Old Poem - Tumblr Posts
“You’ve always been defensive
and closed off to the world,
violent rather than vulnerable,
so point your gun at me--
I’ve been standing
with open arms anyway--
if it helps you relax knowing
the trigger is on someone else
other than yourself.”
-EL
The Monitor and the Merrimso By Tomas Babby
When the rebel commander had sunk the Cumberland,
And the gallant frigate Congress, was burning by his band,
Said he, we'll sink all Yankee ships that keep us in the blockade,
For the Mac is good for every thing that ever Yankee made;
So get a little nearer---
Make ready, boys, and fire,
And we'll play them the tune call'd Virginia never tire.
Ho! pilot, at the lookout! just cast your eyes around,
Ere we sink the Minnesota, that now is fast aground.
The pilot look'd with quizing eye, as loudly he laugh'd
There comes a Yankee cheese-box a-floating on a raft;
Let her get a little nearer,
We'll sink her the first fire,
For we'll play the tune the called Virginia never tire.
And soon the gallant Monitor came down up-on the Mac,
And gave an introduction with a devll of a whack;
She made the monster stagger, the captain was alarmed
To see a Yankee cheese-box with bolts of thunder armed;
Let her get a little nearer,
Animal reserve our fire,
And we'll play the tune the called Virginia never tire.
But Worden, of the Moniter, was not the lest afaird
And heavy were the compliments he to Virginians paid;
He bang'd her fore, he bang'd aft, and broke her iron skin;
He pelted her between the rips and let the daylight in;
Says the rebel to his ire:
Ho! pilot, your a liar,
For the devil's in the cheese box, and the Virginia must retire.
In all my travels at sea I never saw a craft
So dreadful as this cheese-box a-floating on a raft,
For every shot she gives the Mac her iron fabric shakes;
Let us no longer try her,
We cannot stand her fire,
We'll have to play a new tune, Virginia will retire.
Here's to the health to gallant Worden, and all his dauntless crew,
That fought against the the Merrimac and prov'd their courage true;
May the caution give a just reward, nor let them run adraft
Who fought the Yankee cheese-box a-floating on a raft,
And the nation we admire
The patriotic fire
That made them change their tune to the Virginia will retire.
The original article
CERRÉ MI PUERTA AL MUNDO
Cerré mi puerta al mundo;
se me perdió la carne por el sueño...
Me quedé, interno, mágico, invisible,
desnudo como un ciego.
Lleno hasta el mismo borde de los ojos,
me iluminé por dentro.
Trémulo, transparente,
me quedé sobre el viento,
igual que un vaso limpio
de agua pura,
como un ángel de vidrio
en un espejo.
Autor del poema: Emilio Prado
COPA DE LUZ
Antes de mi muerte, un árbol
está creciendo en mi tumba.
Las ramas llenan el cielo,
las estrellas son sus frutas
y en mi cuerpo siento el roce de
sus raíces profundas.
Estoy enterrado en penas,
y crece en mí una columna
que sostiene al firmamento,
copa de luz y amargura.
Si está tan triste la noche
está triste por mi culpa.
Autor del poema: Manuel Altolaguirre
The sun once met a demon in the night
Fled from ruin to madness,
from hermit to king
To whisper the name of the light
A sapling, trampled, trapped in mechanics called home
Fell gentle into the living fire
It burned as it grew, fusing metal to bark
And awakened the darkness’ desire
The demon leaves hollow those whom it takes
And takes those who have lived beyond hollow
Reducing them back to contituent molecules
Where they once led, they now follow
Unable to grow
And they are woven into the tapestry of life
Feet stagnant
As the demon continues chasing the sun
When all the time that has ended,
had yet again begun
[Phronesis]
As I walk off the edge of the earth
In search of my parallel
A wisdom obscured by the shadows at my feet
Grew carcinogenic, as I fell
I whisper over the bridge of tomorrow
Into the sordid past
The name of ruin; the forgotten thorn
Sacred, hollowed, echoing at last
A thought crawls over the abyssal
Scared by the implication of its own freckled skin
As kin, as face, is mirrored in self
Enticed by stardust engaged in carnal sin
Therein lie the birth of cosmic plume
Titillated into fractal decay
Exhale to the sound of eternal demise:
a dance of damnation in delay
a poem about growing up and august {august 31, 2022}
August has come and gone like all Augusts do and my body is coiled around years prior. I am who I was a year ago, heart drawn carelessly on my sleeve, sitting in the same backseat, younger and far less bittersweet. The sun is coming through my window the same and my brother is bopping his head to his music the same, but despite this all I wouldn't recognize myself if we met. August is a broken, small-stepped month for fools; you don't notice when it arrives and far less so when it's gone.