edgarwhitmanwildepoems

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

500 posts!

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

Labyrinths, symbols, all the tricks of language, a cold and overintricate nothingness—

Jorge Luis Borges, "Baltasar Gracian," from Selected Poems

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

The Poems of Edgar Whitman Wilde turned 8 today!

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

I've published in spanish my own biography of Franz Kafka, "The professional of defeat".

Soon it will be translated to english and for sell in Amazon.

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

The Poems of Edgar Whitman Wilde turned 7 today!

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]



[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

First edition of Les Fleurs du mal by Charles Baudelaire.

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

Hart Crane, July 21, 1899 – April 27, 1932.

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

The Poems of Edgar Whitman Wilde turned 6 today!

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

The Poems of Edgar Whitman Wilde turned 6 today!

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

paradoxical moments…by…Edgar Whitman Wilde

is it the paradox of construction of an unseen core or a painful interiority with an insistence on a dark melancholy which is it, which is it, oh which is it is it unreasonable I ask, to persist obstinately in sorrow or is such a cause a despair of bitter corrosiveness centered on that very paradox who with astonishing vividness conveys the spontaneous rhythms of the mind a mind in motion that preserves unprecedented intensity that reflects disturbing exchanges of intimate encounters intertwined in unresolved vagaries that present themselves with the passage of time and view these dark attractions in the same moment the same moment of becoming, yes at that moment the moment of our death

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

No Real Title…..by…Edgar Whitman Wilde

The ghost of my eternity

Like a stone carved dream

Floats in blue air reflections

Of crystal mirrors

With lips untaught to smile

Already blind, stares at the sun

For there is no title, unless given

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

Marcel Proust co seu irmán Robert e a mai, Jeanne Weill Proust

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

[edgarwhitmanwildepoems]

I wrote this some time ago...’The Boyfriend’ by Edgar Whitman Wilde

He has captured me, succeeded in what I hadn’t dared to hope for. He possesses me. I am obsessed with him. We drink from the same spell. He looks at me through the veil of his hair, then sweeps it out of his fox blue, grey coloured eyes and says, “You see we are extraordinary people. Therefore we must do extraordinary things so don’t be frightened”. He gently squeezes me and all apprehension vanishes. We are like two conspirators devoid of a common enemy.

It is a time before the colour of blue is born, a time of mystery and magic. It is a time when, well it’s really hard to convey in words its strong emotional impact on me for such words are insufficient in number or language to describe it or to do justice to the way I feel. My belief that nothing will ever change is a boyish and fleeting illusion. It is clear from his kiss that everything has changed.

Nonetheless I am extremely happy because of his nearness, because of the soft touch of his hand on my lips, the way he explores my body, my chest, my belly, my thighs. I am in a state of bliss I suppose could be one way of recounting it, yet that also seems so inadequate a description.

To him I am an all too willing human canvass on which he has painted a new meaning a new me.  A canvass on which is forged dazzling colours and wonderful lines of hexagonal and immeasurable quality. He surrounds me in an immaculate tenebrous light that my mind in its chaotic whirl finds difficult to comprehend.

Lost in such complex simplicity I find the wonder of my being. Who I am, who I was, and who I will be. Most of all he makes me feel so gloriously alive and wanted as I had never felt before. Nothing on earth or in heaven can quench my infatuation my absolute dependence on him and my devotion to his beauty which is a truly self perpetuating phenomena.

In school I like to watch him as he moves elegantly about the yard and the class rooms; see the pleasure his appearance inspires in the other boys and even some of the teachers. Then often as not he will give me a glance that epitomizes our complicity. On such occasions I feel proud and yearn to kiss him right there in front of everyone, taking all my will power to restrain myself. I am smitten and the smitten are always blind to events happening around them.