Sleeplessness

 


 

And the tug, tug, tug

at my ribs...

I turn memories into poetry

that otherwise would be 

too much to bear,

too sad to tell.

 

And the pummelling

of the iron fists,

the razor-sharp shrapnel blaze

How will we all survive the assault of Israel

The assault on Israel

The assault by Israel

 

Our personal drama is nothing

if you compare

 

Can you hear the human howling?

Can you see the blaze?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

My English has sharp Ts like espinas de nopal

    How can I soften the sharp Ts in my sound? The ones acquired at school—  where teacher used to say  ‘keep your accent for flirting’. When you aren’t British, or Latina, or coloured, or white, What are you? Latinos, the ones with lovely skin like dulce piloncillo call me a mongrel. Dad’s Green fingers Mum’s red rage What does that make? Dad’s ojo alegre Mum’s tristeza… The usual story. People look down at me with a little mocking smile: too apasionada, drámatica, oh she’s so funny kind a’smile. Bisnieta de Andaluz, hija de madre blanquísima. Descendiente de Moros. Sometimes I envy a los Latinos del otro lado del océano, them who aren’t separated from their roots por todo un pinche mar Atlántico, solo un muro/a wall, or a river called Rio Bravo, a torrent that in winter vanishes then, when warm, springs from the ground like a deep wound across the desert, like my tears/ my rage lies in wait behind mi sonrisa then pounces upon some unsuspecting victim, never the appropriate target. Mi
Read more

Mares

Espejo de historias inmemorables, páramo líquido sembrado de cruces, boca de labios irreconciliables, El Mediterráneo. Rozando la melena de su oleaje, libre de tiempo y fronteras, cabalga como arena en el Siroco   la incontenible voz del Poeta. Voz de uvas y de mar, de montañas y de leña, con versos construye un barco; como aquel con que escribiera atravesando el   Atlántico, su más hermoso poema. “Esto era yo”, acababa de decir ella —y si,   así era,   del mar entera, antes de que el miedo le cambiara las ideas—, cuando parada en el embarcadero de una playa en Marsella a sus espaldas oyó: “Necesito del mar porque me enseña…” voz de mujer, que como el mar, parecía dulce a pesar de ser de sal continuó leyéndole a su compañera                                                       “No sé si es ola sola o ser profundo…” y en ese instante se alzó en la ola que nombraba, la presencia del Poeta. Como si aquellas islas y esas fortalezas
Read more

Reading Joe Jiménez Poems Is Like Entering The Haunted House Of My Body

    My body is a haunted house full of creaks and scars and whispers. Memories of all that was not to be. Of lovers who didn’t know how to love and hurt so much that I in the end as well lost that ability de amar Of that warming flame, the pure joy of warm skin and of letting It all go, not even the memory remains. There was the one who used me for some kind of exorcism I couldn’t work out why my heart was in a knot when I was with him all the anguish The angustia! A crucified man who made love with eyes tight shut.   As you will have it I went and found the opposite, dark eyes, always, іEso sí! wanting to look at everything I mean, everything. A cathedral’s bell his laughter, he loved to laugh and had a cannibal smile. Being with him was at first a revelation, then came the pain and I crawled right back into the centre of my body and curled tight like a snake or like a foetu
Read more