Las Flores Rotas

Blog de poesía + Artes Visuales + Entrevistas literarias

Ma Yuanyu, Blue Gentiana and Red Lychnis (1690) 



These days I’m already sad before I get drunk and drunk I have no place to go.
I tug at my robe but it still won’t cover my shins.

They say immortals eat cloud-seed rice, which is shattered mica.

I thought of Wang Hsien-chi. When thieves broke into his house, he asked them not to take his tattered green rug.



*

An abandoned courtyard: an old tree:
A temple bell lying on its side:
The world I live in.

They win and we lose; we lose and they win.
Vines wrap around the rotting bones.

She knows he won’t come back from the army, but patches the clothes he left just in case.



*

In the street a woman is weeping.
A boy walks by whistling.
An officer changes his horse.
The clouds are brown and unmoving.
The wind picks up.

All things do what they do:
Birds swoop to catch an insect.
Moonlight breaks through the forest leaves.
Soldiers guard the border.
I am trapped in this body.



*

Trees barely visible in the fog; only the sound of  the garrison drums.
Impossible to know if the news is just rumor:
Officials, they say, are disguising themselves as fisherman and butchers.
Rebels ride the horses of ghosts.
Why do they always burn things down?
I thought of that Immortal who lived in a world inside a clay pot.



*

The world is damp and dry, damp or dry.
Two swallows suddenly came into my room.
They were raised in dust and wind.
It took them a long time to get here,
escaping the damp and dry of the world like me.







Eliot Weinberger (1949). From "The Life of Tu Fu". Chicago: Poetry Foundation.

Luigi Russolo, "Ritratto di Lina Zaquini" (1945) 



the ritual, the alcohol swab over


the top of the vial, alcohol

swab in the ever-growing


concentric circles on the side

of my stomach, air filling syringe and


exhale into the gel, inhaling

then its pollen and know


this is one certain act of love

i do for myself, for us, but


mostly for me. this chore,

to know i will have to treat myself


like this for the rest of my life, every week,


so let me take a seed, a pomegranate

pilgrimage to the small bump beneath


my skin, to love for a moment the space between

muscle and hypodermis,


the sun red drop mixed with oil on the surface

to make me more divine milliliter by


milliliter, to make an alt_r of this body

and make what’s left behind a relic.


pray with me, once-body. past face

old skin. form and former,


i would travel anywhere

with you, tell you any story


you’d like to hear, as long

as we’re out/here, wandering


this ever-wild sedge and cornhusk

pile below the low branches as


Saints of the Earth, the Holy Land

without possession, without


forgiveness without and within

and you know the rest


will come soon enough, the sleep

of tiny pink apples June dropping


from the tree to make room.

to save its strength. to make something




Mica Yarrow Woods. Columbia Poetry Review, no.32. Chicago: Columbia College, Spring 2019. 

 

American School, "The American Bison at Jackson Hole, Yellowstone" (1908)

 

 

 Meanwhile

 

Driving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make

                            the new streets yours.
Trees outside the window and a big band sound that makes you feel like
     everything's okay,
  a feeling that lasts for one song maybe,
                 the parentheses all clicking shut behind you.
          The way we move through time and space, or only time.
The way it's night for many miles, and then suddenly
                                     it's not, it's breakfast
   and you're standing in the shower for over an hour,
                   holding the bar of soap up to the light.
I will keep watch. I will water the yard.
      Knot the tie and go to work. Unknot the tie and go to sleep.
                            I sleep. I dream. I make up things
   that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
                      The trees in wind, the streetlights on,
          the click and flash of cigarettes
being smoked on the lawn, and just a little kiss before we say goodnight.
      It spins like a wheel inside you: green yellow, green blue,
                                  green beautiful green.

   It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun. It's green. It's still green.

 

 

 

Real Estate


My mother married a man who divorced her for money. Phyllis, he would say, If you don’t stop buying jewelry, I will have to divorce you to keep us out of the poorhouse. When he said this, she would stub out a cigarette, mutter something under her breath. Eventually, he was forced to divorce her. Then, he died. Then she did. The man was not my father. My father was buried down the road, in a box his other son selected, the ashes of his third wife in a brass urn that he will hold in the crook of his arm forever. At the reception, after his funeral, I got mean on four cups of Lime Sherbet Punch. When the man who was not my father divorced my mother, I stopped being related to him. These things are complicated, says the Talmud. When he died, I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t get a death certificate. These things are complicated, says the Health Department. Their names remain on the deed to the house. It isn’t haunted, it’s owned by ghosts. When I die, I will come in fast and low. I will stick the landing. There will be no confusion. The dead will make room for me.

