Blackprint Poetry

Burning plains

2011-07-26T02:01:00.000-03:00

The dry feet stumble

across the scorched earth

and with every step dust rises

turning harder every breath.

Offerings to the clouds and sky

circle the mud huts of the town;

in vain, for the gods refuse to cry

and allow their tears to come down.

And the heat gets stronger

with no relief to be found

not in the shade nor in the dark

and on the old Death is soon bound.

The eldest man finally collapses

and enters fiery Hell on Charon’s boat,

but soon the weather discomforts him

and heads upwards to get his coat.

(A small tribute to Juan Rulfo)

The Girl in the Linen Dress

2011-07-09T18:38:00.003-03:00

The golden light of dusk,
fed her eyes, her face and hair,
and turned on fire
the most beautiful linen dress.

Not the sand under her feet,
nor the sea to which she gave warmth,
could keep me from gazing,
at such a wonderful sight.

And she turned on her dance,
the welcomed marine breeze,
to which her sacred white dress kept beat,
channeling my every sense into the deepest bliss.

Yet, my every intent to approach her,
were desperately vain, as she followed
to turn and turn, fading out, growing pale,
turning my sweet princess, into a forgone tale.

(Happy 21st Birthday to me!)

Faces in the Sand

2011-06-17T17:25:00.004-03:00

Whether it had been
the shining round Moon,
the eye of light in the starless night
or rather the freezing touch
of the golden gentle sand,
I could not realize
which had found me
softly dragging my feet
in that majestically desert beach.

Desert! Oh Lord, how I wish
the place had truly been so.
For anywhere I looked
there was no one to be seen
neither gently lit by the cold white light
nor casted from the shadows of the darkened sea.

II.

Yet, my mind, my soul and ears
crumbled into agony upon the sound
of voices of despair, crime and lust,
as whips punished with threshing hand.

Cries, oh terrible cries!
but still no dying one – not around.
No one but me and my soul which,
stabbed, bled for these terrible howls.

And the misery finally won,
and I crumbled: my knees,
on fire, yet numb, I couldn’t hold straight
and I collapsed, never finding defeat so bright.

Relief cooled my body with an intense wave,
as ice – which never lacks its thaw.
For I saw, but couldn’t describe
what laid before my unbelieving eyes.

III.

From what I before thought was
a gentle coat of beautiful sand,
an endless army of cursed faces emerged
devouring my every step into the Palace of Death.

These figures rhythmically danced, changed
and in their stillness, shared their place,
generously trading an eyeball, a mouth
and voice, in despair to form a face.

Shrieks. Bellows. Laughter caused by sorrow.
Screams and sighs of agony. Misery.
A whole world of torments had found its owners,
which, crumbled, desperately clanged to the sand.

And with every step,
a new mercy cry seemed to take shape
trading its rueful sound of pain
for a voice claiming its wishes in vain.

Heard I did, as one cursed soul,
merely the remnant of a lover’s memory
swore and spat its foul damnations and hopes
proving his life had truly been low.

IV. (A lover’s tale)

“Loved I did, and love was all I knew,
for years and years, my mind drifted aloof
as moon after moon, night after night,
only her voice could bring me back to the light.

Well, she truly was mine, merely for a kiss,
and instantaneous eternity of heavenly bliss,
in which our lips met, and darkness came
for the light we caused, dimmed Heaven’s flame.

Yet, Darkness forgot that single day,
to blind Tragedy’s vengeful eyes,
claimed my love’s shining future
and pushed my heart into everlasting torture”.

The Fall

2011-06-01T19:53:00.003-03:00

The shadows crept upon my sheets
and forbade the sweet sleep to close my eyes,
to release my gentle soul from the gloom
and the dark melancholy of those fearful nights.

For eight days I had dwelt
in the majestic manor of my sick friend
settling his angst, his fear of death
and burying his undead sister into a maze.

But that night the whirlwind unset me
and my host's mind broke apart,
as he whispered in silence the secret:
Madalaine's was still a beating heart.

And aghast I fled from the rotten mansion
and saw through the moon and the thunder
how the winds broke through the growing crack
and caused the fall of the House of Usher.

(A small tribute to Edgar Allan Poe)

Leaving

2011-04-29T12:56:00.003-03:00

In a crystal palace
or through the cutting wind
that bleeds my lips
I drop a tear.
Everywhere
I’m lonely,
for you are far,
so very cold,
and in the dark.

