Poems by Vicente Huidobro

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					Latin American Poetry Packet
                                                              Nestle lanterns like skylarks
Vicente Huidobro                                              Breathe skylarks like sighs
                                                              Embroider sighs like silks
                                                              Drain silks like rivers
Excerpts from: Altazor: Canto III                             Hoist a river like a flag
                                                              Pluck a flag like a rooster
The poet is the manicurist of the language                    Quench a rooster like a fire
And even more the magician who inflames and quenches          Row through fires like seas
Stellar words and the cherries of vagabond goodbyes           Reap seas like wheat fields
Far from the hands of the earth                               Chime wheat fields like bells
And he invents all that he says                               Bleed bells like lambs
Things that move outside the ordinary world                   Draw lambs like smiles
Let us kill the poet who gluts us                             Bottle smiles like liquor
                                                              Set liquor like jewels
Poetry still and poetry poetry                                Electrify jewels like twilights
Poetical poetry                                               Man twilights like battleships
Poetical poetry by poetical poets                             Unshoe a battleship like a king
Poetry                                                        Raise kings like dawns
Too much poetry                                               Crucify dawns like prophets
From the rainbow to the asshole pianist of the neighborhood   Etc etc etc
Enough poetry lady enough bambina
It sill has bars over its eyes
The game is a game and not and endless prayer
Smiles or laughter and not the pupil’s lamps                  The ultimate poet agonizes
That wheel from affliction toward the sea                     The bells of the continents chime
Smile and gossip the weaver star                              The moon dies with the night on its back
Smile of the brain that evokes dead stars                     The sun pulls the day out of its pocket
On the mediumistic table of its radiations                    The solemn new land opens its eyes
                                                              And moves form earth to the stars
                                                              The burial of poetry
                                                              All the languages are dead
Enough lady harp of beautiful images                          Dead in the hands of the tragic neighbor
Of secret illuminated “likes”                                 We must revive the languages with raucous laughter
Something else something else we are seeking                  With wagons of giggles
We know how to dart a kiss like a glance                      With circuit-breakers in the sentences
Plant glances like trees                                      And cataclysm in the grammar
Cage trees like birds                                         Get up and walk
Water birds like heliotropes                                  Stretch your legs limber the stiff joints
Play a heliotrope like music                                  Fires of laughter for the shivering language
Empty music like a sack                                       Astral gymnastics for the numb tongues
Decapitate a sack like a penguin                              Get up and walk
Cultivate penguins like vineyards                             Live live like a football
Milk a vineyard like a cow                                    Explode in the mouth of motorcycles diamonds
Unmast cows like schooners                                    In the drunkenness of its fireflies
Comb a schooner like a comet                                  The very vertigo of its liberation
Disembark comets like tourists                                A beautiful madness in the life of the word
Bewitch tourists like snakes                                  A beautiful madness in the zone of language
Harvest snakes like almonds                                   Adventure clothed in tangible disdains
Undress an almond like an athlete                             The adventure of language between two wrecked ships
Chop down athletes like cypresses                             Precious catastrophe on the rails of verse
Light cypresses like lanterns
Latin American Poetry Packet

Vicente Huidobro
                                                               The smile in the corner of the lips
Ars Poetica                                                    Where the smiles die
                                                               In the night when rocks weep
Let poetry be like a key
That opens a thousand doors.                                   Such bitter tears
A leaf falls; something flies overhead;                        Someone will know the future and its landscape of stars
Let as much as the eyes see be created,                        The words that fill the pain of mourning horizons
And the soul of the listener tremble.
                                                               The astrologer enters dressed in poems
Invent new worlds and watch your word;                         Like mist from the streams
The adjective, when it does not create life, kills.            He speaks and walks like night
                                                               On the peak of his words a bird dies
We are in the ages of nerves.
Muscles hang,                                                  Nothing matters
Like a memory, in museums,                                     Love and enigma maintained
But we are not the weaker for it:                              He is of another opinion
True vigor                                                     Only believing in the phosphorous of the unconscious
Lives in the head.                                             In the sword of solitude
                                                               That cuts our silence in half
Do not sing the rose, O poets!                                 That there may be dialogue between air and nothing
Make it bloom in the poem.
                                                               Oh night crucified on the wind
For us alone                                                   Oh night
All things live under the sun.                                 Good night

The poet is a little God.