 

 

 

Richard Siken. "Meanwhile" and "Real Estate" at Richard Siken. Chicago: Poetry Foundation.

Paula Modersohn-Becker , "Self-Portrait as a Half-Length Nude with Amber Necklace II" (1906)



After Brahms’ Requiem

Den alles Fleisch,
es ist wie Gras

though not the brittle shiftings
of a parched field,

those stiff yellows
scorched to desiccation,

but the grass that leans,
restive, into crosswinds

and that beckons winter sun
to touch it gold.

Grass like his mother
praying at her sickroom window,

palms against the pane,
and blazing – 

every finger bright 
with light, or grace. 

 







Rachel Curzon. Grass Like His Mother. England: The Poetry Society.

Antonin Procházka , "Still life with vase and flower" (1914-15)


When real life is wanting one must create an illusion.
It is better than nothing.
                                 – Uncle Vanya
     .

After leaving work I meet Anton Chekhov on the stairs
at Kensington Olympia Station. Salt and grit stalactite
the edges; the air is brisk and dark at half-past four.
He looks just as he does in that picture people post online
saying STONE COLD FOX but is wearing a furry hat,
of course. We pass as he goes downstairs to head north
while I go up to head south. I am the only one to recognise him.
He is taller than I imagined he would be, his cheeks surprisingly 
pink. Is it really you? I ask. Father of Realism? Creator of Olga,
Masha and Irina, of Nina and Arkadina, of Sonia, of Anya,
Varya and Madame Ranevskaya? It is, he says, and coughs,
touches my arm. What is this place? Why so many people?
It’s the Christmas Fair at Olympia, I explain. Olympia? he asks.
No gods, just tinselly tat. Would you like to come with me
to Pizza Express? I ask. I’ll buy you doughballs and a Fiorentina,
which I think you’ll like. He agrees. We sit opposite each other
at a fake marble table with a fake candle juddering between us.
Tinny Christmas music plays. Let’s talk about our terrible
childhoods, I say. Over tiramisu, Chekhov asks me to marry him
and I say yes, of course. Separate houses and cities, I say.
Separate countries, he says, together a dozen times a year perhaps.
Perfect, I say. Outside, in the traffic on Hammersmith Road
he holds me and I clasp his coat collar as snow spits through
dipped headlights. The shining O of the Pizza Express sign hangs
on the dark like a moon. One day, he says, we will find out why
we suffer. If only we knew (his lips on mine), if only we knew.




Jo Bratten. Realism by Jo Bratten. Londres: The London Magazine, February/March 2025.

.

Paul Nash, "Tortured Earth (Mud)" (1917-18)


On a rainy autumn evening

Into desert places went a maid;

And the secret fruit of unhappy love

In her trembling hands she held.

All was still: the hills and the woods

Asleep in the darkness of the night.

And her searching glances

In terror about she cast.

 

And on this babe, the innocent,

Her glance she paused with a sigh:

Asleep thou art, my child, my grief.

Thou knowest not my sadness.

Thine eyes will ope, and tho' with longing,

To my breast shalt no more cling.

No kiss for thee to-morrow

From thine unhappy mother.


Beckon in vain for her thou wilt, 

My everlasting shame, my guilt!

Me forget thou shalt for aye, 

But thee forget shall not I.

Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers,

Who'll say: Thou art none of ours!

Thou wilt ask, Where are my parents?

But for thee no kin is found!


Hapless one! With heart filled with sorrow,

Lonely amid thy mates,

Thy spirit sullen to the end,

Thou shalt behold fondling mothers.

A lonely wanderer everywhere

Cursing thy fate at all times,

Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear...

Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!


Asleep! let me then, O hapless one

To my bosom press thee once for all.

A law unjust and terrible

Thee and me to sorrow dooms.

While the years have not yet chased

The guiltless joy of thy days,

Sleep, my darling, let no griefs bitter

Mar thy childhood's quiet life!


But lo! behind the woods, near by

The moon brings a hut to light.

Forlorn, pale, and trembling

To the doors nigh she came.

She stopped and gently laid she down

The babe on the threshold strange.

In terror away her eyes she turned

And in the dark night disappeared.


