Title-less Poem #11 (English and Spanish!)

Summary

The poem "Title-less Poem #11" explores the emotional journey of a poet who once considered their subject their muse, only to realize the pain they caused and the poet's own strength and independence.

Abstract

"Title-less Poem #11" is an English and Spanish bilingual piece from the upcoming poetry collection "Déjenme Llorar" by the author. It reflects the poet's deep personal connection to their work, equating the poems to diary entries that express profound emotions. The poem conveys a sense of disillusionment, as the poet addresses someone who was once thought to be a source of inspiration but turned out to be a source of hurt. The verses express a transition from pain and attachment to self-assertion and the reclamation of personal power, emphasizing that the subject of the poem does not deserve the beauty and depth of the poet's words. The poem concludes with the original Spanish version, reinforcing the idea that while poetry may lose something in translation, the raw emotions remain universal and intact.

Opinions

The poet initially idealized the subject as a muse, only to recognize the subject's role in causing emotional wounds.
There is a strong sentiment that the subject does not merit the honor of being immortalized in the poet's work, which is reserved for true poetry, not for someone who is as common as "replayed poetry verses."
The poet expresses a shift from being hurt and feeling owned by the subject to a place of healing and self-ownership, despite the difficulty of the process.
The poem suggests that the subject's ability to feel passion or fire is derived from the poet's own essence, not from any inherent quality of the subject themselves.
The act of writing the poem is both a cathartic exercise for the poet and a declaration of independence from the subject's influence.
The inclusion of the original Spanish text indicates a desire to preserve the authenticity of the emotional expression and to offer readers a direct connection to the poem's origins.

My poems do not need title, as all of my titles carry your name.

This poem was originally written in Spanish and it’s an extract from my yet to be published second poetry collection «Déjenme Llorar» (Leave Me Alone To Cry, if I ever translate it completely to English). I feel really attached to my poetry, as it is the same as reading my diary. They are my deepest feelings trying to be conveyed into speech, so I really hope you enjoy it.

At the end of the poem, I’ll be leaving the original piece in Spanish, in case anyone’s able to read it in its native language. Sometimes poetry might get lost in translation, but emotions never do.

I could write you a book in one night But, what for? As you only read letters When it was not me who wrote them. I thought you were my muse When in reality It were the wounds you caused And left to see bleed.

I could write you a book in one night But you don’t deserve it As you didn’t deserve the sun that I claimed as your eyes Or to be the title Of any of my poems. I want you to hear me scream That if I turn around It’s not longer to dance with you And when I orgasm It will no longer be in your name.

And I give you the honor to be in my writings Out of love to poetry Not because you still hurt Or because you still own me Tho I’m hurting sometimes And it’s hard to own myself…

I could write you a book in a night To see if I recover during a single insomnia Every time I ever dreamed of you… Cement weights lights Than to have ever met you, Or Having to loose (myself) On a game I never wanted to play.

I ran out of cards And you, Out of tricks. As I will soon run out Of phrases to give you.

I spent more Than I ever spent ink Trying to make you immortal; But you are no poetry You are anything but that… You are the replayed poetry verses Kids learn at school, You are predictions Of a rookie of who calls himself a profet You are the name Of everything I learned I do not want.

And don’t worry, That if I ever write you a book In one night or a thousand It will be only to remind (you) myself That if you ever felt fire It’s because it comes from me

Podría escribirte un libro en una noche Pero, ¿Para qué? Si sólo lees letras Cuando no soy yo quien las escribe. Pensé que tú eras mi musa, Cuando en realidad eran las heridas que causabas Y dejabas para ver sangrar.

Podría escribirte un libro en una noche, Pero no te lo mereces Así como no te merecías el sol que yo puse en tus ojos Ni ser el título de ninguna de mis poesías. Y quiero que me escuches gritar Que si me doy la vuelta Ya no es pa’ bailar contigo Y que si tengo un orgasmo Ya no va a ser en tu nombre.

Te doy el honor de estar en mis letras Por amor a la poesía No porque me duelas Ni porque me tengas Aunque aveces yo duelo Y me cuesta tenerme…

Podría escribirte un libro en una noche Para ver si me cobro en un insomnio Todas las veces que alguna vez te soñé. El cemento pesa menos que haberte tenido en mi vida Que haber tenido que perder(me) En un juego que nunca quise jugar.

Me quede sin cartas Y tú, Sin trucos Así como yo pronto me quedaré sin frases para regalarte.

Me gaste más De lo que gaste tinta Tratando de hacerte inmortal Pero tú no eres poesía, Eres cualquier cosa menos eso Eres los versos repetidos De los poemas que se aprenden en la escuela Eres predicaciones De un novato que se cree profeta Eres el nombre De todo lo que aprendí que no quiero

Y tranquilo, Que si te escribo un libro, En una noche o en mil Es solo para recordar(te)me Que si alguna vez sentiste fuego, Es porque lo emano yo.

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Title-less Poem #11 (English and Spanish!)

Poetry sometimes might get lost in translation, but emotions never do.

My poems do not need title, as all of my titles carry your name.