I miss you,
your warm hands,
and sweet smile,
the silly games
just running around.
Why did you leave?
I see now,
you are underground
but I’m in the dark.

Relentless

2011-04-24T23:12:00.007-03:00

Across dark alleys I soar,
through the sharp chill that cracks my wings

and witness always the same:

the lust and crime, the excesses of men

and the cruel, relentless pain.

When the greedy, the criminals

and the corrupt take their last breath

and the city wipes itself of the soot

that stuck to the sweat of its walls,

a new age shall dawn for Men.

Liebster Blog Award

2011-04-16T22:28:00.001-03:00

I'm honored to announce that Blackprint Poetry has recieved the Liebster Blog Award, which is passed on by fellow bloggers to recognize the recipient's contribution to blogging.
Thanks to Nomar Knight (and his beyond excellent blog Knight Chills) for the award! The prize should be passed forward to at least three blogs with less than 300 followers, so here it goes:

1 - "I write what I feel, I never worry what others think."
Definetly my first choice, I just love the irrevent (but optimistic) poetical style and themes. Always looking forward to more poetry from his author, Ackeem Russell.

Check him out at: http://a-poetsjustice.blogspot.com/

2 - Read between the minds
A beautiful poetry blog, complete with cool pictures that match the topic of the post. Slpmartin's deep poetry surprises me with fast-paced rythm and witty denunciations of political wrongdoings of our time.

Check it out: http://slpmartin.wordpress.com/

3- The Guerilla Poetess
Skylar Smythe offers us some of the greatest erotic and romantic poetry to be found on the net. She is currently on the process of writing 30 poems in 30 days for National Poetry Month.

Be sure to follow her at: http://guerillapoetess.blogspot.com/
Thanks to all, and hope to hear from you soon!

Remember to live

2011-04-12T23:03:00.005-03:00

Remember to live
and grasp every second of life
Climb the colossal heights of night
and never forget to paint the colours of dawn.
And like a pioneer never cease
to make your way through forests
and walls of rock and fear.
Do not tremble at the callings of life
for they shall take you far beyond you’ll ever thought
and they will find your own true self,
down inside the carcass of your mortal skin.
And as the sun rises and falls,
your path shall meander so,
in glorious days and wicked times
life will not seldom find you
but the overwhelming grace of a fulfilled soul
shall cover the pain for the luxuries lost.

The Ordeal of Love

2011-04-05T00:22:00.005-03:00

Why should I even try,
If it merely consumes my me,
Crashes my heart on lonely pressing nights,
When you seem far, very distant apart?

I know how this should work,
You in my mind and nothing else…
But how’d you expect my jealous heart,
To see my love near some reembracing arms?

And my tastes are far from my control…
So I came late, what else should I do?
I can’t turn the hearts of my near around,
Change their lives, when I am so far from that.

So I will turn to bed tonight,
Maybe furious, confused and tossing throughout,
Things will stay the way they are,
And I will think around and smell beside,
And remember once again,
That I love you.

On Dreamland

2011-03-23T20:50:00.004-03:00

This place is mysteriously bizarre,
like in a midnight rush hour
thousands pass and come by,
uncontrolled laughter, and
bellows of excitement (or pity?)

Yet everybody is doing something,
things I can’t really figure out
hazy blurs of running men,
skirmishes and dancing tribes.

But none of this unfocuses me.
As I glide towards my orange sign
and I stand beside her
and she takes me away.

The Game of Fire and Feathers

2011-03-14T22:24:00.004-03:00

Amid the blaze of fire,
she dances alive,
bowed down upon the presence
of fiery creatures,
which, casted, burn and smoke
and cry their spirits out
majestically following the music’s flow.

A feathered mask hides her face,
and conceals more than a girl’s game,
for, yes! she dances alive,
but in her steps she carries
the whole weight of the World
finely woven in the colours
of feathers of dead ancient birds.

Highland cries

2011-03-04T17:58:00.004-03:00

A ray of light breached the clouds
and blinded my sore eyes
and on turning I saw the tall
valiant figure of a Highland man.

Not perceived by his sight
and sneaking through gentle grass
I silently followed this fierce lad
and saw there was nothing he could lack.

The long red squared kilt was crossed
by a leather coated maze and spear
and drops of blood of unlucky redcoats
dripped through savagely wounded legs.

And the clouds dispersed and I saw;
behind the hill, a vast army of clans
had gathered in this year of Our Lord
seventeen hundred and forty five.

