The Prose and Poesy Podcast

In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s reading of “I Will not Mourn You”

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I will not cry for you at all,

there is within me a resolve so cold and dressed in apathy,

so uncaring with the meager,

such a black and forlorn room that I dwell in from moment to moment.

This room has become my progenitor,

my mentor, the study of anger without remorse,

I am this room, its walls draped in the torn flesh of that which I’ve chewed upon,

and spit with delighted disgust as the pleas echoed in the darkest corridors beyond this doorless room.

It is this room that I weep for if in fact I do weep,

but as I weep I continue to tear apart countless heart.

I will not cry for other than this void,

for in this void I have been shown the evil without and beyond those tattered walls.

so uncaring with the meager, such a black and forlorn room that I dwell in from moment to moment.

This room has become my progenitor, my mentor, the study of anger without remorse,

I am this room, its walls draped in the torn flesh of that which I’ve chewed upon,

and spit with delighted disgust as the pleas echoed in the darkest corridors beyond this doorless room.

It is this room that I weep for if in fact I do weep, but as I weep I continue to tear apart countless heart.

I will not cry for other than this void, for in this void I have been shown the evil without and beyond those tattered walls.

In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s reading of “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe.

In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s poem ” Friend”.

I’ve a friend I can’t explain, he is night and shade and pain,

gentle as he gnaws my bones, and his voice is as the rain.

His is the gloom, his berth and shroud, herald of lament, patron of the disavowed.

Moon so pale, stars collapsed, the baying wolves snarl and snap,

promenade in the fetid garden, hand in desecrated hand clasped.

Seated he on cathedra inverted, hassock skin and flesh perverted,

crown of darkest pumice stone, so reigns he, upon such indecorous throne.

His the voice of madness and woe, lyric that sets the sun, song of sorrow,

sonant of the midnight mass, perched on cloud of black, between the twilight and morrow.

Such derision for the soil, growth be burdened, wilt and spoil,

maiden dance with blade in hand, to the lord naught be loyal.

His the wine of supplication, vintner of the most foul lamentation,

bitter grapes with seed of ire, chalice filled with lies and liars.

His the feast of avarice, cuisinier of rapacious artifice,

On silver plate with silver-tongue,

you tie your noose, the hangman comes.

His the scent of fallen rain, petrichor, deluge of pain,

I’ve a friend I can’t explain, without face and without name,

folie and fatigue, his is ceaseless romp and play,

and the rain, it seems, never goes away…

In this episode, we listen to Ernesto Mora’s standpoint on Art.

 

In this 4th episode of The Prose & Poesy Podcast, we listen to the reading of Annabel Lee By Edgar Allan, read by Ernesto Mora

 

At night, when the fleeting dreams haunt my flesh and tear at my walls,

And the waking voices hold vigil on my fantasy, it is then, cloaked in the shroud of gloom that I see where you have gone.

Without regards to the fevered twilight, who bids no clemency to the maddening vision, into that damnation so willing I go.

A gait amid the scentless roses, a look into the blackest sky, and a cup of tea with the beast, bitter with the rotting leaves.

Gone is the smile, parting lips that once revered my flawed words.

Gone are the moments dipped in the cove of your eyes, that once beheld my fallible flesh.

Into that quixotic bog, shaded in the valley where my sleep offers ephemeral glimpses.

You sing to me with such disdain, I hear your wailing on the starry canvass.

Such misery it is to behold, the cries of famined hounds, and more the snapping bones within the maw, once sweet claret nectar has spilled from the ire.

My name parts the winds, and, as if upon winged desperation, rend my pleasant rest apart and drown my lungs with resentment.

Do I drink from this irony? Indulge in this font of putrescence?

From below, comes the bellowed breathing from parched throat agape, lusting for vengeful chalice of a sacrilegious vintner.

Oh what mournful crying!

Tear my weeping eyes from me!

What songbird comes from the depths with such a cadenza? Such pitiful an aria as to drive the flocks from port, and the milk to spoil.

Sweet Magdaline!

Afire is my skin that swells with my contrition, as surely the lakes of perdition rage on feasted bones and souls!

These hands that once traced your beauty, these that snuffed the candle from your eyes!

They break from within as your intonation beckons the darkness come!

The choir now at my bedroom door doth rattle my peace!

And the mighty sword from which I slip, slip deeper into that streaming brook, where folie and fancy bear no resentment, and where from the stony cliffs you sing into my dimming light.

Sweet Magdaline, such delicate features now rot away, agonizing your every note.

Sweet Magdaline, I now sing from the shade as well, where at your feet I plead with the unforgiving.

Despite the naivete of young love

Your tepid body you pledged to me, sweet Magdaline

So your body I took

Despite your callous apathy and misdeed

Your heart you swore to me, sweet Magdaline

So your heart I took…

In this 2nd episode of ThePOEMHOME podcast, we listen to the reading of Ernesto’s poetry “Hearts of Bitter Harvest”

In barren field, sitting upon marble black, painted upon a piteous facade, a farcity so contrived as to mock its own insipidity.

Along its flesh, torn are the moments as leaf from tomes, bidding the warmth that once kindled upon the very sun, a contemptuous parting.

From the roots, the soil so deprived and imbued with disdain, so to sow upon the mud would only serve to reap the loathing sentiment.

Arid is my earth, a thrall to your words so dulcet, and marred is the fruit, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Into the folding nights my vines extend, and caress upon its tendrils your pulsing breast.

What dormant secrets take abode within your countenance, that whittle away at elation and whet condemnation of my soul.

To gaze upon your truth would be divine, to satiate the withering leaf, and bring forth to this parched parcel, the deluge from your sorrows.

Arid is my earth, penitence to a wretched fluora, and plagued is the crop, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Tend to this meadow, so ashen with the ardent bellows, where dreams wither upon the brow and tomorrow is never veracious. Taunting, untruthful, vain and insidious are the pledges that are never consummated. So upon the sun I scribe in futility, a declaration of my devotion, an intimate portrayal versed in emotion, and whispers delicately spoken from the hearts of bitter harvest, inexorably broken.

The waters that flowed have long since dried, the drought that bends the stalk in agony.

And unrelenting is the howl of the acrid dust, imbued within the winds of profane idiom, that flay the skin with merciless battery.

So poignant is the deplorable rose, whose color is flush with unending misery, who blooms but only for a kiss so as to falsely absolve the hands that thrust the rooted love from the faded terra, the hands that bled once pricked by the dessicated thorn yet failed to acknowledge their own mortal paradox.

Among the vines the hands did bleed, and from that crimson wine so bittersweet, the dying morning glory did recede, against the dimming cries for clemency.

Arid is my earth, no songs sway discourse, the sweet aroma of dissonant bounty, the hearts of bitter harvest.

In this first episode of ThePOEMHOME podcast, we listen to a brief reading of Ernesto’s poetry “Blue Spruce Trees”. Just one of many audio poems down the road in other episodes.