Three Poems | by Sergio A. Ortiz, a two time Pushcart nominee


for George Michael
  1. Of Illusion

You wrote: D  e  s  i  r  e

in the tablet of my heart

I walked

for days and days

crazy        aromatized     and sad.


  1. Of Night

In the loving night, I grieve.

I pity his secret, my secret,

I interrogate him in my blood for a long, long time.

He doesn’t answer

and does like my mother, who closes her eyes without listening to me.


  1. Of Goodbyes

It’s not to be said.

It comes to our eyes,

to our hands. Trembles, resists.

You say you’ll wait―you wait― from then until … .

And know goodbyes are useless and sad.


About Profiles


Sharpened in the light,

like a sunrise doctors itself in water,

I look at how you lean on the magnet

of your own shadow, as if you were a dream clock

in the sweaty age of the planet. You are a fire cloud

for the dolphin’s plumage, the scar that travels

from the nerve track of insomnia

to the sulfur eyelid of an unclaimed god.


I am the man, the throbbing eye

in harmony with my uproar.

An incurable tenderness suffocates me

with the hands of oblivion

because I speak only to the crowds

of your name. I am inside the small cavity

of your dust with no possibility of a return,

I look at you with the wise

inconstancy of oil and vinegar.


I am the man,

the dream,

the eye.


Written on the Breath of a Crystal


My faith, pregnant with black hens,

advances toward water urgently hitting

the aftermath of time. I’m the feeble god

that scratches the weight of terror.


Here the afternoon becomes an ulcer

but I like it because it’s in the latitude

of suckling knives, which are the skin

of the dream in which you name me.

Look at how this love of wires and equinoxes

digs sea and sea, shovel and word.


I own a caterpillar and my Quevedian faith,

fertile and hairy as peace in a prairie.

This faith snores when it talks about your absence,

when it caresses the teenage udder of vinegar

at the foot of bravura.


Light creaks while I sing

to the feline heart of your number,

and my pencil trickles to the bad meat

of knowing who I am,

the open window to the muscle of a scream.


Clot, kiss and faith,

long-lived water in absent lightning.

Here my terrible and polymorphous heart

loves you in the simple milk of exploding pain,

tooth of salt, kidney of barefoot smoke,

constant marrow of the flame.

Sergio A. Ortiz is a Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two time Pushcart nominee, a four time Best of the Web nominee, and a 2016 Best of the Net nominee. His poems have been published in hundreds Journals and Anthologies. He is currently working on his first full length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s