Poems like hearts on trays
Corazón en bandeja.
No,
no voy a poner mi corazón en un poema.
No,
No en un poema como en una bandeja.
Pues entonces
ese pedacito de mí –quizá tuyo
lo leerán otros,
y otros se lo contarán a alguien.
Mi corazón que empezó mío
y luego fue tuyo
acabará repartido.
Cortado con tenedor y cuchillo.
Todos podrán compararlo con los que ya conocen:
Los otros corazones puestos en bandejas,
Pinchados sobre un panel,
Intimidades que otros incautos (no yo)
Pusieron en un poema para compartirlo.
Yo no,
prefiero no ponerlo.
No.
En un poema, no.
No es en un poema donde puedo darte mi corazón.
Heart on a tray.
No,
I’m not going to put my heart into a poem.
No,
Not into a poem as if on a tray.
Because then
That piece of me –maybe yours
Will be read by others
And others will tell someone else.
My heart initially mine
And then yours
Will end up spread
Cut up in little pieces with knife and fork
Everyone will be able to compare it with others they know
The other hearts set on trays
Pinned onto a board
Innermost thoughts that the naïve (not me)
Put into a poem they would share.
Not me,
I’d rather not.
No.
Not in a poem.
It’s not through a poem that I will give you my heart.
This, my third poem in free verse, sums up my opinion on “intimate” poetry, the poems in a confessional tone that do nothing for me. Although it probably means something that when I decide to write a poem against confessional neo-Surrealism it ends up being neosurrealist.
No,
no voy a poner mi corazón en un poema.
No,
No en un poema como en una bandeja.
Pues entonces
ese pedacito de mí –quizá tuyo
lo leerán otros,
y otros se lo contarán a alguien.
Mi corazón que empezó mío
y luego fue tuyo
acabará repartido.
Cortado con tenedor y cuchillo.
Todos podrán compararlo con los que ya conocen:
Los otros corazones puestos en bandejas,
Pinchados sobre un panel,
Intimidades que otros incautos (no yo)
Pusieron en un poema para compartirlo.
Yo no,
prefiero no ponerlo.
No.
En un poema, no.
No es en un poema donde puedo darte mi corazón.
Heart on a tray.
No,
I’m not going to put my heart into a poem.
No,
Not into a poem as if on a tray.
Because then
That piece of me –maybe yours
Will be read by others
And others will tell someone else.
My heart initially mine
And then yours
Will end up spread
Cut up in little pieces with knife and fork
Everyone will be able to compare it with others they know
The other hearts set on trays
Pinned onto a board
Innermost thoughts that the naïve (not me)
Put into a poem they would share.
Not me,
I’d rather not.
No.
Not in a poem.
It’s not through a poem that I will give you my heart.
This, my third poem in free verse, sums up my opinion on “intimate” poetry, the poems in a confessional tone that do nothing for me. Although it probably means something that when I decide to write a poem against confessional neo-Surrealism it ends up being neosurrealist.