Alberto Lopez Serrano [El Salvador]

 

The Sailboat
 
        II
 
    o how i luv    to muse    over my nude
figure bathing    irresistible    in the river
    drop     my shorts    &    knead 
with my invincible    army    of fingers 
 
     flesh warm & quiet   ever vibrant
as i glide    across it flexible    like so
     with a tickle   both wild   &   flagrant
beneath the bob of bubbles    hidden below
 
    i surf this     river     bare & laud
each member of mine massaged
   &    pulled     in     full
 
   from the finest     hair     to the sole
u delight me    i luv u    o    body    o 
    may the river keep our secret in its lull
 
 

Now I Have The Illusion And The Fall
 
        XII
 
with you     all my cells     sear & i am     dirt humming    
humbly     your soul & the heart       i have is too    
miniscule    to offer you     holy rest & cheer
 
neither roofs     nor roars nor     doors     just the bronze
stutterer     &     his croon     who with every breath
plays your tunes     as a garden      of bees & lavender
 
like a stream      of small suns      i offer you      my fireflies    
my orchard     a nest & honeycomb      hood
 
a cherry-language     with no ego     telluric heartbeats
skysearcher      I do not offer you      honey: i offer you blood
 
 
 
Dionysus No
 
Do not embrace me, Dionysus.
Your voice does not hold the trick of time.
 
If only I could reinvent the calendar.
Mouth months, gnaw on hourglasses.
Perhaps theorize a new era of abandon.
 
Things would be better if it was always nighttime.
Its starry lullaby always morphs us into primitives.
The milky noise of things rules and enraptures us.
 
No one needs you, Dionysus, for the leap.
Your voice does not hold the trick of time.
Let me empty the craters of hours,
chase once more the needles and numbers,
empty out eyes and run, hobbling, Dionysus,
hunt the hands that drag me into the desert,
leave language dry & empty-handed,
hunt golden onagers through sandy deserts.
 
I’d better drink the wine from the act of darkness
or at least sing of canine power.
 
(Translated by Salvadoran writer Willy Palomo)
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Alberto López Serrano (El Salvador, 1983). Writer, poet, editor, cultural manager, translator, and professor. Member of Alkimia Cultural Foundation. Director of the Amada Libertad International Poetry Festival and the San Salvador Literary Summit. Author of the poetry collections “The Missing Ship”, “One Hundred Sonnets by Alberto”, “And How Impossible Not to Call You Groin”, “Mountain and Other Poems”, “Songs for My Boys”  and  “The Horse Tamer”.