Eight poems of Emilio Paz

15 November 2019
Author :  

Emilio Paz (Lima, 1990) professor of philosophy and religion, graduated from the Universidad Católica Sedes Sapientiae. Author of "Septiembre en el silencio" (Club de lectura poética, 2016), “La balada de los desterrados” (Ángeles del Papel Editores, 2019) and "Laberinto en versos" (La tortuga ecuestre, n ° 394, 2018). Winner of the "Month of letters" contest of the Marco Antonio Corcuera Foundation and IX International Competition “El Parnaso del Nuevo Mundo” category “story”. He has publications in magazines and anthologies from Peru, India, Mexico, USA, Venezuela, Argentina, Ecuador, Chile, Costa Rica, Romania, Colombia and Spain. His poems have been translated into Romanian, English, Portuguese and Tamil. He has participated in different international and national recitals of Peru. He teaches philosophy and poetry workshops. He has also published research papers on the relationship between aesthetics, poetry and education. He has participated in various international conferences of philosophy. Directed the blog "El Edén de la poesía " (https://edenpoetico.wordpress.com) and also collaborates with the direction of the charity recitals “The voices of the hummingbird” (Las voces del colibrí) and the magazine Kametsa.

 

 

MINUTE

In a minute,

which is the time a kiss lasts
in different and special occasions,
eternity hides.

 

MYSTICISM

the magic

of the poem

is the freedom

of the rabbit

on the jaws

of the fox

 

 

BOHEMIAN

 

A party,

a drink

and the naked earth.

 

Embraced,

kissing each other,

wishing death.

 

Here they are

the gray years,

the violet ceiling.

 

And in one corner,

a cat

seducing a girl.

 

And in the yard,

A seagull

Penetrating a guy.

 

What is beyond today?

But the morning

Dressed in red.

 

 

 

MELODÍA VII

 

On your chest,

Over your breasts,

I found my peace.

Soul that were lost,

today is in its home.

There, where the birds

are not afraid of hunters,

your word is holding my soul.

Between your hands,

on your thighs

there is God who takes pity on me

and he talks to me,

softly,

about my ancestors stories.

Here there is no exiled Eva

neither innocent

In your marine meats,

there´s the origin of my thoughts,

the nobility of human feelings.

Carnations that are born in the deserts

are the ones I find in your eyes,

and yoursenses are poetry

that is proclaimed by archangels.

In your luminiscent precence,

the darkness of my reason

find light and all the world

begin to have sense and order.

Here you are,

embracing my fears

and allowing me to be a bird

which cuts the breath,

without causing blood.

Never leave,

never die,

never stop being you,

My dear.

 

 

 

POETRY

 

Poetry

is the last link

of a long chain.

 

Chain

in which the human being holds on

for not to fall into the oblivion.

 

Oblivion

which is the last link

of a long chain

which always points

to God.

 

 

SPIDER

 

Spider, is an eight-legged poem.

Each leg is a verse.

Each verse is a dam.

Each dam is a silence.

 

 

PINOCCIO

 

Pinoccio was not made of wood,

he was made of dreams

 

His name was written

on sand,

on molten iron.

 

Paradoxical.

 

Pinoccio was a dream

of a man

who was dying.

 

 

 

A TRIP WITH SCARAMOUCHE

 

Life is a hell that must be enjoyed

with the correct poeple

and with the madness provided

to the dreams and hopes.

 

There, in that insane asylum,

is where we can find the plasure of living

 

And I´m the owner

 

I´m Scaramouche

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