Tag: salvadoran poets

Through the Cobwebs of Illusion

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 2 Comments

Illumination is not some unreachable and mysterious
attainment.

Eliminate the distractions.
Know
it is possible;
for it is already in you.

The process of connecting
with your truth begins with
removing the shadow of forgetfulness
that you were assailed with
when you took an organic incarnation.

In this uncovering
there is truth.

When the vast dark consciousness
is clear and clean
the truth shines
like the reflection of the moon
in water.

Truth is beyond any notion
of lineage,
of tradition,
beyond any history.

If you don’t have it,
no one can give it to you.

It is not in learning.
It is in the removal of the dross
that obscures.

Anything that can be given to you
belongs in the arena of mentation and ideas:
equally false and only partially true.

And the truth,
which is above that,
you have.

The only thing you can attain
is
yourself.

It’s just that ‘yourself’ is
a lot more
than you suspect.

(From a lecture by The Telling by Koyote the Blind. Poetically curated by Season Cole)

Susurra a mi Oído.

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

Cada palabra surge del silencio, y de cada frase emerge un suspiro, un aroma, un pedacito de conciencia.

Así cada memoria surge del olvido, y de cada conjunto de vivencias encadenadas en la serpentina ondulación de vida y experiencia, de ensueño e historia, emerge un yo como emerge el aroma de la flor, el esplendor de la luz, y el amor del sentir.

Bésame pues cataclismo. Roza con tus ojos el oculto centro. Toca con tus dedos de seda las notas que surgen de mi voz. Mírame, y déjame conocerte en los brillos y destellos que despierta tu mirar. Escucha el clamor que brota; manantial de rezo y poesía del olvido.

Susurra en mi oído abierto al misterio y recibe de mí todo lo que puedo ser, disolviendo cada memoria y transformando en silencio cada uno de mis actos de amor, de rabia, de angustia, y de orgásmica visión.

–Koyote

Burning My Light

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

In the vastness of time I stand in this brief moment between a dream and a dream with no name, no face, no past and no future; alone and naked, giving the light of not-being to the false dreams of prophecy and the path; breathing hope to the hopeless hearts; narrating the stories of the void; burning my light over and over until nothing remains of me.

Blaming the victim

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 1 Comment

How did we get to a point where so many people actually believe that the economy and political system is rigged in favor of the poor, the oppressed, the undocumented, and the racial minorities?

How did we get to a point where, intellectually, we know the billionaire class has created an oligarchy that plunders, starves, and enslaves the people, but emotionally we keep blaming each other; and where we act as if peaceful protest is rioting, as if insulting the downtrodden is speaking honestly, and as if being part of the class that destroys humanity, and the planet that hosts it, constitutes a successful life?

El último destello

~ Koyote the Blind ~ Leave a comment

¿Acaso tengo que cerrar los ojos, dejar atrás la luz del día, entregarme al vacío y dejarme llevar por la corriente del olvido, tan solo para poder besar con el último destello de conciencia tu remota presencia nocturna?

—–

Do I have to close my eyes, leave behind the light of day, give myself to the void, and let the current of oblivion carry me, only to be able to kiss with the last spark of consciousness your remote nocturnal presence?

To Dispel the Fog of Dreams

~ Koyote the Blind ~ 1 Comment

There is a real power,
a true heart in this land.
The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.
It is not gone.

It is alive.
Because it was not a book.
It was not a building.
It was not a painting.
It was not a “history”.

The true wealth of this continent
has simply been dormant
in the trees,
in the bones of the people.
It’s alive in the silent
coming and going
of the blood in our veins.

It is in the sky.
It is in the curve of the eagle
as it circles it’s prey.
It is in the roaring sound of the waves,
speaking for centuries,
against the rocks.

It is in the depth of that ocean
that we can never touch,
but we can all feel
if we grow in silence.

It is in the air I breathe,
and in every person that died-
that fed with their blood,
those creatures that spoke to us
before the false god came to this land.
So that one day they may awaken once again,
and enter
my body,
and crawl around my spine,
and emerge as a serpent
over my head,
and see through my eyes.

Those are still here
and talking to us.

This continent is awakening.
The continent is about to utter,
in poetic explosions,
the wisdom of all times.
To speak through the sounds of the brujo.
Ancient sounds in modern words.

We are about to experience the drunkeness
of ancient wines in ever-new cups.
We speak directly with the powers
of the land, of the stars, of nature.

We speak directly with the voice of the blood,
and the signs on the skin.
No need for a holy book,
a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.

We speak things of power.
And they are opening their eyes,
and awakening once again.
to dispel the fog of dreams.

(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)