A simple room: Poetry collection

A Simple Room
Poetry Collection

I have an emptiness in the center of my head,

like a transparent well

where I draw what I want to see.

Dedicated to JP.L

Observing Reality

To manage to make a poem

is like leaving planet Earth,

almost impossible!

Humanity has seen

some leave and never return.

But there they are, floating

among the stars.

Escaping gravity

and dreaming awake

in silence,

will name your destiny

forever.

Looking at You

Sitting on the couch,

I look out the window,

I think and touch your hands

watching your reflection.

From side to side I look

through the window

and looking, I see you, I see you!

You are in my memories

and I don’t know

your scent or your farewell.

I stain myself between walls

and hang my gaze

once again

on the window.

Poetry is legend

Poetry is for the one who writes it,

for the one who draws it,

to be authentic

and not lose the joy

of laughing in silence.

Poetry has no barriers

that lock it

inside a square.

Poetry is giving

without receiving anything

in return.

That’s why! I have no problem

saying it

out loud and clearly.

Poetry is legend

Intellectual Heritage

I think of the lamp

and its motionless light,

like the eyes of my teacher,

so strong and sensitive.

That covers with a mantle

her tearful face.

Patience, like the walls

of a room,

traps the emptiness

and does not let it escape.

The cold covers her body

and still, waiting,

she grows desperate

for my words.

Searching for Ground

The desk is always messy

with many things; I juggle

to find the keys

to the house.

Like a scientist I listen

to my problems hiding

in the shadow of the building.

I don’t want to disappear anymore!

I grabbed my treasure

and launched myself down

from gravity.

Cutting Ties

Neatly I shave

my beard

with an electric machine,

and I discover

my face!

I brush my hair

and fix my appearance.

I have a new face

and women

seduce me smiling.

The Lesson

By the way

I teach, I will be granted

respect.

Not for my poetry or linguistics,

but for creativity and performance

in the world of syllables.

Close to Humility

Elemental, solid, fair!

These are the best critiques

a piece of writing can receive.

Giving thanks for being this way

is the least

a poet can demand.

There will be other subjects

that shake reason,

but the safest one

is poetry.

Reflection and Point

Time passes, the hour runs,

and time does not stop.

Lying in bed,

I reflect while resting.

The reason for my schizophrenia,

I get stuck thinking

and get up to write.

I observe and deliver

random letters

and listen to my illness.

I have learned to work!

Without going to school.

Something a bit crazy

for a time

that discriminates

like a guillotine

cutting off the head

of a demon.

Optimal Performance

Three quarters of a sigh

to write poetry.

If you go over, it slowly collapses.

With a lower dose you won’t perform

creatively enough.

The secret is not to exceed,

to resonate as loudly

as urban noise or the echo

of a mountain.

Landing is the last option.

Fuel up!

To take off once again

toward the sky.

Broken Sculpture

Sometimes we break hearts

and make

our counterpart cry.

Like a mouse that sneaks away,

you hide

in your dwelling.

You scream in silence

and hang yourself

on the television.

And you close the door!

You circle your bed and leave the beer

on the nightstand,

staring

at the wall.

You throw the ashtray and accidentally

break the mirror in three.

Thoughts of Neruda

There are no papers

of light that tell

a story of angels.

Shadows are darker

in darkness,

and black

blends with emptiness.

I look deeply

through the eyes

like a cinematic camera

recording the landscape

of a celestial valley.

I finish and yawn!

With my pipe I say goodbye

to my beloved

people.

Chaotic Fire

The wood surrounding your house burns.

In the distance, the siren of the firefighters is heard.

An explosion generated the largest wave

the gas could breathe. Neighbors,

stunned, called for help.

A doctor sitting at his desk

answered the phone, and in one leap

went to the scene.

There was no one dead, nor even

injured—it was the invention

of a mischievous child.

The Inventor of Machines

A mentor lived

in his house

on the plot of land,

where he received benefits

from his agriculture.

He sold corn and tomatoes

at a good price, demanding it,

because they were of quality

and full of vitamins.

He never lacked food

and recycled everything he found,

on the street, in the park,

or anywhere.

He transported wood, metals, and plastics

to later fix the details

of the artifacts he built.

Once, with a dowel and a screw,

he hung a rope from a tree, a swing

he had collected from an abandoned park.

Another time, with a bicycle wheel,

he made a weaving machine; and again,

with a microwave casing,

a black-and-white television.

He patented all his inventions

until one day he passed away.

His best work still has no owner,

for no one ever knew

how it worked.

One hundred years later, an individual

learned to fly in a cart—

a seat and a handlebar

attached to airplane wings.

It was in the trash, but he noticed

it was not an ordinary object

and took it with him.

He placed it in his yard,

analyzed it carefully,

understood the mechanism, and went—

holy shit!

It was the rocket cart.

Feedback

They are watching my computer.

It’s strange they follow me

like a spy.

I have no secrets, nor fear!

I walk balanced and I don’t bite.

Information rains down that I am insane

because of what I write regularly.

The corporation investigated me

and found nothing

in my favor. Only poetry

and a bit of narration,

which in the end hide in code

the location of the operation.

Virtuality in the Air

I fly like a cloud,

fast and free.

I am in no hurry

like many others…

On the surface lives the warmth

the sun provides, and the wind

carries it to the horizon.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing,

that can stop its path,

just as no one can avoid the shadow

on cloudy days.

People look at it and play

at naming shapes—from dogs

to rockets, from apples to houses,

from tricycles to triangles!

Always in constant change,

impossible to get bored

or see the same thing

disappear.

Little Leaves in the Sun

The leaf caresses the sun

and receives its nourishment.

Surely,

the branch of the tree

Moves, the leaves

forming fractals on the ground

when the wind

runs them over.

Some dry leaves, ready

to fly for a few seconds,

get to know the wind

and the way it carries them.

Drawn from the Sea

The sea is like smoke—it fades

into the horizon with the clouds.

It surrounds the whole world

like water in a glass

or skin around a tattoo.

They sail everywhere

and some get lost

in the ocean.

Like tiny fish,

the sea receives us in its legs

and bathes our bodies

until they become

wrinkled and dehydrated.

The sea is the whirlpool

of consciousness

solidified

into matter.

The sea is the preamble

between the sun and the sky.

The sea comes straight

and does not change its mind.

That’s why,

when drawing or painting it,

always remember

that you are

small.

Exposed Word

I don’t feel like writing;

besides, nobody listens to me.

Still, I have words stuck

in my throat

That don’t want to show themselves

because no one listens.

But what do I care,

if in the end I say them

anyway.

And even if I don’t love them,

they work

for me.

Miguel Carmona, Chile 2016

Pain was heard in the sound

of the string

when they played the guitar

after his death.