Highland warriors held their stand
urged by the call of Stuart’s House
to claim their rightful throne, once
bitterly torned clans joined in arms.

The Cadence to Arms, the final Albion
shout and the valiant first strike.
Rivers of redcoat blood now drown
the injured and deceased alike.

But Bonnie Prince Charles wished more
and seeked only his Kingdom come.
And spirits and ideals left aside
the Stuart House shows Scotland his back.

Alone, unprotected, forsaken and betrayed
hundred of Highland warriors offer their lives
bleeding and hurting, crying for a cause,
an idea that, for a few, could be left to die.

(This was the first poem I ever wrote. Be merciful :) . Sorry to the Scots for any historical inaccuracy.)

For shattered dreams

2011-02-27T16:15:00.001-03:00

Our muse is over and gone,
and the chosen one feels
as no inspiring hope
onto which cast our dreams;
and we are left to hurt and cry
pointlessly unravelling blue
as lines are filled with no bright
a path straightened to our dark doom.

Irony stands seemingly on our way
when we hope to fulfill our dreams,
as they head for turning points of life,
and allows us not to split our time,
our mind, our soul or our heart,
and shatters one merely for the sake
of feeding and nursing the next.

And this is how true love,
not seldom our ink’s stroke
fractures eager hands with swift blows
when once in the crossroad all’s been said and done.

Thus, Justice’s scale balances oneways
and we laugh and are merrily satisfied
but still up in our crimson plate,
one of us weeps for the brother sacrificed.

The Ballad of the Devil and Death

2011-02-24T01:55:00.010-03:00

There is a great song from the Argentine rock band La renga that is called "La Balada del Diablo y la Muerte". The song contains such a beautiful poetry and story that I've decided it was unfair that it was unknown to the rest of the world. Here is my best shot at a translation -with some liberties taken. Hope you enjoy it!

The Ballad of the Devil and Death

The Devil stood in the corner of my 'hood,

that spot where the wind turns and crosscuts meet;

and beside him stood Death, sipping whisky from a jar;

they scornfully looked at me

out of the corner of their eye

and quietly gave some chuckles out.

And I waited across that autumn street

for someone I no longer remember

through that chilly night,

that found me awake once more.

And thus I heard Death’s muttered words:

“For so long he’s wriggled out

as a rat among wild beasts,

and yet, now it’d be so smooth,

taking a new lamb, merely

by crossing the street.”

I then hid within the fog

and searched among the shadows

for the face that -I then found out-

would never come around.

With the last hope of redemption

I crossed the street as a shaky leaf

and decided to face them both.

“They’ve stood me up”, I said

and asked for light to share a smoke.

Under some yellow tree, we

drank and slacked around;

they told me about their lives,

their triumphs and misadventures;

that the World had gone insane

and even Heaven had been bought.

And even more frightened from them

I stood aghast at Men.

I no longer waited for him

but among the laughter of the coven

Death and the Devil slowly turned my friends;

where the wind turns and crosscuts meet,

that spot in the corner of my 'hood.

Here is the song:

(Perdón si esto enojó a algun fan de La Renga, hubo la mejor intención)

On a night out

2011-02-19T18:57:00.002-03:00

The third is down
and I am right,
I’m small, can’t hold
you see, don’t know, don’t care
shut up.

Just laugh, relax, the night
is young, and seems
to hold much. For the
haze lets me wonder, and
freely calls my me out.

But is it me? Follow
instincts and smell meat,
is it me? I don’t seem
to think that way. Not when
light shines.

Lucky liquor, the scene’s changed
and thoughts slip away. Lights
flash, up, down, and
my mind is gone
far away.

And the choking laughter,
giggles and chuckles,
closing down your chuggy throat
giving back, screaming out
for help.

That night, a blast my friend,
liquor the best, never fails!
Always waits, his warming freeing
haze, anxiously expecting,
to drink up another boy.

Of love and self-harm

2011-02-17T01:50:00.001-03:00

Read my thoughts
and speak my words,
charm my mind
and stroke my heart.

Make me cry
and collect my tears,
touch my soul
and whip me with a cold stir.

Endow me with your eyes
and warm me in a cold winter night,
surround me with your threshing arms
of fiery warm and welcomed love.

And now pull
and draw my heart out
ashame me with my thoughts
and tell me your love of drunken hopes.

Laugh at what you see
two sore pearls, which
merely follow your
freshly wounded flirts.

Rip my soul into tears
and let my gently frozen being
to live and sweetly die
under your cold everlasting memory.