1814




Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837). Poems by Alexander Pushkin. Boston: Cupples and Hurd, 1888. 

Feliks Jabłczyński, "Tańce nowoczesne (Modern dance) Pl.12" (1922)




In college, I was acquainted with a literature professor who published several books of contemporary poetry and could be considered successful by Vermont standards — there were at least forty cars parked outside his house once when he had a party. At first, I was curious to find out what poetry he wrote, but then a friend of mine told me that, among his works, there was a poem about drops of urine falling into the toilet during a bathroom break. And that spelled the end of my curiosity: I avoided the man like the plague ever since, fearing I would not be able to keep a straight face if I had to talk to him again. 

So, here is the main problem with contemporary poetry. The free verse gives you the ultimate freedom of putting virtually any words together and making peculiar sentences that are essentially guaranteed to be unique. Moreover, with a large enough audience, such phrases will almost certainly mean something to somebody. But, by working this vein, the contemporary poets risk becoming the hypothetical monkey that hits the typewriter’s keys and, sooner or later, produces the exact text of Romeo and Juliet. The only catch is: to succeed in this, the monkey needs an astronomically large amount of time, and all the contemporary poet has is an average lifespan (often reduced by alcohol and drug abuse). 

So, can drops of urine falling into the toilet be a metaphor for something significant and non-trivial? Hypothetically, yes. However, I am unable to come up with such an example. In fact, the more I thought about it back in college, the more convinced I became that the poet clung to this image for no other reason than not having come across it before. 

In other words, the main problem of contemporary poetry is the unbridled temptation to talk about anything and anyhow without taking responsibility for the outcome. In the past, the constraints of rhyme and poetic feet forced the poets to craft their works carefully and make sure they make sense. But contemporary poetry is free to blurt out essentially anything, claiming it to be the new creative standard. However, this stops being an exercise in poetry and becomes one in sophism: an ancient Greek school of thought whose adepts believed that, as long as you could prove that a lie is a truth, it became one.



Danil Rudoy. Modern Poetry, 2026.

Continue reading at https://www.shampoopoetry.com/

 

Martinus Rørbye, "Young Clergyman Reading" (1836)

 

1

 

CAN death be sleep, when life is but a dream,

And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by ?

The transient pleasures as a vision seem,

And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

 

2

 

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,

And lead a life of woe, but not forsake

His rugged path ; nor dare he view alone

His future doom which is but to awake.




John Keats (1795-1821). The complete works of John Keats. Vol. II. Glasgow: Gowars & Gray, 1921.

Wu Shujun, "Untitled" (s/f)

 

I’m burning my fingers
they’re melting one after the other
slowly, as war passes slowly:
Thumb to bake bread fresh like martyrs’ bodies
Forefinger I put to the little girl’s lips
it warms her heart
so the dread will go & calm will ripen
Middle Finger I raise between the eyes
of the bomb that hasn’ t yet reached me
Ring Finger I lend to the woman who lost
her hand & her husband
Little Finger will make my peace
with all the food I hated to eat.
& another five fingers to move the blazing sun aside.
War doesn’ t stop
I run out of fingers.
My hands get shorter
fingers grow
my hands melt
fingers grow
my chest melts
my heart,
all of me melts
nothing remains but the fire
flowing from between death’s fingers
fire may choke death
but I’m the one who’s choked to death.

 

 

Batool Abu Akleen (2005). Two poems. Translated by Cristina Viti. Modern Poetry in Translation.

 

Tadeusz Makowski, "Children on a beach" (1930)



The poetic comes from deviating. Neurosis isn’t automatically poetry, but poems are neurotic. A poem is a coherent rambling. If there is only coherence or only rambling, poetry disappears.



The rhythm of poetry is like that of a mourner’s. Two steps forward, one step back… the fluttering funereal banners and the colourful paper flowers… listening to the sad singing and the sound of ghosts.



Because poetry must use language, which is inherently opaque and unstable, it has to be more precise than mathematics. For poets, there is no higher morality than precision.



Poetry is the restlessness before realisation. The things that excite us are what we do not know, things we accept but cannot interpret. Things that cannot be passed even between parent and child, wife and husband. Think about why, when given the praise we’ve craved, we burst into tears.



Poetry is not emotion or metaphor but patterns. Patterns are retrospective and predictive at the same time. There are no patterns without metaphoric meaning. Patterns both come from and enable metaphor.




