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 vendors and joyful 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 the bells ring to announce the dawn
while the merchants talk sweep clean

Cars pass by hurrying smoke and on the sidewalk smile cheerful secretaries
when the shoehorns give them a compliment

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

And the children, joyful, go after them and pushing, hastily: the reflections of the sun 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, the juggler's apprentice
Yo, el King of wands
I, the supposed winner of your nostalgia
I and all mankind in front of the television set
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 over its nest.

The grass emerges lukewarm as they flow
Sweet breezes that taste like a breeze,

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

Everything is high 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 unmask those transparent branches that the leaves of winter shattered .

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

Learning online
What we can not name in the new imposed language, ceases to exist: sensations, feelings, spiritual entities, etc. Another language about to die in Mexico Manuel Segovia, one of the last two speakers of Nuumte Oote (Mexico).

Chaplin was your hero.

the kid
anywhere in the city,

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


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

Medium nose for a cane head.
Elephant ears and ringlets
For an 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 talked 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 lame man raise my legs.
Today I'm going 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 bow 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
a boat 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 for 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 ambrosia in a glass vessel lined with sapphires.)