words fallen
from Tennyson
by Roberto
Lavidez
what words
are these
have fallen
from me
sought far less
for truth
than power
in knowledge
we live within
the stranger’s
land
better to me
the meanest
weed that
blows upon
its mountain
for always
roaming with
a hungry heart
much have I
seen and
known
and now
there is
but one
of all
my blood
who will
embrace me
in the
world-to-be
we that are
plagued with
dreams of
something
sweet
beyond all
sweetness in
a life so rich
and ever
the wind blew
and yellowing
leaf and gloom
and gleam
and round
from all
the world
the voices came
we know not
and we know
not why
we moan
the years
will roll into
the centuries
and mine will
ever be
a name
of scorn
the crime
of sense
became
the crime
of malice
and is
equal blame
the phantom
husks of
something
foully done
and fleeting
thro’ the
boundless
universe
I climb
the hill
from end
to end
of all the
landscape
underneath
then flew in
a dove and
brought
a summons
from the sea
one would
think
that it well
might drown
all life
in the eye
felt at
my heart
and seemed
to charm
from thence
the wrath
I nursed
against
the world
but sometimes
in the
falling day
an image
seemed
to pass
the door
to catch
a dragon in
a cherry net
to trip
a tigress with
a gossamer
but I remain’d
whose hopes
were dim
whose life
whose thoughts
were little
worth
I was left
alone and
thirsting
in a land
of sand
and thorns
that shadow
waiting with
the keys
to shroud me
from my
proper scorn
so closed
our tale
of which
I give you all
the random
scheme
as wildly
as it rose
till all
at once
beyond
the will
I hear
a wizard
music roll
©robertolavidez2014
Were you to
ask Neruda
by Roberto Lavidez
I utter
and I am
and without
speaking
I approach
the limit
of words
I’ll tell
you
everything
that’s
happening
with me
were you
to ask
where I
come from
I would
have
to talk
with
shattered
things
until it
plunges
itself
like a
nocturnal
carnation
the
brightness
that falls on
my senses
the earthen
splendor
of life
so let
no one be
perturbed
when I seem
to be alone
drunk with
the great
starry void
likeness
image of
mystery
comes
a time
I’m tired
of my feet
and my
fingernails
and my hair
give me
silence
water
hope
give me
struggle
iron
volcanoes
if I remember
anything in
my life
it was an
afternoon
in India
on the
banks
of a river
there my
loneliness
stretches
and burns
all that
you leave
are crushed
shards of
remains
between
shadow
and space
between
harnesses
and virgins
the sea
comes and
reunites
our lives
and attacks
and divides
and sings
alone
and that’s
how it was
something
that runs
and falls
and passes
it fades
it sheds
its leaves
it gets
lost
in the
streets
the energy
of your
white
language
smashing
and
overturning
its own
columns
in its
purifying
acts of
demolition
unfortunately
I’ve
nothing
to give you
but melted
pianos
I went
wandering
between
the streets
and the
atmosphere
arriving and
saying
goodbye
you saw
the world
birds
filled
with
syllables
starry dew
time upon
time
and man
where was
he
©robertolavidez2014
Eliot still
by Roberto Lavidez
the heavy
burden
of the
growing soul
perplexes
and offends
more
day by day
cry
what shall
I cry
cry like
a parrot
chatter
like an ape
in the
beginning
was the word
o when
will the
creaking
heart
cease
end of
the endless
journey
to no end
with the
voices
singing
in our ears
saying that
this was
all folly
we must
be still
and still
moving
into another
intensity
red
sullen faces
sneer and
snarl from
doors of
mudcracked
houses
the notion
of some
infinitely
gentle
infinitely
suffering
thing
timeless and
undesiring
except in
the aspect
of time
to have
squeezed
the universe
into a ball
to keep our
metaphysics
warm
although
I do not hope
although
I do not hope
to turn
the perpetual
struggle
of good
and evil
this thing
does not
change
through
attenuated
tones of
violins
thought
clings round
dead limbs
tightening
its lusts
and luxuries
there will be
time to murder
and create
no will
is still as
a river still
between
the emotion
and the
response
falls the
shadow
pray for us
sinners
now and at
the hour of
our death
flesh and
blood
is weak
and frail
under sleep
where all
the waters
meet
memory
throws up
high and
dry
a crowd
of twisted
things
as the
mind
deserts
the body
it has used
observing
that hysteria
might easily be
misunderstood
if the
lost word
is lost
if the
spent word
is spent...
