What's the furthest corner? Because that's where I want to be, alone with the only thing that I love.
But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.
My poetry is a game. My life is a game. But I am not a game.
In each thing there is an insinuation of death. Stillness, silence, serenity are all apprenticeships.
What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.
Moon like a large stainedglass window that breaks on the ocean.
The duende....Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child's saliva, crushed grass, and medusa's veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.
The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.
Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.
We're all curious about what might hurt us.
The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.
A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.
There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires.
In our eyes the roads are endless. Two are crossroads of the shadow.
I want to be a poet, from head to toe, living and dying by poetry.
I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.
I'll always be happy if they'd leave me alone in that delightful and unknown furthest corner, apart from struggles, putrefactions and nonsense; the ultimate corner of sugar and toast, where the mermaids catch the branches of the willows and the heart opens to a flute's sharpness.
In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.
My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.
Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.
To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
