Best Borges Poems
dreamlike blue tiger
casts shadow onto grey sand –
marengo color
Inspired by "Blue Tigers" (“Tigres azules”) story by Jorge Luis Borges.
12.07.2019
Haiku-Hue Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 5
Categories:
borges, color,
Form:
Haiku
start over every day
always be reborn
Bloom with the passing of life
bloom to infinity
renew knowledge
Reinvent every product
improve skills
Move forward without giving up
Don't look back so you don't regret it
Be strong and fear nothing
being is capable, because capable we are
Feet on the ground, fly safely
Even if it rains, love the rain
Will radiate the glare of the new day
And your new life will happen
Start over after the mission is completed... !
Ps intextualized translation of the poem
Recomecar from THE POETA BORGES RL Brazil
Categories:
borges, allegory, allusion, analogy, appreciation,
Form:
Free verse
Next to my son's anger
plate tectonics are nothing
to me. His unhappiness
was caused by me.
His purpose and mine
is to catch photons and
store them in our bones.
Time measures change
which continues without self-doubt.
There is no self there.
Therefore, why care about
my son's anger
or my guilt?
Is it possible as Deutsch
suggests that the changes
a self-aware organism can
applying the scientific method
instantiate are innumerable
compared to those of the sun
or any big bang?
Therefore, one must care
about the harm you've done
or the good you'd do.
As Stevens proved
the essential activity's
to imagine the world
then test it against the breeze.
What good is philosophy
without a confession
I sometimes hit
whenever angry
and can kill given
opportunity and permission.
My knowledge of enduring
seeds and periodic
elements is limited
by my impatience.
If I could stop
circle with a dot
breathing
perhaps then I would
understand myself. But
what is there to know about the self?
Long ago, according to Borges,
Shakespeare imposed
a self-imposed silence
on himself. He knew
what, that perfect acts,
accurate and factual,
actually requiring
microscopes and telescopes
for growing small and going far
take you to the very space a
gentle breeze and ridiculous bird
occupy at the end of the mind
at the end of your life.
"Death initiates a complex process by which the human body gradually
reverts to dust
but minerals may fill the cracks and voids, bonding the hydroxyapatite
and allowing the bones to join . . ."
in the happy tectonics
of the earth's plates.
Categories:
borges, anger, care, earth, philosophy,
Form:
Free verse
"Serpentine"
Give a woman enough rope
and She’ll show you
what hanging’s worth
the life coiled around
a body of work
could be misconstrued
serpentine
She draws from the rock
like it's Her cornerstone
creation
sexuality
fertility
the life force
of our
ever spinning planet
serpentine
like it’s Her cornerstone
the conscience, conscious
In The Dreaming
It speaks
Its tongues
She listens
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Serpentine.
"I am not even dust. I am a dream..."
(Jorge Luis Borges)
Categories:
borges, muse, spiritual, symbolism,
Form:
Free verse
Ojalá el universo se apiade de mí
Y me convierta en otra estrella;
Porque la última espada caerá
Ante el desvaneciente sol,
Opacando el vitral del alma...
Desaparecerá el vitral
Al abundarse en total oscuridad.
Se quebrará al ser presonado
Por hipócritas luces,
Y el último poniente
Quedará en el espectro, que es la memoria
En el prisma de un cristal...
Borges dirá: "En el cristal del otro buscamos nuestro cristal recíproco;
El cristal viviente que guarda
Esas maravillas inexploradas e inalterables astros".
Pero, ese sueño del vitral se disgregará en otros sueños,
Como fugas en el tiempo,
Hasta que el vitral del alma estremecida
Quede en los laberintos de tal tiempo,
Que son "interminables prisiones del universo",
Quedando como un captivo de un "tiempo soñoliento"...
Categories:
borges, dream, light, metaphor, prison,
Form:
Free verse
In a dream she kissed my lips
“They are cold like ivory”, she said,
“I want lips made of gold”,
The sky was dusky, light losing to dark.
If you dream, dream with morning
A lone torch defeats all creation
and a kiss must be fast
Or will scorch my lips – Golden true lips.
An Explanation: Since Science still unable to explain why we sleep, Dreams remain out of their field and keep their colored hue untouched.
Because of this, poesy has given to humankind the best definitions about dreaming; from the two doors of Homer, the prophecies of Joseph, the butterfly of Lao Tse, the flower of Coleridge, the Wonderland of Lewis Carroll, the first aesthetic creation of Borges, poets have been sure to dream a dream that wasn’t quite a dream.
It is their task to show us the line that divides reality and imagination without telling us which is the right side or which is the left side.
