«Defensa del Ídolo», de Luis Omar Cáceres


arturodesimone:

Defensa del Ídolo por Luis Omar Cáceres.
Apology for the Idol by Luis Omar Cáceres.

Originally posted on buenos aires poetry:

Estamos en presencia de un verdadero poeta, es decir, no del cantor para los oídos de carne, sino del cantor para los oídos del espíritu.
Estamos en presencia de un descubiertos, un descubridor del mundo y de su mundo interno. Un hombre que vive oyendo su alma y oyendo el alma del mundo. Esto significa un hombre que oye en profundidad, no en superficie.
El hombre asaltado de visiones.
El hombre cuyas células tienen una preciencia y un recuerdo milenario.
No olvidéis que un verso representa una larga una larga suma de experiencias humanas. Y aquí radica su importancia y su trascendentalidad, en esa voz reveladora de lo íntimo del Todo y que por eso parece a los profanos, incomprensible. Los trascendental no es grandeza hacia afuera, sino grandeza hacia dentro. La poesía no es inconciencia, es estado de conciencia cósmica. La poesía es clarificadora de los fenómenos del mundo…

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“Conservatory Jazz” Poem


Conservatory Jazz.

Neither a sun-boat
nor slave-ship. As much as fast speech
wrapped in fake fur and anger-lips kissing
a gold watch (this bug-hum called hip hop,

doggerel of calling each other dogs

and themselves the many martyred

christs of the American dream, Goldstein discovered

their lucky untalented ass and helped push them

through the choral gates of financial baptismal quarters of heaven that neither I nor

Robenstein nor Ahmad or a vodoo consultant may everever enter. Heaven)

can lower inhibitions
as can watching a film of intersecting nudes. Pornogreish the same

ratatat motions and choreographed studio annihilation.
Instead I kneel search, in knight-twilight for the music made by the nocturnal shade people who bent
ruined their tools and shovels into instruments and pulled, spat orchestras tilled
of the dry earth, the slave-ship

sun-ship music.

It is now nowhere to be found, not even under wreckage.
It is everywhere but nowhere fecund. How I 

of a heart swollen with its swallowed salt water

long to hear the cyclopean slave

sing of innocence to the discerning-eared audience of the nails in his feet.

That  was before Oedipa, Edisonia and Euphoria descended, covering the faces of drums. Adieu.

Replacing it all with bug-hum while citing that willy-nilly rap by Henry Ford, ”History is bunk”
Took a metroline from the Amsterdam banlieu

I went to the riverside conservatory, full of young musicians
to receive their diplomas in Jazz. I understood
why I never understood some jazz, and why I never
understood the fascination with Buddhism,
to be lake without desire.

*(but I could appreciate a fleurette africaine, sweet

as Yemen ghat-grass between my teeth, a love supreme on some weekends,

an Arkestra during the flood, in drought, a sunship. Perhaps some sketches

of spain, on paper not to be lit for warm feet. Some wretches to relate to,

None of those memories, dove-chariots drove to

or from the conservatory)
Intermissions, looking out
on the Dutch river. International students. A boy with an afro
has limitless variations on his fathers’ suites.
There are drinks afterwards. Couples. (I’m missing out.)

They are this generation,
Infinitely open minded and clean the way a polished deck
On an un-sinkable ship reflects the clouds, in the spaces clear

(of artillery) there is only room for light, and a mirror of lacquer-luster deck
reflects broad sky with its peel torn back by bromide that the harvest
dancers of the end of melodies threw into the heavens, to poison
heaven’s clouds mistaking her for the despised whitemen, the feeding
hands and property claims on the feeding bottoms. Apply scalpel.

Painters and musicians, poets all stand punished for pearly-snot elitism.

