I hate the ocean as its loveliness

pleases only when the force of a ship

with dominating keel thunders loudly

like a demon’s fantastic colossal

black cape shelters it from the cold night wind

and as a sublime champion moves past:–

while the light of the stars is enclosed in

globes of crystal, there crossing a bridge

a man returns like a page turns from a book–

I hate the ocean: vast as a plain, cold

monotonous, unlike the forest gives

its branches as arms to hug my sorrow

these injuries were caused by hardened men

and of the good in life make me suspect

I’m no longer an honorable fighter

standing on solid ground, sure in my chest,

but wary of enemy arenas

as the quicksand may contain a lethal

snake hidden within.–And in the ocean,

is also the sun as well as nature

directing a person to have virtues

to be franker and to live in honor–

without the palm trees without the flowers

my soul just seems a deserted shadow.

That I am dead is clear: nobody cares

not even I do,  but as beautiful

as life is–so igneous and shifting

and eternal–I love being alive.

It is not living that causes me pain

what hurts me is if I do not live well

I love my suffering, its noble shield,

and refuse to blame providential life

my solitary misfortune’s mine

nor will I poison others with my pains.

The earth is good and existence holy,

and in the same anguish are new reasons

for me to want to live in complete bliss,

clearly as the aurora penetrates

The foolish will die thinking the  deluge

of tears from their eyes is more enormous

and even lovelier than the ocean.

I hate the ocean, huge and moribund,

that sadly lost its life to torpid sea-

creatures, gluttonous and hateful, so like

the dull look in the eyes of dying fish,

those brutes who quiver in the embraces

of a libidinous and awful fuck:

as vile as I say it are cowards

what they feel and what they see they silence:

Not me: if I encounter a lecher

on my path, I yell out: there is a lecher,

I’m unlike the ocean hiding its breast.

Not even my sacred verse nor myself

have I saved for making of rosaries

of women or masks of honor for thieves.

I hate the ocean for its dispassionate

mode of transporting on complacent back

a ship with accompanying music

which along with flowers, brings a tyrant.

Sure as the palm tree is born upon sand

and the rose grows beside the salt ocean

the pain within my verses re-surges,

convulsive, raging, aflame and perfumed.

And on those oceans over green waters,

a candle sinks a mast is torn and with hull

toward hungry waves the vessel is pulled

in the aftermath of a great battle

winds still keep the boat in its motion.

The horror!  The horror!  On earth, at sea

there’s been nothing but the grind of fury,

fog, tears!  Mountains dispersed on gathered plains;

what was once a llano’s turbulent force

had become merely departing rivers

when once emptied in the sea  were at each

turn there were deposited great cities

but the stars in the sky have been shut down

and shattered the winds scrambled by shadows,

escaped crashing into themselves and fell;

on the mountainous air a sound clamored

a noisily clattering flourish sang

while crazy stars began discharging flames!

Water,  and later, sun;  earth and ocean

shine in tranquil and crystalline marriage.

And the storm is both fertile and pure

Already from the blue air have been strung

two huge cloths formed together with features

embossed with the facade of the twilight

clattering together a sublime clash;

yet true as the tender edge of a wound

remains pink long after the sore is cured.

A ship is a child playing with wings

and rocks on the waves in misbehavior

Standing in front of the homes in ruins

in the same sacred places where Franklin

glimpsed and held lightning, among falling walls,

stone hillsides, gaping pits, the foundation

exposed looks as though teeth when breaking

through the gums.  The gigantic portico.

Near it there had gathered a large group

of people lured by the new construction,

a distinctive habit of the foolish,

absorbed by the size;  as stone the sun

is unable to enter enrages

because its mass is greater than they are.

Between the gruff scaffolds and nascent wall

is the portico like a topless skull

appearing as though an enormous lip,

livid and swelling, the crowd and wagons

exposed to daylight moved toward the shade;

as it went higher than any church could

the wonder was attached onto the clouds.

And from the middle of its large-sized walls,

the beautiful portico is rising.

I want to give myself up completely

to those spaces where one can live in peace

under cloth of light, drunken joy swelling

beneath white clouds traveling overhead

and where both Dante and the stars reside.

I know, I know why I’ve seen this vision

in certain of those purest of hours

like a calyx a flower breaks to bloom,

no, no, there can be no other option

but the same for the breaking of the soul.

