FAVORABLE-poèmes France 2017 Patricio SANCHEZ-ROJAS

In each country there is a place called Talca
and a gold church with dove's eyes
sleepy kiosks: magazines and newspapers and smiling girls with tired faces

p> In the streets circulate fruit sellers and cheerful bakers are ready to sleep in beds like huge tombs
where love waits on warm breasts

The priest counts the pearls of a rosary
and they ring the bells to announce the dawn
while the merchants talk barren clean

Cars pass by hurrying smoke and on the sidewalk smile cheerful secretaries
when the shoe-makers send them a piropo

Where the sky ends, that is, in the tall groves, and the volantines are tangled: and it is the wind that lets them fall in the paths.

And the children, joyful, go after them and pushing, hastily: the sun reflections in their hair and scattered over the forehead.

p> ones and thrushes
in the blue sky like stars
awake in the fruit trees.

And in the air they look like sparks
those volantines, are crystals
with the passage of time, only footprints.


I, the tenant of n ° 7 of Avenue Salvador Allende
Yo, king of wands
I, the supposed winner of his nostalgia
I and all mankind in front of the television on
I, in this second that means a century
I and my coming days in a white space


In the corners of spring:
Where the grape is a ring

A sparrow on its twig branch > It is looking for the sun on its nest.

The grass emerges lukewarm while flowing. Sweet breezes that know to breeze,

Breeze dreaming in the flight of a willow, > Willow that is pure and crystalline water.

Everything is height when the grape is born,
Between Coleoptera and Bumblebees,

And now it gallops the flowering wheat
Under this fertile sky of hive.

You are pleased to unlock those transparent branches that the leaves of winter shattered

On Sundays, your mouth smelled like candy at the time of "matinee."

New York Yankees | All Things Red Sox
Issued with red or blue fronts and black variation backs, the card displays a gangly teenager yet to make his major league debut. Ruth returned to Boston in 1935 to play his final season with the Braves, hitting six homers to bump his career total to 714.

Chaplin was your hero.

the boy
anywhere in the city,

While your eyes twinkled like meteors mirrored in the caramelized cotton machine.


You, the ignorant fatally worshiped,
He who knows nothing and knows nothing,
The fool to the cube, the bird's soup,
The only tormentor, almost bulge.

Half nose for a cane forehead.
Elephant ears and ringlets
By advance, more burn injury
Not seen at all the week.

You ask forgiveness of the true cults.-To the doctors of pure truth.-To those who believe they have seen God.

Do not ask the grapes for the pears.

br> Our life is u

Today I just spoke to me in one ear.
Today I just spoke to me in one ear.
Today I'm happy, damn it !, What sadness
Feeling my heart round and yellow.

Today I just saw me blindly.
Today I just spoke to me in a corner.
Today I saw myself crossing a street, any street.
Today I'm happy, dammit, what a sadness!

Today I helped a cripple to lift my legs.
Today I think to die, dammit ..., what a sadness! I will give death to the four senses that remain to me.

Today I am to kill myself to continue living. sadness!


arrive to this port tired transatlantic
and cleft in the prow deserted before the wine
and fiddle to the vessels hard men
with faint beards

You are brave sailors murmur the harlots
seeking to be loved
oh red garters!
and red gloves fall already drunk on the floor and glutes that open and agolpanse in a sex < / p>

The cups on the tables conserve their heartbeats
deferred drinks to the sound of a guitar and finally the sailors
of a ship from other ports
explore new waters to the sound of a guitar

You are brave sailors
the night is over!

On the blue gravel of Canet Plage I look for the sound of the albatross. I do not know if it is Ezra Pound
who in the distance signifies me, today I live by the star of other verses; on the button
my lapel have shit a few birds.
The night has been long, I have not slept,
the waves of this Mediterranean sea hit me with incessant feet with their hammers, but not I wish
wait for transient fishermen to help me, and for the same I must free myself from the salt asleep
in my body.
Strangely I can not breathe as is the custom in the poets, moving these sands would be to give me away. How cold is the air on my dry eyelids.

(Mar. Your magnetized heart never stops beating.) A sip I'll drink from your ragweed in a glass vessel lined with sapphires.