My favourite poems are the little poems.
-which shouldn’t be mistaken for the short poems-
The little poems are those that fit in the palm of your hand. In your fingertips they fit. And they never fall out of your pocket. The poems outspoken.
The little poems have the speed of an instant and fit in tenths of a second. They fit in the hands of the clock. They fit, too, in the bedside table. They even fit in the footnotes of the footnotes of the mighty writers. They have been seen fitting in the middle of the night. They fit in the moon, the little poems, in the new moon and they make it full. They fit in the nanoparticles and in the oxygen formula. There have been seen, little poems, under the microscope. From a bird's eye view they have been seen. Kaleidoscopic. The little poems can be circumscribed by the infinite limits. The tiny little poems; they fit in the diminutives of the language without requiring them. They fit in the plenty and more. They fit painted in the walls and in the naked voice. They fit in the mouth, the little poems. In the way and why we kiss. The little poems have been found in beauty marks like stars. In backs the size of a planet. In the joy that sleeps in the collarbone and in the first person plural of the verb to feel.
I like the little poems because as opposed to the big ones they don’t need any text. The little poems don’t need an author or an audience. They need no manager or secretary or agent of the aforementioned ones. They need no stage or stand either, not even ink, they need no paper. The little poems don’t require a phone terminal or typewriter, their existence is not subjugated to any writing tool. And still, they fit.
In truth: I don’t know what we are doing being so vain aiming to write short poems and long poems and thick poems; having the others at hand; the ones that always fit, the little ones.
-which shouldn’t be mistaken for the short poems-
The little poems are those that fit in the palm of your hand. In your fingertips they fit. And they never fall out of your pocket. The poems outspoken.
The little poems have the speed of an instant and fit in tenths of a second. They fit in the hands of the clock. They fit, too, in the bedside table. They even fit in the footnotes of the footnotes of the mighty writers. They have been seen fitting in the middle of the night. They fit in the moon, the little poems, in the new moon and they make it full. They fit in the nanoparticles and in the oxygen formula. There have been seen, little poems, under the microscope. From a bird's eye view they have been seen. Kaleidoscopic. The little poems can be circumscribed by the infinite limits. The tiny little poems; they fit in the diminutives of the language without requiring them. They fit in the plenty and more. They fit painted in the walls and in the naked voice. They fit in the mouth, the little poems. In the way and why we kiss. The little poems have been found in beauty marks like stars. In backs the size of a planet. In the joy that sleeps in the collarbone and in the first person plural of the verb to feel.
I like the little poems because as opposed to the big ones they don’t need any text. The little poems don’t need an author or an audience. They need no manager or secretary or agent of the aforementioned ones. They need no stage or stand either, not even ink, they need no paper. The little poems don’t require a phone terminal or typewriter, their existence is not subjugated to any writing tool. And still, they fit.
In truth: I don’t know what we are doing being so vain aiming to write short poems and long poems and thick poems; having the others at hand; the ones that always fit, the little ones.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario