“Hi Margaritan”: A Poem by Dennis Bourne, Poet and Writer

Dennis Bourne  is a Venezuelan painter, poet and author who was born in Guyana. He went to Caracas in 1947 and thereafter dedicated his artistic activities almost exclusively to the advertising industry. Bourne has held exhibitions in Georgetown (Guyana), Port-of-Spain (Trinidad), Los Angeles (California), Caracas, Margarita and Valencia (Venezuela). He is the author of the following works: Harlequin Plus Two, My Heart Wears a Parasol, Un Toque de Guyana, Hola Mister and ¿De Dónde Vengo?.

STONER – Excerpt from Chapter Three – JOHN WILLIAMS

A week before commencement, at which Stoner was to receive his doctorate, Archer Sloane offered him a full-time instructorship at the University. Sloane explained that it was not the policy of the University to employ its own graduates, but because of the wartime shortage of trained and experienced college teachers he had been able to persuade the administration to make an exception.

Collected Poems by Rennon Mariano | Tenderloin - San Francisco

Vanity I

 John—–Gloves on, Scarff to the wind, Jacket snugg,

I feel the power, I am that POWER!!!! And where is precision, by golly I be that PRECISION; and now I have

become the SPEED, (floors the accelerator) Ladies and gents

Poesía estadounidense: Elizabeth Bishop "Inglés - Español"

Some dreams they forgot

The dead birds fell without anyone

having seen them fly or being able

to imagine from where. They were black,

their eyes were closed, and no one

knew what kind of birds they were. But everyone

seized them and looked

up, at the recently and longly

infused sky.

Dark drops also fell. They gathered

in the channels of the roof, congregated

on the ceilings above their deeds;

San Francisco and other poetic dreams | Edited by Don Brennan

San Francisco and other poetic dreams is made possible by Writers workshop 146 Leavenworth St. San Francisco CA. Edited by Don Brennan. Program Director at jennywileysf@hotmail.com, or drop by the Community Arts Studio.

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. William S. Burroughs.

«Addi», a poem by Rennon Mariano

Addi Why?

Why do you disturb my sleep?

Oh Addi sometimes I feel you take my will.

I am helpless. Addi, Hell-ples, Help-less:…..HELP

My knees they are not there today, they were yesterday

«To the sea», a poem by Silvina Faure

I marvel at the sea for, in its vastness,

It neither takes a rest, nor sleeps.

Beneath the apparent surface of fake calmness

There is much more than what our eyes can see.

From Iceland: «Genocide», a poem by Hrafn Andres Harðarson

I see a young man

with hopeful dreams in his eyes,

and love -

I see a young woman

with love in her eyes, and hopes

and dreams...

I see a yellow star, a blue

uniform,

in the snow

From United States: Lesson Learned in Chicago & Gang girl, two poems by Yolanda Nieves. Bilingual English-Spanish

Lesson Learned in Chicago 

You strut in with gang signs in your eyes,

I arrive with books under my arms.

You have lived on the streets where

the cry of your mother has become broken glass,

your stepfather's belt buckle a scar on the edge of your eye,

his fist a split bone in your nose.

Selected Poems of Francisco Álvarez Koki

Your body's punctuation 

From this point I wonder. . .

About the ellipsis and the commas

Only familiar to your body and me.

I’m now filled not only with sadness

But also with the geography of silence.

Sonata to a body bathing in a tub 

Like a vessel, the bathtub

Rocked you in time,

And I was your silence

Across the water.

Let Me Tell You, What I Mean: «Fathers, Sons, Screaming Eagles», Joan Didion

   “I hope you don’t think I’m a hippie,” said the man to whom I was talking in the Crown Room of the Stardust Hotel on the Las Vegas Strip in Las Vegas, Nevada. “I’m just kind of, you know, growing this beard.” His name tag said Skip Skivington. He was probably in his early forties and he had been at Bastogne with the 101st Airborne Division in 1944 and his voice was gentle and apologetic and I had not thought him a hippie. 

With the index finger of a tear | Wafi Salih

Wafi Salih, 1965, venezuelan poet. She is called a master of contemporary haiku. 

She is Magister in Latinoamerican Literature from the Andes University with a doctoral project in the field of history and 19 different publications on: essay, poetry, story and theater. She is

⇝

—American Poetry: Elizabeth Bishop (English - Spanish).

The dead birds fell without anyone

having seen them fly or being able

to imagine from where. They were black,

their eyes were closed, and no one

knew what kind of birds they were. But everyone

seized them and looked

up, at the recently and longly

infused sky.

—San Francisco and other poetic dreams | Edited by Don Brennan.

San Francisco and other poetic dreams is made possible by Writers workshop 146 Leavenworth St. San Francisco CA. Edited by Don Brennan. Program Director at jennywileysf@hotmail.com, or drop by the Community Arts Studio.

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. William S. Burroughs.

San Francisco and other poetic dreams | Juan Carlos Vásquez

Third floor

I Tie and Untie myself 

and count to three, 

it is incomplete, 

and an empty longing, 

full of symbols that mean nothing

and I create heavenly memories

that soon demand of me, 

cutting my time in half.

A heavy sleep arrives before