E.P. Robles | Poetry

WILL MY LOVE?

AND SO, HOW TIME FLOWS
NOT AS FALLING PROPELLERS
of tender dead leaves
but as my Heart
by some /

it’s understood that i’m
surreal and write words___

/

And when the last timber shakes
from frozen ice will you speak
in nice words my love?

how my Heart could stay always
with you my darling love

No.  I am the colony of roaches in the attic
and i am not a vicious weak man.  Toward him:

Go away! For good!

Space/Time. I forgot the leapsickeness of my organ
that beats with me. Forgive me?

“Yes, it is fine. Now, go on.”

BISECTING LINES OF TIME my love.
as the Law of Liquids
(but I would never put a thorn in my head with
upset fists closed)

ice & fire.

:: 01.07.2024 ::

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun

Dust only stifles the already forgotten

The dead breathe
Their gaze perforated
Their mouth stretched by the electric play

Of the immense yawning
Of the final sneezing
By the suction and sobbing

By the hiccup and the last burp
If love is the son of the eye
Fire the son of wood

And wind the son of void’
upon my knees Baracuda

Even forests can hope for the brush fire
Is there a pain more in love with its prod
Than mine?

Vinegar revives old wounds
Insomnia sharpens the star`s branches
A breath too abrupt and it evaporates

If God were a kite
Who the hell is King George Sand

[From the collection Faire signe au machiniste (1970)]

There Are Intersections…
There are intersections where the night
The joy jumps on the back
Of the passerby

Such the lonely dawn in the acid wind

The decapitated dies standing up
Below Body to body in the mud
Teeming furnace| The worms
Whips with triple straps
Caress the tip of the roots
Of flesh

Meat of sacrifice
Gem of the putrefaction

With no burden other than its arms

Tied elbow to elbow

Behind

Bundles of blood on the promised land

Prospectus of fertilizer

There are spittings in the very depths of the mirror

Scratches in the snow

Perjuries languish

In the eyes of our companions

Steam and sweats of the authoritarian woman

Naked on the floor Vibrating from hatred

“Move along” screams Evangeline

Too late

The well is dry the flies gone

In the jumble of greenery

A slight scent of underarm hesitates

Still

Petticoats from the bark of the phallus

Serve as extinguisher

Setting sun

A HUNDRED POEMS – XCIX – FEATHERS & PENNIES

I followed a
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
feather
toward the ground
along the twist
-ing-twirl
-ing

dizzy<
| path |

I found a penny
which held no thoughts
together the feather
and copper bone
fell upon an anvil
cloud of striking stone!

:: 08-05-2014 ::

A HUNDRED POEMS – XCIX – FEATHERS & PENNIES

I followed a
f
a
l
l
i
n
g

feather
to the ground,

As it twirled and spun along a dizzying path,
Until it settled, without a single sound,
A delicate thing in nature’s aftermath.

And there I found a penny, dull and plain,
With no thoughts to share or secrets to hold,
But I picked it up all the same,
As the feather’s story began to unfold.

For as the feather and copper came to rest,
They fell upon an anvil’s hardened steel,
And with each strike, the hammer’s fierce behest,
Their beauty and strength were revealed.

So let us remember, as we journey on,
That even the smallest things can bear great weight,
And by falling, we may yet rise to dawn,
Transformed by the anvil of fate.

revised: 08-05-2014 | 02.23.2023 ::

TRANSITION:

MURDER BY NUMBERS

In the tapestry of time, a feather descends,
A dance with gravity, as destiny amends.

Each quill a whispered tale, a story untold,
Unfurling secrets in patterns manifold.

A cascade of poetry, aflutter, unfree,
In the dance of descent, a wild decree.

Through air’s embrace, a falling grace,
A quivering plume, in spatial embrace.

The path it weaves, a twirling trance,
An ephemeral journey, a fleeting dance.

Twisting and turning, a cosmic ballet,
Gravity’s hold, a poet’s serenade.

In the dizzying swirl, a celestial trance,
A feather’s descent, a poetic advance.

Lines in the air, drawn by unseen hands,
A quill’s descent, in invisible strands.

And lo, upon this spiraling way,
A penny emerges, as if to say,
“I too am part of this dance divine,
In the cosmic ballet, where moments entwine.”