Lee Seong-Bok (1952). Aphorisms on Poetry. Londres: The London Magazine. (tr. Anton Hur).

Jean-Frédéric Schall, ‘la Promeneuse’ (s/f)



can’t fuel up my car
gas tank door frozen shut
using my debit card
to pry it open
everyone asks me
if i’m cold
because i’m not wearing pants
his hand trembles
as he orders the lyft
i throw up
every christmas
for the sake of tradition
i don’t like
holidays
because the café is closed
and i don’t get any emails
i don’t like family dinners
i want to eat sushi by myself
every day
until i die 




Danielle Chelosky. Merry Chrismzine. An Anthology of Seasonal Poetry. December 23, 2025. Editor: Zac Smith.

Louis Édouard Fournier, "The Funeral of Shelley" (1889)


1.
They die—the dead return not—Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye—
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone—
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.


2.
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not! _10
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.

 

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Vol. II. 2003.

Tintoretto, "Crowning With Thorns" (1592)


     CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones

Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?

And was thy Rising only dreamed by Her

Whose love of thee for all her sin atones?

For here the air is horrid with men's groans,

The priest who call upon thy name are slain,

Dost thou not hear the bitter wail of pain

From those whose children lie upon the stones?

Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom

Curtains the land, and through the starless night

Over thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!

If thou in very truth didst burst the tomb

Come down, O Son of Man! and show thy might,

Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of thee!



Oscar Wilde (1854-1900). The Poems of Oscar Wilde. Vol. I. New York: F. M. Buckles & Company, 1906.

 

Johann Elert Bode, "Hydra Continua, Crater, Corvus, Centaurus et Lupus" (1805)

 

When I consider how each day's career

Doth with its footstep dark [?] yet heavy tread

Approach my soul to those great regions dread

And bring my youth to timeless death more near,

Though strange and sad to one it doth appear

That I (who now feel life) must soon he dead

Some vague, uncertain sorrow weighs my head

And whelms my coward mind with lengthless fear.

Nevertheless through sorrow, rage and tear,

My heart yet each moment's boon shall sense.

And shake rude laughter from each heart-felt moan:

Not without hope is most extreme despair,

I know not death and think it no release -

The bad, indeed, is better than the unknown.

 

 

Charles Robert Anon.  Pessoa por Conhecer - Textos para um Novo Mapa. Lisboa: Estampa, 1990. 

 

Encontrado en Arquivo Pessoa 

Link: http://arquivopessoa.net/textos/506

Paul Sérusier, "The Talisman" (1888)



For love - I would  

split open your head and put

a candle in

behind the eyes.


Love is dead in us

if we forget 

the virtues of an amulet

and quick surprise.


---------------------------------------------------------------------


Por amor: te partiría

la cabeza en dos y metería

detrás de los ojos

una vela.


El amor se nos muere

si olvidamos

las virtudes de un amuleto

y la sorpresa.



Robert Creeley (1926-2005). Poems. Alicante: Revista Alicantina De Estudios Ingleses, no. 12, noviembre, 1999. Versión de Julián López Medina.

 

Frits Thaulow, "Red Church Wall in Venice" (1894)



From the rotting fish,

from the lazy cats,

beneath the squashed summer fruits,

your glory grows:


Maria della Salute, Ca d'Oro,

Colleoni, Pallazo Ducale...


I count my coins on the steps,

place my ham on the dry bread

and remember the Giorgione

with its fretful tattered clouds

bearing the title:

        "la tempesta."



Thomas Bernhard (1931-1989). On Earth and in Hell. Translated by Peter Waugh. New York City: Three Rooms Press, 2015.

 

D.H. Lawrence
Tadeusz Makowski, "Study of a nude (Female half-nude)" (1912).



In front of the sombre mountains, a faint, lost ribbon of 

     rainbow

And between us and it, the thunder;

And down below, in the green wheat, the laborers

Stand like dark stumps, still in the green wheat.


You are near to me, and your naked feet in the sandals,

And through the scent of the balcony's naked timber

I distinguish the scent of your hair; so now the limber

Lightning falls from heaven.


Adown the pale-green, glacier-river floats

A dark boat through the gloom—and whither?

The thunder roars.  But still we have each other.

The naked lightnings in the heavens dither

And disappear.  What have we but each other?

The boat has gone.




D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930). Poetry: A magazine of verse. Vol. III, no. 4. January, 1914. Chicago: Harriet Monroe. 

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