Semipoetas said of those to whom life had played such a strange pass to give them a total vocation to write poetry but not the necessary powers to do so.
was going to say, and yes I'll say what I always thought or felt to face one of his poems: I seemed to hear the bad of any political discourse where many words are poured and nothing came to be said nonetheless.
But I'll do something better, now that I reread some of his poems here on the net and we do not seem so empty, although I still seem so unmusical, so no rhythm, so that mean no real life, passion of the bowels, even to be called "Sex" his poems, or "love" of they were. I put this fragmentito as presents:
Oh, beautiful combination of blood and bloom,
secret button in the light perfume
the birth of light
growing between the thighs of a beautiful pitch. Ruda
currency or sun exhales
born on that aching body,
ready to love when the peak push the opponent
aggressive advances. Mystery
fiery sunset time when, as in the ray touch enter
into the chasm and become voracious night
perfect night for lovers ;
and then as I sing story see:
beautiful combination of flower and
blood ("blood can be my roses?
I see no other beautiful conjunction, or even planetary)
secret button
light or light scented perfume, born
the growth of light between her thighs ...
can be of fine pitch, cut flowers, flower deflowered
if not in his bed,
you are no longer in your branch
if you planted it in the pot cot
the maker of verse as if husking a political speech
those without content and pace
consist only repeat same,
and now, as we talk about poets, gardeners
and not congress, parliament, etc, repeating the same words
corny
a poetic meanings misshapen,
as worthless buzzwords
like everything artificial.
"achy" and they miss the ass, I mean that's
the candy makers pizarnikianos,
with ass in the air when the volcano wake of the tongue
burp or erections so that you can not hide
for failure of many Freuds.
"The enemy aggressively forward."
So many are those who confuse aggression with passion, and we see
poets, all.
lightning in fierce pit enter.
trampled light
as it seems that the "lovers" prefer the unknown night,
of foreplay and to another body, another morning ....
also become night.
Amen. Would deprive the friend
only prepositions and other ugly buildings its rows ...
But her aunt remove them or their heirs.
At last I am myself and I said what I had to say. Surely it's
"semipoeta" he said of himself, as many think it is "semi-shoulder," but not daring to express it. Certainly not we are, we were not, before that ray that continues the great English poetry, the one that put his hand up pretending Beyond remove the dead from the grave as Hernandez, Pizarnik, although they were dead at the end, we, and no one to resurrect us. Without anyone to commit to the death your hand to shoulder to introduce it into the bowels of the night, the other night. That night itself consumes all the bodies and souls of all true lovers and / or poets.
an inescapable calling of writing poetry as well if they gave him life, which in Alberti, like so many, but in reality nothing of poetry ... or nothing. I see only
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