Yet, in the copper coin, no thoughts reside,
No tales of heavens, or secrets to confide.
A silent witness to the feather’s descent,
A union of elements, in quiet consent.

Together they fall, feather and penny,
Anvil of clouds, a forge so uncanny.
Upon striking stone, a poetic collision,
Echoes through realms, a rhythmic decision.

Feathers and pennies, in unison fall,
A hundred poems woven in the cosmic sprawl.
An ode to descent, to gravity’s call,
In the grand tapestry, where destinies enthrall.

:: — 11.14.2023 — ::

This poem, with its rich imagery and metaphors, explores the theme of descent and gravity in a cosmic and poetic context. As a Nobel laureate poet, I would interpret this piece as a meditation on the interconnectedness of various elements in the universe and the poetic beauty that can be found in seemingly ordinary events.

The poem begins with the metaphor of a feather descending in the tapestry of time. This feather, a delicate and ethereal symbol, engages in a dance with gravity, symbolizing the inevitable force that shapes destinies. Each quill of the feather tells a whispered tale, suggesting the hidden stories and secrets that are part of the grand tapestry of existence.

The dance of descent is described as a wild decree, emphasizing the unpredictable and chaotic nature of life’s journey. The use of words like “quivering plume” and “spatial embrace” adds a sensual and cosmic quality to the descent, evoking a sense of beauty in the process of falling.

The poem further explores the path of the feather, describing it as a twirling trance and a cosmic ballet. These metaphors convey a sense of grace and rhythm in the unfolding of destiny. Gravity’s hold is likened to a poet’s serenade, suggesting a harmonious and intentional force shaping the narrative of life.

The introduction of a penny in the poem adds an element of contrast. While the feather carries with it untold stories and secrets, the penny is portrayed as a silent witness, devoid of thoughts or tales. This dichotomy highlights the diverse experiences and perspectives within the grand tapestry of existence.

The union of the feather and penny in descent is described as a poetic collision, echoing through realms with rhythmic precision. This collision becomes a metaphor for the interplay of elements in the universe, creating a symphony of moments and experiences.

Ultimately, the poem celebrates the interconnectedness of diverse elements—feathers, pennies, anvil of clouds—in the cosmic sprawl. It is an ode to descent, gravity’s call, and the intricate weaving of destinies in the grand tapestry of time. The use of vivid imagery and metaphors elevates the ordinary act of falling into a profound exploration of the beauty inherent in the cosmic dance of life.

\

OF the visages of things—And of piercing through
to the accepted hells beneath;
Of ugliness—To me there is just as much in it as
there is in beauty—And now the ugliness of
human beings is acceptable to me;
Of detected persons—To me, detected persons are
not, in any respect, worse than undetected per-
sons—and are not in any respect worse than I
am myself;
Of criminals—To me, any judge, or any juror, is
equally criminal—and any reputable person is
also—and the President is also.

OF waters, forests, hills;
Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of
me;
Of vista—Suppose some sight in arriere, through the
formative chaos, presuming the growth, fulness,
life, now attain’d on the journey;
(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever
continued;)
Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time
has become supplied—And of what will yet be
supplied,
Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport
in what will yet be supplied.

OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies,
wealth, scholarships, and the like;
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks
away from them, except as it results to their
Bodies and Souls,
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked;
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and
mocks himself or herself,
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness,
is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwit-
tingly the true realities of life, and go toward
false realities,
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has
served them, but nothing more,
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked son-
nambules, walking the dusk.
OF ownership—As if one fit to own things could not
at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate
them into himself or herself;
Of Equality—As if it harm’d me, giving others the
same chances and rights as myself—As if it
were not indispensable to my own rights that
others possess the same;
Of Justice—As if Justice could be anything but the
same ample law, expounded by natural judges
and saviors,
As if it might be this thing or that thing, according
to decisions.
As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while
the music is playing,
To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral,
in mist, of a wreck at sea,
Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations,
founder’d off the Northeast coast, and going
down—Of the steamship Arctic going down,
Of the veil’d tableau—Women gather’d together on
deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that
draws so close—O the moment!
O the huge sob—A few bubbles—the white foam
spirting up—And then the women gone,
Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on—
And I now pondering, Are those women indeed
gone?
Are Souls drown’d and destroy’d so?
Is only matter triumphant?

