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A Portrait of Antonio Machado (Edit) (Other) by Sasha

My boyhood is all memories of a patio in Sevilla, And how an orchard bore its share of lemons come the fall, My growing up: some twenty years in regions of Castilla The rest of it's a thing or two I'd rather not recall. I'm not a playboy, never been Don Juan or gone for Juliet. -You know I'd never fit the part. My style is dull and old- Yet Cupid had an arrow with my name and I endured it But only loved the girls I knew would have a friendly soul. Although my veins are pulsing blood enough for revolution My poetry comes flowing from some from a well that's calm and pure, And more than any guy around who knows the catichism, I'm truly "good" at heart in every good sense of the word. It’s beauty I aspire to. With the sheers of new asthetics I've cut some ancient roses from the garden of Ronsard, But I disdain that modernistic dappling of cosmetics, I'm not a fan of muses singing latest avant-garde. But hell with lovey-dovey tunes of certain hollow tenors, The choirs of unceasing crickets crooning at the moon. I quiet down to try and tell the voices from the echos, And out of all the voices heard I listen for just one. Am I romantic, or a classic? Don’t know. But I rather Would leave my poems somewhat as a captain leaves his blade: Famed for the manly hand whose fingers brandished it in battle And not the learned forger’s fist that had the metal made. I hold a conversation with a guy who's always with me -The man that talks alone may talk with God someday in grace- What I soliloquize is only chatting with this fellow Who taught me all the secret things of how to love my race. I don't owe you a thing, you see, you owe me for my writings. I go about my work with care. I scrimp and save to buy The clothes and suit that warm me up, the roof to bar the weather, The bread that helps me stay alive, the bed in which I lie. And when the day arrives when I must make the final voyage, The ship that never comes again will lift the anchor free. You'll find me boarded with the crew, with very little luggage With scarce a rag upon my back, like children of the sea.

Sasha 11-May-04/5:40 PM
If it had anything to do with my paranoia, my "insecurities" or anything of the sort, I wouldn't even be saying what I'm saying. I'm saying your poetry is shot full of clichés and why it is. I'm telling you that zodiac's right. Poets don't write only for themselves unless their name is Emily Dickenson. I'm telling you why your poetry doesen't inspire.




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