krispin joseph

krispin joseph Poems

I am
Carlos Santana’s concubine.
I am on a train
To Mexico.
...

Looking at
The behind of the nun
Going to the church
Stand the head-load workers
...

I want to be an underwear
Sewn with tiny suns.
Not to fit Nargis, Silk Smita
Or Marlyn Monroe
...

It is quite nice
To travel together with nuns.

You can
...

5.

In a play
That has failed hopelessly
A jester
Makes a boat with water.
...

A young woman
Who died drinking poison
Asks for the way to the mortuary
To the crowd gathered
...

</></>over the frozen sea
walks the captain’s daughter
she who deported a thousand ships
with a single kiss
...

The Best Poem Of krispin joseph

Carlos Santana

I am
Carlos Santana’s concubine.
I am on a train
To Mexico.
Today we have a performance.
We have seen on several occasionshe crowd boiling over
Once the guitar and drum join together, haven’t we?

You are familiar only with a crowd
Which is like the swinging phallus
Of one who walks without clothes.
It was only after I became your companion
That those without a beer or cigar in their hands
Began to be expelled from among
Your crowds.

You have said that
My face resembles the wine-chalices
Of some top-class bars of Paris.
I have said that
I want to be the crowd
Dancing, swaying within you
Standing beneath banners bearing your name.

It is several years since
Your journey from Woodstock began
For taming the earth.
Several countries
Through which you passed
Talk in the language of the guitar now.
Only your fingers know
About the secret relationship
Between the guitar and the earth.
You say without saying
That the earth is also
Turning into a guitar.

From now on
The world is not round
But flat like a guitar.
In its strings
The nights we mated
Are recorded.
Your fingers that
Drove the crowds into a frenzy
Are recorded.

You are coming from
A jungle in Mexico.
On each stage
You share your memories of the rabbits
Who were your playmates
And the grasshoppers.
You are making attempts
To translate into human utterance
The songs of wild rabbits.

The Mischief Wrought by Metaphors such as Santana and the Swimming
Pool

The initial musings
About metaphors begin
From the swimming pools
You left behind.
I am wondering
Where the swimmers lose their way
Among the circles and the squares.
Everyone is cheated
In your swimming pools.
In their second attempt
Every swimmer is being expelled.

(The nut-sellers in the streets
And the bad guys in the swimming pools
Are doing something unholy.
In between them, it’s the children
Who collect new undergarments.

Beedis burn on their lips;
It is the visuals of the sailors
Who run after them smelling of marijuana
Pleading for their underclothes
That give the form of a museum
To this city.)
The temptation of which night
Your fingers twirled and hurled away
Have made the harbours of the sailors
Move away from their route?
On their paths,
Which strains of the song
Have you strewn?

We are living in the embraces
During our secret relationship.
We are kissing
Standing in the light that comes through
The gap in the door we forgot to shut.

During free-time
I must get out with you into the city
And fool around.
I must shock the people
Showing off marijuana or
Some top-style stuff.
We must turn the city upside down
With a guitar.

I know
Without anyone telling me
That the relationship between you and me
Is not anywhere near that of
You and the grasshoppers.

I am not able to embrace you
At the same speed as you embrace
Eric Clapton.
I am not able to talk to you
In the same language as you whisper
To Amy Winehouse.


Our language
Only the crowd understands.
When we begin our conversation
The crowd begins to sway.

And yet Santana
I give your name to my street.
I give your scent
To the hooks of my red dress.
To all your dirty-tricks that can’t be made public
I distribute your memories.
(The world of metaphors
Is a third-rate world.
It is full of ponds
With a rotting smell.)

If there is a swimming pool, a swimmer
And a guitar,
Any people can become you and me.
But, who, except you and me,
Can bring back a dispersing crowd?

You have said that
It’s when there remain many more trumpets to blow
That we begin our journey in search of
Silent rooms.

There is the sight of
Your crowd
Turning into a tree full of leaves.
You will play the guitar
Till the last leaf falls from the tree.

You are as familiar to me
As the wet lower bellies
Of the dancing maidens.
I have discovered that
Your face greatly resembles the faces
Of sleeping gypsies.
I’m preparing to keep a lion
As sentinel while you sleep.
By your side,
There will be an earthen jar full of wine
And a guitar.

We are being discarded like
A thorn yanked away
From a suppurating wound.
All our plays end
With the scene of us standing in deep embrace
Amidst unending applause.

Those who sit around the dining table
Are the ones who arrived from ancient cities.
The maidens you called awake from the guitar
Are there, ready for anything.
With the cries of the spotted dear
And the pig-thighs roasted in fire
The banquet is sizzling.

We sit in the bedroom
With the facial expressions of people
Who have returned from satellites.
You are humming a Mexican folk-song.
I am listening to it with a great yearning.
It is a song about the orange trees
Grown with the blood-sacrifice of virgins.
It is a song about the guards of the distilleries
And their big-butted wives.
Even during the song, you are not stingy
With your kisses for me.

Translated by: A.J.Thomas

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