Archive for April, 2010

Almost forgot! But it’s not too late…

Happy National Poetry Month!

Celebrate by getting involved.

In honor of National Poetry month, I want to hear from you!

Submit one of your own poems to NinaAlvarez.net and if I post it, you’ll reach thousands of readers. You retain all rights, of course. This is just for sharing and celebrating.

And in the meantime, learn more about National Poetry Month




National Poetry Month

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Me, I Talked


The doors are closing; they fitted one into the other.  A shadow tells a lie: in this grimace I foresee the movement which makes bodies turn white and which incessantly makes itself behind me, what I believe to be me, what ought to be me…

In front of that, and that could have been me, two eyes nibbling at the same black bone light up.

In front of that, a ghost always searching for the same knowledge.

My shadow was close by.

And I’ll never know where I’ve dragged my shadow, because some black part of it remains inside.

Me, I talked and I talked…

And that was my ghost and that was all that I was; and thus I was wandering from the earth’s head to its transparent feet.  Sometimes older, sometimes nobody, sometimes making believe, as if ghosts had been enough to write the earth.  If I screamed: “At rest!” things howled, but time imposed, imposed upon me a shadow with a belly that kept opening more and more while night acted as if she could see inside of it.

Later, much later, the seas with their vague gestures, the mothers of the Beyond, counted me among their fish.


To the forest I explain myself.

After the ruins — all that’s vital; what is — I went towards the room’s night, the night’s room, toward what should be room and is but night, and not even night, because room with the sad sad sad night… So much so that the birds are between the sheets, dead because of a long time, and not even dead but cold and not even cold, but like dead and shared by time, with time, with what tends, what I hear, what I wait for…

To the forest I explain myself.

Between two weighty eyes — quite far from everything — Quite far is all that, quite far all that is — The snow thickened with the tolling of heavy moons, and its power is red at the lips cracked by black teeth.

Hardly was I anchored in the sea — the condition of shipwrecks — that the sea swelled with a last gulp of poison.

Me, I mysterize myself, I mysterize myself…

Explaining myself to the forest, to the intaglioed trees, to the empty birds, howling with the skin of the wolf whose teeth I dream…

Oh the great thicknesses!

Oh the great discoveries!

My heart a little the heart

Of the being called Loss.

I swim in my shadow,

Too much black inside.

My shadow is the tomb

Open to the wind.

Glowing with a single scream

Blackening up front

Spared in the bed

By who passes through,

I feed on my shadow.

Oh the great thicknesses!

Oh the great discolors!

My flower somewhat a fear

Of losing myself fields.

But who furrows me?

Let the world hang me

If death lays me out

Suite of empty eyes

Let it do me a long time.

-Jean-Pierre Duprey, from 4X1: Works by Tristan Tzara, Rainer Maria Rilke, Jean-Pierre Duprey, and Habib Tengour

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What were we saying

when the plane hit

It was air

that whoosh

We had to trade in things

insert words

We had to hear what we

didn’t want to hear

I have trouble

these days

Its dawning on me

How little all this means

The current catches up and

All those pretty stones gone

There was a pause, when the plane hit

And since then we’ve been unsure

What were we saying?

We had decided to

go somewhere. Do something. But

The whoosh. We didn’t.

-Nina Alvarez

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Come, said my Soul
Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,)
That should I after death invisibly return,
Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
There to some group of mates the chants resuming,
(Tallying Earth’s soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)
Ever with pleas’d smiles I may keep on,
Ever and ever yet the verses owning – as, first, I here and now,
Singing for Soul and Body, set to them my name,
Walt Whitman

-Walt Whitman

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A Shropshire Lad, II

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

-A. E. Housman

Happy Easter, from Nina

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