Melpomene

“It is the best to have loved and won,
Second best, to have loved and lost”
All that lies destined will follow.

Christic Ethylene,
Pure Mind of the Bodhi,
Melpomene, a soliloquy
For her Mystery.

On Human nature,
Emerson alleged:
“A man is god in ruins…”
We are drawn to the Flame.

A void, between the compositions of Helios.
Shiva, ‘o Lady Babylon, to whom we sing our praises.
‘Oh Say’s among men, she stood as a Titaness,
Zeus’ thunder, with frivolous fascination,
An abysmal suspicion of her broken beauty,
A maternal affection, for their father’s creation.

Gnostic Gospels speak of thy progeny
“Within me I carry the Seeds of Christ,”
Parthenogenesis and an old regal clock-tower,
A Sanctuary in the Earth, by the hour.

A bloodied cub the Hyenas prayed to devour
Daunt, “so fragile” – mere words could tear her apart,
She remained a child in secrecy – a deity in art
“The flower in the crannied wall,” of Lord Tennyson.

Spirit of the Divine, see the World through her eyes.
Marie the Mother, or the Lover of Light.

Olympus intervened and took her Soul from me,
A stoic’s shell in the midst of the Great Plains,
A shout rang through the clouds, loud; “You’ve taken my life,
My joy, my wonder, fry my flesh with your thunder!”

And in his visions, Oceanus visits
The titan, a giant of a frightful countenance,
The hero would face a fate worse than Dionysus’,
Skull, bones, skin, limbs, remain as bloodied crumbs,
To surrender thy flesh, in a feast for titans.

At the face of your fate, choose not to decay.
Awaken and slice open the bowels of the beast.
Emergent products, the titan regurgitates.
A heroine has conquered the monster.

Kin of Jonah – poets sail for the Holy Mountain,
Yet they stay to dwell in purgatory,
To claims conduits to Father Sky and Mother Earth,
Through tribulations, They bring us a message.

“Our future is ominous… rests in ruins,
Behemoth and Leviathan sleep lightly,
Set your sights on the World, from Rio to Thebes,
Count the spirits, as they succumb.

“Leviathan and Behemoth lie sleeping,
Our future, how ominous, rests in ruins,
Your work is not yet done,
Count the spirits, as they succumb.
Set your sights on the World, from Rio to Thebes,
Before the great tribulation and the Seventh Seal
Use your wisdom, to prepare them on their journeys.
Mother and the Celestials will rest to heal.”

Elena Leon Barbot

Dream, I

I’ve been trying to forget her,
For the past eight months.
I’ve been trying to forget her,
God gives me no luck.
I’ve been sent here to suffer.
To learn from Cain’s mistakes.
I’ve been sensitive enough,
To desire an end to it all.
I’ve been told that life is a dream.
Say that to the children of Palestine,
I’ve cried over news of their death.
Society considers me a wreck.
I’ve been dreaming about her,
Even when she’s been far away.
Seen her at the side of the road,
Drinking a beer, all alone.
I walked out of a moving vehicle,
Past the lovable liar and Jonathan,
Shook hands to greet the Mormon,
Arrived at the bar, our paths crossed.
We looked into each other’s eyes,
So I walked over, our problems alive.
An impish Frenchman arrived first.
Nothing a few words of hers could not deter.
He disappeared, we spoke. Her relationship,
With her girlfriend, was on the rocks,
Her ménage’e’troi with Edgardo,
Had predictably backfired.
As I’ve been fantasizing for,
If only our dreams went on,
Infinitely. If they were indications,
Of a future that exists, or becomes.
Apartment buildings filled to the brim,
With family sharing drugs & drinks,
A house shared between me and her,
With bright lights and mirrored doors.

Leon Rivera

Black and White

An apple too far to see,
Grew on the highest tree.
Forbidden beyond delight,
Delicious, yet so unripe.

We do not mix, you and I.
I’m dark and brown,
You’re blonde and white.
I see all of the darkness.
You see all of the light.
I’m as strange as they come.
You’re as simple as can be.

We make our choices.
We choose our poisons.

Without darkness,
Without light.

Love, with a broken heart.
Whose ruptured valves bleed wildly,
On countless pieces of clothing,
And a host of broken bones.

I will listen,
To your musings,
To your pain.

I will remember,
All you do,
All you say.

Even if I say “I decided,
To remember to forget.”

I want you to be the Radha,
To my ailing Krishna.
I want you to be the Mary,
To my broken Christ.

I would die for you,
If our lives were on the line.
Take a bullet for you,
My partner in crime.

Now say, those magic words,
“Nothing, no nothing, is okay.”
Except for You and I,
And our happily distorted lives.
Bonnie to my broken Clyde.

And on the day we die,
We will travel past phantoms,
With flushed faces, who live
With children, resting outside
In the benches, under the gray sky.
In nature’s waiting room,
Trained tigers are shackled,
Surrounded by stone walls.
Behold, a terrifying concrete
Gothic gate, with doors as tall and
Thick as trees, with obsidian clasps.

