Check out my super short poem published in Werkloos Magazine, a online publication based in places with people with good hearts!




Favourite Poem of the Day: Dreams by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Poema Favorito del dia: (Pequeño poema infinito) by Federíco Garcia Lorca

Little Infinite Poem (esp. version below)

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the snow
and arriving at the snow
is to graze for several centuries on the grass of cemeteries.

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the woman,
the woman who doesn’t fear the light,
the woman who kills two roosters in a second,
the light that doesn’t fear the roosters
and roosters that don’t know how to sing across the snow.

But if the snow chooses the wrong heart,
the South Wind may arrive
and as the air pays no heed to groans
we’ll have to graze again on the grass of cemeteries.

I saw two saddened, waxen ears of wheat
that buried a landscape of volcanoes
and I saw two mad boys
weeping as they pressed the pupils in a murderer’s eyes.

But two has never been a number
because it is anguish and its shadow
it’s the guitar where love is driven to despair
it’s the proof of an infinity not its own
and it’s the walls of the dead
and the punishment of the new, unending resurrection.

The dead hate the number two,
but the number two lulls women to sleep,
and as woman fears the light,
light trembles before the roosters
and as roosters know only how to fly across the snow,
we’ll have to graze on the grass of cemeteries forever.

[trans. Paul Archer]


Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.

Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz
la luz tiembla delante de los gallos
y los gallos sólo saben votar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.




Through each pair of eyes
Past the cascade of gleaning follicles
The carefully selected articles of clothing,
There is a brain
which thinks things.

Continually processing and updating
Whirring and buzzing
Observing and noticing

Bound to a bank of memories
Crafted by the happenings of life
Drizzled together in separate ways
Like chocolates with different fillings, flavours,
And decorations.

We fail to believe that we are not unique
For we cannot know the extent of our individuality
But such diversity
Is bound
To intersect-

A million conclusions of the same sight
Is made on a judgement
Preconceived or freshly made
Wading in the equally deep pool of human thought
That is a precious place of solitude.

I’d be a fool to say that I am one,
Of the 7.5 billion people who roam the Earth
I have to say
We are linked by our capability to breathe and feel
Seeking relationships
To synchronise
With someone who views through the similar lenses
Or with someone to change what we thought we had known.

I used to think sadness was just sadness
Until a friend said,
“Perhaps you’re just thinking too deeply, though.”
“At least, that’s how I recognise it to survive.”

I refuse to believe
People aren’t thinking
The same things
That I have been thinking
All my life,

How the way someone sings in public
is brave rather than strange,
Or the silent guilt of rejecting a beggar

How each person is a caricature stored in the mind
Like a character in a beloved novel.

How certain strangers have an energy about them
That draws you in
Yet that kind of social interaction
Would be weird
And misconstrued.

How someone’s sad face
Could just be their neutral expression
Or something stressful just happened
And they can’t talk to anyone
Alone in transit.

How the prejudices that shouldn’t exist
Still very much affect your thoughts and reactions
“Everyone’s a little bit racist”
And we can’t seem to help it.

I ponder and sonder
And overthink
And plan every situation that cannot be planned
Taking comfort knowing that I am, in fact
Another grain of sand.

Every moment is another unrealised scenario
We, all lotharios of fate
Want to bake our cake
And eat it too.

I give strangers names
Assign meaning to their guise
I put them in plays
That keep me up at night,
I lose track of myself
Of what is real and what is fiction
Restricted by conditions
I seem to be put in.

I suppose I can feel
what is ultimately true:

This is the way things are.
This is how you do you.
This is the matter-of-fact acceptance.
They’re all just triggers to let imagination ring…

I hope I think this way
Until the day I die.
As much as I feel quite discontent
At least I feel like
I’ve lived
A million lives.