Categories:
borges, allegory, dream, love,
Form:
Ariel! Rise again to walk n run,
No stump or thorn to ache your paws;
A living room is ready,
Warm arms all set for a hug.
Livia Pereira snuggling into your ears,
Lays you on mattress amid heap of kisses,
Propping up packets of toilet rolls ,
Raquet n Livia together speaking kindness.
Open your eyes to see
Men and animals can be friends,
Shake your golden mane
To dust your distrust on man.
After all we ’re all animals,
One is social, the other communal,
It is evolution that may heal
To make you too social.
Kindness and love a divine touch
That may mend any fatal lacks,
Ariel,rise ,rise to see the sunrise
,Writ with beams of human pats.
Written after viewing a visual on Ariel,the 3 year old lion owned by Raquel Borges,that
was struck down by a viral attack which paralysed its 4 legs.It is under active care of
vet Livia Pereira in her home.
Categories:
borges, socialmay,
Form:
A poem to close your eyes
"I close my eyes and see a flock of birds. The vision lasts a second, or perhaps less; I am not sure how many birds I saw. Was the number of birds definite or indefinite? The problem involves the existence of God. If God exists, the number is definite, because God knows how many birds I saw. If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because no one can have counted. In this case I saw fewer than ten birds (let us say) and more than one, but did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds. I saw a number between ten and one, which was not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc. That integer—not-nine, not-eight, not-seven, not-six, not-five, etc.—is inconceivable. Ergo, God exists."
Jorge Luis Borges
I
My name is Shannan Gilbert,
as the night befalls,
an angel or a creature.
I smell like pricked stems of roses,
silently gnawing in your ears.
My name is Shannan Gilbert,
backless,
flipping leaves
stuck in my throat,
they rattle,rattle, rattle
like a strange broken toy.
II
The dagger of the day dazzles
pierced pale lids dangling in the balance,
attentive, the birds stopped their crying,
light and shadow.
My name is Shannan Gilbert,
an escort gifted with an angel's voice.
wide-eyed, what I?
My name is Shannon Gilbert,
-envoy-
the birds have taken flight.
Categories:
borges, angel, bird, cry, flying,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Sitting outside with loose papers on my lap,
a gust blew the top two pages away.
It was a poem that contained some creatures
and the usual clouds and mists
and how fossils feel about mountains.
Like a Borges story, it contained the past and future
and how time distorts yet fuels our ability to love.
I jumped up and chased it down the road,
the poem containing metaphysical doubts
about existence, my own and yours,
and how everything doesn’t mean anything.
There was a buzzing hornet
and Diogenes’ mordant laughter
and it listed the questions that answer themselves
– Will I be born? Do I crave applause?
But it was gone, my best poem ever,
eaten by cactus or the wind.
Categories:
borges, angst, books, creation, philosophy,
Form:
Lyric
Through a Glass, Darkly
This first translation of an unwritten poem
By Jorge Luis Borges stands against
Invisible Spanish on the left-hand page
Sadly imperfect Anglo-Saxon reflex
Of pure anticipation fine suspension
Clear aperture though when this blurred mimesis
Of vision is erased the parable
Of vision will emerge like messages
We coded into lemon-juice as children
And held to candles where brown letters forming
Were artless alchemy but then these lines
That honour him who read in dark the volumes
Of an infinite library who will be writing
When his loved hourglass turns again to sand.
John Lingard
Sydney
Nova Scotia
2020
Categories:
borges, hope, literature, symbolism,
Form:
Blank verse
Faceless head of coal
Below him arms swing legs steam
Over the apex of a highway bridge
The spooky figure
Cross-country skis on the concrete
Glides right to left across the frost of my windshield
Aura of sky behind this silhouette
An April rust under the rain of sunrise
I approach closer
Hope
Its face will unveil the diamonds of another person
To see its eyes hear its mouth smell its rose
I am full of fear
Tremble at my steering wheel
He is me and He is me
This thing moving that way and me this way
I drive toward work while it seeks eternity
Jesus and Judas in a mirror of Borges.
Categories:
borges, anxiety, confusion, endurance, mystery,
Form:
Free verse
The Night of the Gifts
I am speaking so…
More and more
between the walls.
And reflections
are swallowing us.
More and more
we meet faces
that resemble
another ones.
I’m crossing myself.
It passed
like a ship,
sewn
of the skin of dead people.
The fear stirs up
rage
or sameness
in the eyes.
But like a gate
that is creaking
and half-closing,
I am.
For the steps
of the warriors
and the wise men –
dust.
In Rome I’ll repeat to you
poems of Keats
(and of all of them)
on the water*.
The Night of Gifts
circles
opens.
*J. L. Borges
Categories:
borges, romancenight, night,
Form:
Free verse