LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MR. LEONARD COHEN.
Poetry is not
an occupation but a verdict.
“Caveat emptor” the poet writes
on the bathroom wall.
He teaches us to stay awake
in the presence of so many plastic surgeons,
that live off collagen
and ignore the silence
of stones.
As long as I keep searching for words
I will not sleep,
my spirit will rebel
it will protest against that inferior death,
such a foolish tradition.
Some day I too wish to become
another recluse of Hydra,
forever caged in its long hairs,
its delta eyes.
—Flor Aguilera
THE FAIR
Outside Mont Royal station there is a market.
Rimes are sold, verses exchanged,
dissonances repaired and sonnets modernized.
A woman approaches, in want of inspiration.
This is all I have, she says to the poet-salesman,
her hand extended.
For that amount, he answers
you can buy at least one word.
She chooses randomly,
Twilight appears.
They congratulate her purchase.
It’s a very poetic word, they all say,
a key that will open many doors.
The woman returns home, saddened,
she feels her way in the darkness, turns on the light.
She does not want to open doors,
but to shut them hard.
She does not want to make poetry for those
who climb and fill the skies each morning, their
wide open hearts and shiny, clean hearts;
but for those who are just
learning to crawl
on the soiled streets
their eyes alert .
—Flor Aguilera
ARS POETICA II
I begin
I stutter
I climb onto a cloud
I cling to the page
I beg the muse
Come!
all of nature
all that is eloquent
what is movement and
fixed still,
come the dead
the alive,
But as I write
I only discover
my own voice.
—Flor Aguilera
ARS POETICA I
Appearing in front of my eyes,
words that see for themselves,
luminous translations
of Day into Book,
of Night, full, into Letter,
a waning thought
but feelings new—
their universe complete
revealed to one—
restored as a possession
to its rightful
owner.
—Flor Aguilera