Listen, I’ll tell you how swiftly as dawn

arrives unannounced and the spring’s first light

covers the friendly lilacs in flower..

Melancholy me…I wanted to say

while waiting for a verse of grandiose

visions they flew toward me in a line

like happy eagles I watched each one land

just as the voice of the people has sent

me golden birds that remain at my side

See them fly!  See them fly! See how they spin

from the blood of my wounds.  If you ask me

for a symbol of the world:  just look here:

a ruptured wing.  Gold is malleable.

The soul not at all!  Look how I suffer

I have lived in my soul like a young deer

corralled in a cave.  Not good. What a wrong!

I will take my revenge with my weeping!

What startled horse’s horns hair-raising fright

perceives the fangs and claws of a great wolf

in dead tree trunks, my verses are destroyed,

will they rise again?  Yes, but in their own

style like a knife sliced into the neck

of a steer sends blood threads up to the sky.

Only love produces melodies.

The sun shines: now I see the bitter cup

and my lips start to tremble, not of fear,

let it prostitute itself, butt of rage!

The Universe wakes up in the morning,

still half asleep dreaming sweetly, the Earth

in its hand inside the immortal cup,

the sun is boiled in forces of life.

The young rascal and the adventurer

of a lukewarm and mediocre soul

or the perfumed lady whose dizzy-eyed

gaze sees strange roses appear in mid air,

Earth is a rainbow broken in color–

the torrent animates a clean orbit

across fragrant plains and by its return

and wane delivers a peaceful future!

For me and because I love the people

my joy and well-being I stubbornly

neglect. Earth comes to me melancholy

and before my eyes presents a gloomy,

and enormous yoke!  I lower my head

in submission and with pressed lips, I die.

                                                       Je vouse envoye un bouquet que ma main
                                                      Vient de trier de ces fleurs espanuies
                                                      I read these lines by Ronsard and wrote this:

Flowers? I don’t want flowers!  I will pick

my own from the sky as it cracks across

the mountain cleft,  this weary body

that confines and implants its parts in me

like a hungry snake consuming my soul,

peeking into its dark cave, a black head,

and a wide-smiling red mouth!  Then falling,

under a spell I’m woven and tangled.

I surge as wings sprouting up from my arms

appear across the solemn atmosphere

and my eyes filled with vision soar forward

and for the world they perceive will supply

rivers of light rolling over all men.

Strolling through pleasant gardens there are bards

who pluck small flowers, and while I, love-struck

amidst the shadows, dressed in gigantic

clothes woven of starlight tend my garden

will make a magnificent wreath of stars.

My hand will not shake when seizing the light!

And I will search, my love, where the clouds sleep,

and in the heart of the loveliest one

I will plant it and so light the others

by its aural and vaporous fibers.

                                         When the work day approaches and arrives

Come nag!  Down from the golden mountain top

where traveling the pleasant scented fields

you adventure among lightweight helmets

women and snaklings, ride that yellow sun

as it gentle sways with its brilliant  mane!

Come nag!  Off the dark road leading nowhere

for this is our lodging house to pay up!

Later there will be ravines, later, plains.

Later, too, fragrant meadows and summits:

It’s time to descend and ready yourself,

the heavy halter and saddle are fitting.

Poetry is sacred, none should take it

from another but only from within,

nor should any demand its possession

for then it would serve like a grieving slave,

servile, loveless, with obedient hands

for the styling of the hair of a lady

piled on her head like a tower, braids

appear like an ornament on a cake,

vile curls frame the face of a noble

by which the soul exhibits its honor

and further yet in displaying her neck

without adornment in a plain hair bun

more so as the captive combs the lady

the red bird of her heart shakes broken wings

then flies far away toward her lover

as birds migrate in winter to their nest!

Oh God curse masters and tyrants who force

deadened bodies to walk at their command

toward places where hearts never travel!

Truth is a wand and my verse is able

to perform as my  faithful attendant

moving among luxurious salons

exotically perfumed and richly lit,

trembling for my love or in the courtship

of an illustrious princess as snow

drops and winter balls sort the young ladies.

The most regal of swords my verse sampled

dressed in purple cloth and a beige top hat

wearing a high-fashion shoe, sipped warm wine

and known of loves; yet my wild verses

desire the silent power of true love

and the denseness of the prolific forest.

What tastes of canary!  What of eagle!