to bring
The lasting verdure where fair pasture teems.
These vernal greens, upon whose first green sight
Full thousands for the harrow of the land
Are levied, though, are burning up with blight,
Tainted when first the plot was laid by hand.

Each farmer wants to harvest his own crop,
But who shall reap the fruitage they know not;
And though the land is sick, and farmers flop,
The goods will fill the hand that sowed the lot.
   I fear this Spring, both planned and sprung from rage,
   Shall bring the deadly Winter of an age.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Empty House

No poem, ever more,
Will be a happening:
We now write more, but for
A world that's lessening

This public in the desert,
Made solely of our presence,

Some poor St. Johns who preach
To creases of their tunics,
A desert owned by each,

Or dogs in endless touse
Inside an empty house.


This is a translation of a poem by Alberto da Cunha Melo:

Casa Vazia

Poema nenhum, nunca mais,
será um acontecimento:
escrevemos cada vez mais
para um mundo cada vez menos,

para esse público dos ermos
composto apenas de nós mesmos,

uns joões batistas a pregar
para as dobras de suas túnicas,
seu deserto particular,

ou cães latindo, noite e dia,
dentro de uma casa vazia.