No one cared to break open the head of a record company executive
with a blunt saxophone, for all those inundations of rap

there was no bravery, no balls. They carry a padding and wiring that leaves

no room for archaic spooky words like lascivious, baroque

are my intolerable and incessant daydreams, as illegible as Ugaritic letters on clay easel,

 or ooga ooga ooh. I admired the houses gypsies built still in caves 

on Sacromonte with full view of Alhambra (before I went broke, to

live off Nour Alkamra). I dropped to my knees

as the old humming woman tended to her aloes and cacti.

I went there because of Lorca and wished I had stayed.

The young man with the afro is from Montpellier. His father had a sun-stroke, 

but had not yet cultivated Bob Marley’s wailing melanoma,

lives in Milano but will come to see the finale examinations.

I ask him what if a conservatory taught the music of the gypsies, would you
listen to the conservatory gypsy orchestras? Can they Cante Jondo?

Could the tanguedias of the Arabál be made with lit heels

and hellcry bandoneons here? I sneer in all words that come from

my mouth and not my hands. I am transparently a trickster

but my tricks are unbreakably obscure.

The conservatory jazzist sips his beer,

adjusts his contact lens and says no one was talking to me.

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video, reading of the poem My Internet Search for Freedom.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jc4XWmvtqHw

In this video I read the poem My Internet Search for Freedom. The poem was first published in The Transnational (

http://www.the-transnational.com/get-a-glimpse/my-internet-search-for-freedom

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Video-poemas (en castellano) leendo del libro Marrano.


A LOS 22

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUsJa8WbEZI

TRES POEMAS (leendo en el Hotel Bauen en Buenos Aires)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDcS4e1ls1s

EN ESTOS VIDEOS LEO POEMAS  DE MI LIBRO  MARRANO.

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Against Progress, Russian Manifesto by Ratsko Koscha


link  to Against Progress http://balkanist.net/against-progress-a-manifesto/

Curiously, the manifesto uses a language that is partly the oppressing jargon of progress, though not necessarily the kind of progress meant by the Kremlin officials.

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Poetry by Arturo Desimone


My poem on the courtship of Anya Frank in The Stockholm Review of Literature!

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thought notes language


Multilingualism. In Dutch, the word We, Ons, is possessive: Ons, We or Us in Dutch, usually is followed by what belongs to We, it is also the word for the measurement (an ounce). There is no frequently used word to set a difference from soul and mind, ‘Geest’ and Geestelijk, like in German Geist, ghost, is the soul, spirit, most often spoken of pragmatically, as in geestelijk gezondheid, mental health. To not speak of the geist, the word ‘spiritual” was imported.

In Spanish, unlike other Romance languages, the grammar and intonation of a sentence can alter in such a way to make clear that the I, yo, is speaking–allowing the I, yo to disappear from a sentence. I, yo can be omitted in Spanish while a sentence remains grammatical, unambiguous–such an omission of the je in the more modern romance cousin-language French is never allowed.  Spanish is feudal, mystical, whereas French is liberal,  a doer: there is always an insistence on je, the self-identifier when the self speaks. In Spanish, the self can speak from a hidden place and be understood–like when the moon stands behind a mountain range, the light on the frays of the mountain tell us where the moon is, the moon is there, and range is charged with a different light. The yo can be submerged, like the moon or like a child when playing at making itself invisible stands behind the curtain in a room and starts talking, pretending the elders in the room will not see its feet under the textile hem.  The sentence allowing the I a hidden place is not thereby headless merely by the fact of omission.

The moon allows the mountain to eat her like a shining fruit. The yo surrendering allows itself to be consumed, overpowered, completely altering the body of the eater, perhaps as in the ritual of eucharist or in a pagan or Indian rite. The self-identifier in Frankish je, in Dutch ik, in English the capitalized I, stands upright, enlightened from the cannibals’ practices, self may never be savagely eaten or passively consumed. Such a sentence grammatically determined by I, je, ik, but without the marker of self-identifier, will be treated as an insane or idiot sentence, in these more modern languages that wrote the principal texts of liberalism.

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