Alone                                                                                 Midnight
                                                               In the garden
Alone between night and death alone                            Every shadow is a stream
Traveling through the heart of eternity
Eating fruit at the center of the void                         That noise coming closer is not a car
                                                               Over the skies of Paris
Night Death
                                                               Otto von Zepplin
The dead just planted in the infinite
The earth leaves the earth returns                             Sirens sing
                                                               In the black waves
Alone with a star before me                                    And this clarion that calls
Alone with a great song inside and no star before me           Is not the clarion of victory
                                                                                         A hundred airplanes
Night and death                                                                        Flying around the moon
Night and death
The night’s death spinning through death                                       PUT OUT YOUR PIPE

So far away                                                    The shells burst like full-blown roses
The world flies off in the wind                                And bombs puncture the days
And a dog howls in the infinite searching for the lost land.
                                                               Amputated songs
                                                                             tremble in the branches
                                                               Wind contorts the streets

                                                               HOW TO PUT OUT THE STAR IN THE POND
Latin American Poetry Packet
Pablo Neruda                                                          Sonnet 49

                                                                      It’s today: all of yesterday dropped away
Ars Poetica
                                                                      among the fingers of the light and the sleeping eyes.
                                                                      Tomorrow will come on its green footsteps:
Between shadow and space, between trimmings and damsels,
endowed with a singular heart and sorrowful dreams,                   no one can stop the river of the dawn.
precipitously pallid, withered in the brow
and with a furious widower’s mourning for each day of life,           No one can stop the river of your hands,
ah, for each invisible water that I drink somnolently                 your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest.
and from every sound that I welcome trembling,                        You are the trembling of time, which passes
I have the same absent thirst and the same cold fever,                between the vertical light and the darkening sky.
A nascent ear, an indirect anguish,
As if thieves or ghosts were coming,                                  The sky folds its wings over you,
And in a shell of fixed and profound expanse,                         lifting you, carrying you to my arms
Like a humiliated waiter, like a slightly raucous bell,
                                                                      with it’s punctual, mysterious courtesy.
Like an old mirror, like the smell of a solitary house
Where the guests come in at night wildly drunk,
And there is a smell of clothes thrown on the floor, and an absence   That’s why I sing to the day and to the moon,
          of flowers—                                                 to the sea, to time, to all the planets,
possibly in another even less melancholy way—                         to your daily voice, to your nocturnal skin.
but the truth is that suddenly the wind that lashes my chest,
the nights of infinite substance fallen in my bedroom,
the noise of a day that burns with sacrifice,
ask me mournfully what prophecy there is in my,
and there is a swarm of objects that call without being answered,
                                                                      Sonnet 71
and a ceaseless movement, and a bewildered man.
                                                                      Love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
                                                                      it sets its roots, watered with tears,
                                                                      and no one—no one—can escape the heart’s progress
                                                                      as it runs, silent and carnivorous.
I Do Not Love You Except                                              You and I searched for a wide valley, for another planet
Because I Love You                                                    where salt wouldn’t touch your hair,
                                                                      where sorrows couldn’t grow because of anything I did,
    I do not love you except because I love you;                      where bread could live and not grow old.
    I go from loving to not loving you,
    From waiting to not waiting for you                               A planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
    My heart moves from cold to fire.                                 a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
                                                                      we wanted to build a strong nest
    I love you only because it's you the one I love;
    I hate you deeply, and hating you                                 with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
    Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love                  but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
    for you                                                           with crowds of people blanching on their porches.
    Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

    Maybe January light will consume
    My heart with its cruel
    Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

    In this part of the story I am the one who
    Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I
    love you,
    Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Latin American Poetry Packet
Pablo Neruda

