This anti-poem is dedicated to the ones that choose not to know.
Let’s imagine that you are the poet,
and your poem diktats are:
the meaning if life is to be happy,
if you do not experience love
the idea of g-d would not enter your mind,
and you would never perceive the real world.
Let’s imagine that there is absolute truth, meaning and reality.
That to live without meaning is to be free.
That life has not in itself a purpose,
but is a complex project not to be wasted.
That we live in an ocean of theories and hypothesis,
and false consciousness, and false memories exist.
Please stop, you are inducing nausea and vomiting in me.
Fuck, what happen to sex, drugs,
rock and roll and venereal diseases.
Let’s think that you are not the poet,
and the meaning of life is a pretzel of meaning and meaningless.
Because our interpretation sometimes are mistaken,
and nothing is right or wrong in itself.
After Auschwitz and Iraq, the world is ambiguous and human life is cheap.
Let’s not imagine any other fucking thing and just read me the anti-poem.
Her name was Sara.
She was thirteen years old.
A missile exploded in her room.
What traditional pattern should I use to write this poem?
What poetic expression should I use
to give coherence and continuity to this event?
The girl’s dead body was trapped
under cement and brick fragments.
While her home was consumed by the fire.
The poets of the modern world had sung against:
Nazism, Communism, Capitalism and dehumanization.
Their authentic and sincere voices have not ignored:
injustice, genocide and occupation.
The body of the girl was just a mass of burned flesh and bones.
Perhaps is the time to create new poetic expressions
to denounce the ideologies of the creators of wars.
Her name was Sara, she was thirteen years old,
and I found no Poetry for her.
You were Born in positive harmony with Nature.
Nothing is wrong with you.
The mind and the body are all you have.
But of course, you have the right to believe
in laws and stories that explain almost everything.
Nothing is wrong with you.
The ancient Babylonian myth says, that you left the Garden
perfectly able to take care of yourself,
procreate and enjoy this project called life.
You were born among trees, flowers, fish, reptiles and insects.
Out of the will of the Unknown, from red clay, the sky and the clouds.
Nothing is wrong with you, my little Princess of Chocolate.
Your mother, father and I came from another garden
from the South of this earth, and you were already inside us.
A sacred symphony of organic chemicals
created by the sun, the moon and the sea.
Nothing is wrong with you.
And of course you have the right to believe
a different story, a different dream.
My little Princess of Chocolate you are truth.
You are a little girl suspended between your mother and the sky.
A human being, a soldier of History, a flower of belief.
You are a precious bundle of life in my here and now.
Nothing, nothing is wrong with you.
Tyrants always fear art because tyrants want to mystify while art tends to clarify.
The good artist is a vehicle of truth, he/she formulates ideas which would otherwise remain vague and focuses attention upon facts which can no longer be ignored.
The Inferno is a picture of human society in a state of futility and corruption, lack of living faith, loose morality, greedy consumption, financial irresponsibility and uncontrolled bad temper; a self-opinionated and obstinate individualism; violence, sterility, and lack of reverence for life and property including one’s own; exploitation of sex, the commercialization of religion, the pandering to superstition and conditioning of people’s minds by mass hysteria and spell-binding of all kinds, venality and string pulling in public affairs, hypocrisy, intellectual and material dishonesty, fomenting discord (class against class,nation against nation) for profit, the falsification and corruption of all means of communication; the exploitation of the lowest and stupidest mass-emotions; treachery even to the fundamental of kinship, country, the chosen friend, and the sworn allegiance: these are all-too recognisable stages that lead to the cold death of society and the extinguishing of all civilised relations.
Francisco X. Alarcon, Chicano poet, professor, critic and editor.
A man of gentle revolutionary nature, loyal friend and authentic sincere writer.
He was born in Los Angeles, grew up in Guadalajara, Mexico, and now lives in the life to come.
Whatever you are now my friend poet, I love and miss you Francisco. Hector Ahumada.
FROM “OF DARK LOVE” by Francisco X. Alarcon
there has never been a sun for this love,
lie crazed flower it buds in the dark,
is at once a crow of thorns and
a garland of spring around temples
a fire, a wound, the bitterest fruit,
but also breeze and water-source,
a bite to the soul – your breath,
a treetruk in the current – your chest
make me walk over turbid waters,
be the ax that breaks this lock,
the dew that weeps from trees
if I become mute kissing your thighs
it is that my heart is eagerly searching
your flesh for a new dawning
I observe the image
of a lower back x-ray.
The vertebral bodies
are deformed and osteoporotic.
It is the lumbar spine
of a Russian construction worker.
The patient’s translator says
that I look like Engels,
“The philosopher, you know.”
I look at the radiograph again
and imagine the man
among the noises of hammers,
saws and engines.
he whistles and smokes a cigarette
on his way home.
Then, like in the cinema
about a trillion synchronized moving parts
to the past life of the worker
spark action in the mind.
I do not ask questions.
The old man is proud of his pain.
I have no control of the mind.
So I continue the vision.
A series of stereotyped
images of Russia.
From airline posters, stamps,
and ruble bills.
At this moment the mind
suggests the abolition
of all forms of the word
“is” or “to be.”
The narration is fragile,
inconsistent and confused.
It is hard to listen
So, I sit in front of an image
that appears to be a lower back x-ray of a man,
possible a Russian construction worker.
“IT IS BETTER TO OFFER NO EXCUSE THAN A BAD ONE.”
My heart has become able
To take on all forms.
It is a pasture for gazelles,
For monks, an abbey.
It is a temple for idols
And for whoever circumvent it, the Kaaba.
It is the tablets of the Torah
And also the pages of the Koran!
I believe in the religion
Whatever direction its caravans may take,
For love is my religion and my faith.
IBN ‘ARABI, was born in Andalusia and lived between 1165 and 1240.