OF what I write from myself—As if that were not the
resumé;
Of Histories—As if such, however complete, were not
less complete than my poems;
As if the shreds, the records of nations, could possibly
be as lasting as my poems;
As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of
all the lives of heroes.

OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness;
As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something
profoundly affecting in large masses of men,
following the lead of those who do not believe
in men.

I am both Creation

  and LOVE

I am both LOVE

  and HATE

I am an impossible

Empire of Dirt

      My LIFE is

unrepairable but precious

and how you smile always

—>   What do we smile at?

 Everything we have forever?

OR how those reading wonder

what we are?  

How I love you — everyone.

But she is mine!

:: 01.03.2024 ::

Brilliant flower
load me up
load me down
until i slip some
i swallow some
then see the sun

i’m inside everyone

Won’t you allow it in?
so we can be ourselves
here you said you’d love
to die some; to try some
here’s everything but
not my precious love

It’s for everyone but
not for myself

I am the brilliant flower
so load me up
so load me down
until i slip
inside a human coma

it’s inside everyone
is who I am.

:: 01.03.2024 ::

My Re-Write:

SELF-ESTEEM

Self-worth, a bud unseen,
Craves sunlight, craves to bloom,
To unfurl within, pristine,
And chase away life’s gloom.

A whisper in each breast,
A secret, shyly kept,
It yearns to be confessed,
No longer bound, inept.

“Let me inside,” it pleads,
“With open hearts we’ll stand,
Embrace the truths that seeds,
And blossom hand in hand.”

Love’s nectar, rich and pure,
I offer, yet refrain,
For self-esteem’s allure,
Must bloom unmarred by pain.

Though all can claim its grace,
It’s mine, a hidden fire,
A fragile, sacred space,
Where dreams and hopes aspire.

So tend the inner bloom,
With gentle, mindful light,
Let self-worth find its room,
And rise in morning’s might.

For who we are within,
A sunlit, fragrant dew,
Is where true joy begins,
Forever fresh and true.

This, in the heart’s hushed chime,
Is self-esteem’s sweet call,
To blossom into time,
And conquer shadows’ thrall.

:: 01.03.2024 ::

Thoughts melt, like snow in April’s hand,
Mouth-fears, a frost upon the heart,
Collapse where baffled lungs expand,
Yet bloom, wide arms, a work of art.

Beneath, or maybe o’er, unseen,
A spirulina’s fragile grace,
Like sunken sail, adrift, serene,
Would you, kind stranger, fill its space?

Skin browned by suns that kiss the wave,
Hunger sated, day complete,
But cognizance, a pearl to crave,
Eludes, a ghost on cobbled street.

Perceptiv3n3ness, a slice so thin,
For those in villas, lives of ease,
While I, drowned everywhere, within,
Gasping for sunlight, mysteries.

Oh, keenness edged with silvered hush,
A beauty born of bitter brine,
I seek that pearl, that precious brush,
To paint my soul, a light divine.

:: 04-02-2016 ::

The poem incorporates several elements of Dickinson’s style:

Short lines and irregular meter: This gives the poem a conversational feel, as if the speaker is directly addressing the reader.
Dash and slant rhyme: Dickinson often used dashes and slant rhymes to create tension and suspense. Here, the dash after “unseen” creates a pause that emphasizes the mystery of the spirulina. The slant rhyme of “complete” and “street” adds a subtle musicality.
Metaphors and imagery: Dickinson loved to use metaphors and imagery to explore complex emotions and ideas. Here, the melting snow and collapsing heart metaphorically represent the speaker’s vulnerability and uncertainty. The image of the spirulina is both beautiful and fragile, reflecting the speaker’s longing for understanding.
Religious and spiritual themes: Dickinson’s poems often grappled with questions of faith and mortality. Here, the speaker searches for “cognizance,” a pearl of wisdom that might unlock the mysteries of life and death.
The poem also retains the original’s sense of urgency and vulnerability. The speaker is drowning, gasping for light and meaning. The poem ends with a plea for “keenness,” a sharpened awareness that might offer solace in the face of uncertainty.

I hope this rewrite captures the essence of Dickinson’s voice and your original poem’s spirit.