You and I, will meet inside.
Of this magnificent cathedral,
With fires, golden goblets and candelabra.
Filled to the brim, with Christ’s blood.
Which spills on velvet red rugs.
And a fine old gentleman, sits in a bench.
His stare welcomes us. He whispers
Into your ear. Something I cannot hear.
“A place, where all of our secrets reside.
Welcome, to the life inside.”

Leon Rivera

 

The Fool

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Oh pathetic, don’t let your mind wander,
On film strips, in moments that went ‘yonder.
Replay. Strips over and over, in mind.
I Magnify and Project, a universal prospect!

Light, “It had to be so”, the Fool treads through,
Anxiety, tears, virginity; sinews
Per her Heart, bends in waves for another,
Or maybe she yearned to go, discover.

Why would you blame her? Eclipse, Lucifer.
You are not the Most High, Fool, hear.
Your courage drove you, in your first step,
Yet you tread, confidently in ignorance.

Mauricio Monagas

Ghosts

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Ghosts from my path beckon at me from a window,
They’ve written songs, we have sung in the past.
Simpler were times when I did not comprehend,
By the time my sight focused, they vanished again.

Experiences a many have passed since then,
And the specters they beckon at me again,
I cannot lay the blame to them for a friend,
For a friend has cost them the other’s end.

As I went up the staircase the thought wavered
Through my mind: I used to see you everyday
And I have not seen you in over three blue moons.
How many forests have fallen and risen since then?

Words read, words heard, words have changed you.
Cease, rest your gesturing, the judgment is firm,
You knew the problem and chose to support it
Becoming the very thing you most dreaded.

Alan Valle

In Memoriam

Our homes were mutual, as blood brothers,
Despite not having spoken to one another,
For over fourteen years. Destiny ties a lace,
Between the children of a growing race.

Always sickly, as a child in the academy,
A black sheep, our brother, our friend.
You left early, to spark a journey.
When we reunited over them moon.
Playing foundations, to lay down the grooves.

Pragmatic idealist, always carrying gifts,
Whose actions nobody could ever comprehend,
A trust, a lack of concern, that lasts for days.
Degrees could not measure your mentality.
Listening to books as you drove.

I remember our first conversation.
You gave me a reminder, a life lesson:
A forgotten gesture of kindness,
A treasury of forgotten memories.
Imagined by our innocence.

God, that art in Heaven,
Did you not sacrifice your son?

Alan Valle

Filosofía

awesome bohemia

Desde el alba de la humanidad, chamanes, místicos y bardos le demostraron a sus sociedades sobre mundos invisibles, que existían paralelos a sus realidades. Fueron creadores de mitos. Hombres y mujeres que transformaron sus visiones y experiencias, a conocimiento y sabiduría; para el beneficio de todos. Estos maestros fueron los primeros artistas. Enseñaban por medio de cuentos, canciones y actuaciones, en rituales.

Vivimos en una época en donde el arte es generalmente manufacturado para atraer a nuestras sensibilidades básicas. Han sacrificado lo sublime, para convertir al arte en algo inútil en nuestra sociedad.

Investigadores midieron la variedad de palabras, variaciones de acordes y volumen en canciones que cruzan décadas desde los 1950s. Sin algún asombro, encontraron que la música pop moderna es una versión diluida de lo que John, Paul, George y Ringo usaron para sacudir con los ránkings. Desde los 1950s, el timbre vocal – el carácter de la voz – se ha convertido menos diverso y el contenido del tono se ha convertido en algo totalmente monocromático (menos variaciones melódicas y de acordes), mientras todo ha aumentado su volumen en general. Nuestra música popular está siendo literalmente embrutecida. (Taylor)

Como organización, creemos que el rol del artista es hacernos reflexionar sobre nuestra situación y filosofía como especie humana; para provocar un sentido de conciencia en nuestros parientes. Una conciencia que cuestiona normas aceptadas, y que indaga para encontrar la verdad.

Un estudio en Psychology de Teresa Amabile, concluyo que “la creatividad fue afectada por el tipo de motivación por el cual ellos [los artistas] trabajaron: La motivación extrínseca disminuyo los grados de creatividad demostrados en la obra de arte del grupo experimental cuando se comparó con los niveles de creatividad en los niños del grupo intrínsecamente motivados en el grupo de control” (Qtd. en 358-359).

Solo los artistas que crean para canalizar sus pasiones están poseídos a innovar. Los que trabajan por amor al arte y la humanidad. Pablo Picasso dijo, “Me llevó cuatro años pintar como Rafael, pero me llevó toda una vida pintar como un niño.”

guernica

Guernica (Junio 1937)

Existe un movimiento artístico e oculto en nuestro país. Un movimiento que produce grandes obras de arte, que derraman sus almas y corazones en sus obras. Nuestro tiempo es ahora. Puerto Rico se encuentra en su crisis más grande en la historia, el gobierno de Estados Unidos ha aprobado PROMESA. Una ley que prohíbe a Puerto Rico de gobernarse y sanciona nuestro estatus trágico como la colonia más vieja del mundo. Si nuestros oficiales en el gobierno no escuchan nuestros pleitos, si el mundo se hace sordo, pues haremos que todos nos escuchen; por medio de nuestro arte.