Canto XII from The Heights                                A Lemon
of Macchu Picchu
                                                          Out of lemon flowers
  Arise to birth with me, my brother.                     loosed
  Give me your hand out of the depths                     on the moonlight, love's
  sown by your sorrows.                                   lashed and insatiable
  You will not return from these stone fastnesses.        essences,
  You will not emerge from subterranean time.             sodden with fragrance,
  Your rasping voice will not come back,                  the lemon tree's yellow
  nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.          emerges,
                                                          the lemons
  Look at me from the depths of the earth,                move down
  tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,            from the tree's planetarium
  groom of totemic guanacos,
  mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,             Delicate merchandise!
  iceman of Andean tears,                                 The harbors are big with it-
  jeweler with crushed fingers,                           bazaars
  farmer anxious among his seedlings,                     for the light and the
  potter wasted among his clays--                         barbarous gold.
  bring to the cup of this new life                       We open
  your ancient buried sorrows.                            the halves
  Show me your blood and your furrow;                     of a miracle,
  say to me: here I was scourged                          and a clotting of acids
  because a gem was dull or because the earth             brims
  failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.   into the starry
  Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,         divisions:
  the wood they used to crucify your body.                creation's
  Strike the old flints                                   original juices,
  to kindle ancient lamps, light up the whips             irreducible, changeless,
  glued to your wounds throughout the centuries           alive:
  and light the axes gleaming with your blood.            so the freshness lives on
                                                          in a lemon,
  I come to speak for your dead mouths.                   in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
                                                          the proportions, arcane and acerb.
  Throughout the earth
  let dead lips congregate,                               Cutting the lemon
  out of the depths spin this long night to me            the knife
  as if I rode at anchor here with you.                   leaves a little cathedral:
                                                          alcoves unguessed by the eye
  And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,            that open acidulous glass
  and link by link, and step by step;                     to the light; topazes
  sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,                riding the droplets,
  thrust them into my breast, into my hands,              altars,
  like a torrent of sunbursts,                            aromatic facades.
  an Amazon of buried jaguars,
  and leave me cry: hours, days and years,                So, while the hand
  blind ages, stellar centuries.                          holds the cut of the lemon,
                                                          half a world
  And give me silence, give me water, hope.               on a trencher,
                                                          the gold of the universe
  Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.          wells
                                                          to your touch:
  Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.               a cup yellow
                                                          with miracles,
  Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.               a breast and a nipple
                                                          perfuming the earth;
  Speak through my speech, and through my blood.          a flashing made fruitage,
                                                          the diminutive fire of a planet.
Latin American Poetry Packet
Gabriela Mistral                                 Tiny Feet
                                                 A child's tiny feet,
I Am Not Alone                                   Blue, blue with cold,
                                                 How can they see and not protect you?
The night, it is deserted                        Oh, my God!
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!                                  Tiny wounded feet,
                                                 Bruised all over by pebbles,
The sky, it is deserted                          Abused by snow and soil!
for the moon falls to the sea.
But I, the one who holds you,                    Man, being blind, ignores
I am not alone !                                 that where you step, you leave
                                                 A blossom of bright light,
The world, it is deserted.                       that where you have placed
All flesh is sad you see.                        your bleeding little soles
But I, the one who hugs you,                     a redolent tuberose grows.
I am not alone!
                                                 Since, however, you walk
                                                 through the streets so straight,
Creed                                            you are courageous, without fault.
I believe in my heart that when
The wounded heart sunk within the depth of       Child's tiny feet,
God sings                                        Two suffering little gems,
It rises from the pond alive                     How can the people pass, unseeing.
As if reborn.                                    Translated by Mary Gallwey
I believe in my heart that what I wring from
To tinge life’s canvas
With red of pallid hue, thus cloaking it         Those Who Do Not Dance
In luminous garb.
                                                 A crippled child
                                                 Said, “How shall I dance?”
The Stranger (La Extranjera)                     Let your heart dance
                                                 We said.
She speaks in her way of her savage seas
                                                 Then the invalid said:
With unknown algae and unknown sands;            “How shall I sing?”
She prays to a formless, weightless God,         Let your heart sing
Aged, as if dying.                               We said
In our garden now so strange,
She has planted cactus and alien grass.          Then spoke the poor dead thistle,
The desert zephyr fills her with its breath      But I, how shall I dance?”
And she has loved with a fierce, white passion   Let your heart fly to the wind
She never speaks of, for if she were to tell     We said.
It would be like the face of unknown stars.
Among us she may live for eighty years,          Then God spoke from above
Yet always as if newly come,                     “How shall I descend from the blue?”
Speaking a tongue that plants and whines         Come dance for us here in the light
Only by tiny creatures understood.               We said.
And she will die here in our midst
One night of utmost suffering,                   All the valley is dancing
With only her fate as a pillow,                  Together under the sun,
                                                 And the heart of him who joins us not
And death, silent and strange.                   Is turned to dust, to dust.
Latin American Poetry Packet

                                            No More Cliches
                                               Beautiful face
Octavio Paz                                    That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
                                               So do you
Between Going And Coming                       Open your face to me as I turn the page.
Between going and staying the day wavers,
                                               Enchanting smile
in love with its own transparency.
                                               Any man would be under your spell,
The circular afternoon is now a bay
                                               Oh, beauty of a magazine.
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,                How many poems have been written to you?
all is near and can't be touched.              How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
                                               To your obsessive illusion
                                               To you manufacture fantasy.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
                                               But today I won't make one more Cliché
Time throbbing in my temples repeats           And write this poem to you.
the same unchanging syllable of blood.         No, no more clichés.

                                               This poem is dedicated to those women
The light turns the indifferent wall
                                               Whose beauty is in their charm,
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
                                               In their intelligence,
I find myself in the middle of an eye,         In their character,
watching myself in its blank stare.            Not on their fabricated looks.

                                               This poem is to you women,
The moment scatters. Motionless,
                                               That like a Shahrazade wake up
I stay and go: I am a pause.
                                               Everyday with a new story to tell,
Translated by Eliot Weinberger                 A story that sings for change
                                               That hopes for battles:
                                               Battles for the love of the united flesh
                                               Battles for passions aroused by a new day
                                               Battle for the neglected rights
Wind and Water and Stone                       Or just battles to survive one more night.

                                               Yes, to you women in a world of pain
for Roger Caillois                             To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
                                               To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
The water hollowed the stone,                  To you, friend of my heart.
the wind dispersed the water,
the stone stopped the wind,                    From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Water and wind and stone.                      Rather, it will contemplate the night
                                               And its bright stars,
The wind sculpted the stone,                   And so, no more clichés.
the stone is a cup of water,
the water runs off and is wind.             Brotherhood
Stone and wind and water.
                                            I am a man: little do I last
The wind sings in its turnings,             and the night is enormous.
the water murmurs as it goes,               But I look up:
the motionless stone is quiet.              the stars write.
Wind and water and stone.                   Unknowing I understand:
                                            I too am written,
One is the other, and is neither:           and at this very moment
among their empty names                     someone spells me out.
they pass and disappear,
water and stone and wind.

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