The writer’s song

I did not wish to work
I did not wish to earn
but to curl with my jar
in the sweet sorghum
I laid my mat among the reeds
I could hear the freemen call
oh my life
what does it matter
will the reed cease bending
will the leper turn
I had a horn I did not blow
I had a sake and another
I could hear the freemen
drunk with sky
what matter my cry
will the moon swell
will the flame shy
bonsai bonsai
it is better to write
then die
in the blue crater
set with straw
I could hear
the freemen call
the way is hard
the gate is narrow
what matter I say
with the new mown hay
my pillow
I had a sake and another
I did not care to own nor rove
I wrote my name upon the water
nothing but nothing above
bonsai bonsai
it is better to write
then die
a thousand souvenirs
a thousand prayers
set away in earthenware
we draw the jars
from the shelves
drink our parting
from ourselves
so be we king
or be we bum
the reed still whistles
the heart still hums

Patti SMITH, Auguries of Innocence

popurrí LXII

popurrí LXI

popurrí LX

Rappin’ For Jesus

popurrí LIX

popurrí LVIII

the flower lover

in the Valkerie Mountains
among the strutting peacocks
I found a flower
as large as my
head
and when I reached in to smell
it

I lost an ear lobe
part of my nose
one eye
and half a pack of
cigarettes.

I came back
the next day
to hack the damned thing
down
but found it so
beautiful I
killed a
peacock
instead.

popurrí LVII

Severin, Severin, speak so slightly

—Pero ¿la moraleja?

—Que la mujer, tal y como la ha creado la naturaleza y como se relaciona en el presente con el hombre, es su enemigo, y sólo puede ser su esclava o su déspota, pero nunca su compañera.

»Ahora tenemos la elección entre ser martillo  o yunque, y yo fui un asno al hacerme el esclavo de una mujer, ¿lo entiendes?

»De ahí la moraleja de la historia: quien se deja azotar, merece que lo azoten.