why should
I need
to keep it
©robertolavidez2014
very
Verlaine
by Roberto Lavidez
imagination
restless
and feeble
I summon
days long
gone with
my weeping
I quiver
through
the forest
like a
coward
afraid of
an ambush
or seeing
a corpse
often
I have
this dream
a strange
searching
dream
I went
along
dreaming
of sublime
Plato
and of
Pheidias
everything
wounds you
and pushes
you away
driven
from Eden
is nothing
but an
ecologue
next to it
always these
feverish
phantoms
leading
their vast
round dance
to the poor
dead who
are always
alone and
shivering
endlessly
nervous
men and
women
are bustling
about
with furtive
steps
the way
hyenas go
in those
fabled
eras
the limbo
of history
and whatever
cares
you might
have are
no more
than swallows
across an
afternoon sky
with the
shameful
conflict
of your
low tasks
your empty
vanities
holding
an hourglass
in one hand
and a sword
in the other
I know
every lark
coming and
going
the melancholy
of setting suns
I wandered
alone
walking
my wound
my disgust
my boredom
my distress
through
the willow
grave
and the
zenith
fills with
dull
glimmerings
the thunder
roars
terrifyingly
I abjure
all thought
memory
memory
what do
you want
from me
©robertolavidez2014
Proustian horizon
by Roberto
Lavidez
the sky
conceals god
more than
it reveals
upon the
threshold
fortune itself
is writ
the insensibility
of nature’s
entirety
seems to fill
our heart’s
void
so tired
of having
suffered
more tired
of having
loved
no one
could paint
not Whistler
Michelangelo
or Goya
filter the
lukewarm
tears of a
misunderstood
sun
ocean of
sighs and
just above
the waves
a flight of
butterflies
pauses
as solemn
as time
and like
time
equivocal
I sensed
the horizon
I interrogated
the echo
brandish
the mountains
as one throws
a rose
what’s vague
is tender now
what’s near
remote
if you have
seen
if you have
known
the most
eloquent
history
should drop
to the floor
the work
will be more
difficult
but more
beautiful
at this point
if ever
it had been
born
in my heart
all my
thoughts
run slow
besides
Proust
spoils more
each day
and soon
will expire
death
inevitable
to the
vagaries
of an age
who isn’t
so keen
on Verlaine
could care
less
sometimes
waking
startled from
the slumber
that makes up
our life
the smile
is for regret
the tears
for hope
in dream
he thought
he was
feeling
ohh la la!
and so
you were
wrong
about this
young poet
he frequents
only one
world:
his mind
©robertolavidez2014
wildly Oscar Wilde
by Roberto Lavidez
my limbs
are wasted
with a flame
my feet are
sore with
travelling
but what
of life
whose bitter
hungry sea
flows at
our heels
I saw from
the black
waters of my
tortured
past
the ardent
splendor
of white
limbs
ascend
the cycles
of revolving
years
may free
my heart
from all
its fears
wearied
with waiting
for the
world’s
desire
aimlessly
wandered
in the house
of gloom
wisdom is
somewhere
though the
stormy sea
contain it not
an horror
stalked
before
each man
and terror
crept behind
look upward
where the
white gull
screams
what does
it see
that we
do not see?
what songless
tongueless
ghost of sin
crept through
the curtains
of the night
O beautiful
star with the
crimson mouth!
scarce had she
spoken when
the shuddering
trees shook
and the leaves
divided
O moon
with the
brows of
gold
in vain
sends peace
to peaceless
lands
to restless
nations rest
and the rude
people rage
with ignorant
cries against
an heritage
of centuries
to let
clamorous
demagogues
betray
our freedom
with the
kiss of
anarchy
the prayerless
vigil and
the cry
for prayer
the barren
gifts
the lifted arms
the dull
insensate air
ah! leave it
for a subtle
memory
of those
sweet
tremulous
days of rain
and sun
till my soul
is a
stringed
lute
on which
all winds
can play
the dawn is
rising from
the sea
like a
white lady
from her
bed
it was
a dream
the glade is
tenantless
no soft
Ionian
laughter
moves
the air
O mightiest
exile!
all thy grief
is done
that we are
nature’s
heritors
and one
with every
pulse of life
that beats
the air
till the last
lifting of
the veil
and the
first opening
of the gate
©robertolavidez2014
Auden’s
kind
by Roberto Lavidez
hearts grew
unkind
minds blind
where reason
is denied
and love
ignored
we realize
the woods
are deaf
and the sky
nurses
no one
when
wakened
from
a dream
of glory
we find
ourselves in
purgatory
someone
must pay
for our loss
of happiness
our happiness
itself
and the
silence
ripeness
and the
ripeness all
to be free
is often
to be lonely
a storm
of tears
wept in
a corner
are these
the seeds
of a
new life
the healers
and the
brilliant
talkers
the eccentrics
and the
silent
walkers
how can
we will
the knowledge
that we must
know to will
the intricate
play of
the mind
enforce
conformity
with the
orthodox
bone
hearts which
alter
but is
the same
always
earth in love
or in hate
our occupation
leaves no
trace on
this place
where nothing
could have
suffered
sinned
or grown
heroes
are buried
who did not
believe in
death
to be
invisible
and free
without
remorse
earth’s
darkness
invents
the blaze
of heaven
and each life
must itself
decide
to what
and how
it be
applied
why
we’re all
like people
acting in
a play
you must
behave
as if
this were
not strange
at all
occupy
the time
in purely
random
thinking
the centre
that
I cannot
find
is known
to my
unconscious
mind
though
considerate
and mild
and low
the voices of
the questioners
how grandly
would our
virtues
bloom
in a more
conscionable
dust
I must
take charge
of the
liquid fire
and storm
the cities
of human
desire
I am
the solitude
that asks
and promises
nothing
©robertolavidez2014
