Daniel de Culla – Poems and biography

Daniel de Culla’s Poems and bio

Writer, poet, painter and photographer. Member of the Collegiate Association of Spanish Writers, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, Nietzsche Circle , The International Society of Assemblage & Collage Artists, Commonwealth Foundation, and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He has participated in numerous Poetry and Theater Festivals, has collaborated and collaborates with various magazines and newspapers such as: Otoliths; The Stray Branch, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Famous Poet, Orfeu, Allien Buddha Zine, The Poet Magazine, Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry), Uppagus, Winning Writers, ReSite, GloMag, From the River to the  Sea, The Erozine, Fleas on the Dog, LAROLA, RAL’M, Misery Tourism, Raven Cage Magazine, Leavings, Wilderness House Literary Review,  Eye to to the Telescope, The Creative Zine, Terror House Press, CentarKukture, Ranger, The Tiger Moth Review, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Our Poetry Archive, Lambda Literary, Literary Yard, EgoPhobia; and other national ones: Pluma y Tintero, Letras de Parnaso, Revista Azahar, Cultura de Veracruz; Vericuetos,  Gibralfaro, Sol Cultural Center, Multiart –Argentina, etc.

SAINT PE OF GUAPALUPE

Saint Pe is a devotee who became a saint

Climbing, on her knees, the slope of the mountain

To the hermitage of Saint Casilda

In Briviesca, Burgos.

Casilda, in Spanish “Poetry”

An Andalusian saint from Toledo

Was the daughter of a Muslim Emir

King or Monarch

Who, practicing charity

He brought food to the captive prisoners

Mainly Christians.

Discovered by her father: these foods

She hid them in her clothes

Below the Mount of Venus.

Thanks to her Christian faith and virtue

When her father lifted her skirts

These foods turned into roses!

She was martyred and, therefore

Escaping from the palace

Arriving to Briviesca

Living as a hermit, or she hermit

In a cave

Next to the sanctuary later elevated.

For May, the ninth of flowers

Saint Pe levitated by.

She had already cut a lot of hair

From her long ponytail

That she reached the ditch

To offer it to God

And place it on the cave wall

Today in the Saint’s votive offering chapel.

Before starting to climb the hill

Saint Pe washed her face

In the miraculous pool below

That, for her, was blessed and holy

As it was, in their time

For the venerated saint.

When she started to rise on her knees

She didn’t do it in a way

Nor by path

If yes between stones and cliffs

Arriving at the hermitage

With bloody and sore knees

But always singing

Without turning her head:

“When of Saint Casilda

I go to the hermitage

It’s going downhill for me

The uphill

And when I go down from the hermitage

It’s uphill for me

The downhill.

One afternoon in May

Some nuns came to visit the hermitage.

They met Santa Pe

They took her by the hand

And they tried to convince her

That she came to her convent.

She answered them:

-I don’t have to get involved with a nun.

I have already offered to Saint Casilda

My mop of hair

Because she who gives me

Reassurance and love.

TRACTORS

Tractors, big tractors

Go along roads, highwas

Streets and squares.

They have left the furrows of their land

To plow in the City.

They ask for rain and more money

To be able to till and sow.

Also, they ask their criminal god

Let lightning fall from the sky

To the President in Ferraz.

The pigeons don’t even flinch

They are always shitting

Even if the Cathedral bells ring.

Yes, it’s scary to see them pass by!

The municipal police

Opening the way

So that the city does not collapse

They honking their horns

And the flags fly.

They would like to sing

Face the bosses

Of Europe, the Nation and the City

But, since they bring cured hams

And plastic dolls to rub

To club

Slipping their hand under the armpit

Then, if necessary, fuck

Letting off steam with pleasure

Dancing some Amnesty rompers

Rag and without dignity.

Tractors are coming.

The big tractors

Are coming, mom!

Rolling  the places are already working.

They don’t squeak

They do not recoil or retreat.

The little children in their cars

Are starting to cry.

THE CANTABRIAN SEA’S VOICE

I represent the beach

And you are my life,  Sea.

Your waves come to me

Carfessing me

With foam kisses

And then they leave

Leaving jellyfish

Some plastic bottle

And some old man’s diapers

Or child’ s.

One early morning

I went to the beach

Started walking

Approaching a market

Of fish and seafood

Where they had taken

A lost seal

And dizzy in the sea.

I saw it vomiting a lot of water

Lots of algae

And an empty can of sardines

Who claimed to be

From Santoña.

IN THE GUISANDO’ S BULLS

In the morning, on a Sunday

As we always used to

On the Trembling Road

To Sotillo de la Adrada (Ávila)

At the foot of the Guisando’s Bulls

I beg my better half

That let me in

In her blind ass eye

That sees nothing

And may my divine grace, erect

Enlighten its understanding.

And I say

While I play her in Bajambar

Obscenely:

-Beloved soul, my life

Listen, that I have

To give you a message.

She’s thirsty and I tell her:

-Don’t ask for water, my life

Don’t ask for water, my gooddess

That the rivers flow down cloudy

And the streams too.

-Yes, I’ll leave you, my old man.

Well my ass is hungry

And now it ate

Whatever was needed.

For example: two eggs

With sausage

That I would like them very much.

And for dessert:

This, your rice pudding

That doesn’t stop falling

And that you spoil.

For your tongue, if you like

A little of my dull honey.

As prudent

I have taken her by the ass

Fucking her in three

Like a bird that enters

In sowing

Ruining everything.

In a rush, what a miracle!

The blind of her eye

Began to see

That we were both riding

On a donkey

From Ávila to Jerez (Cádiz).

From Guisando’s Bulls

We were greatly admired

Well, they were absent

Seeing that there were flying

Two love birds

With great support

From other birds

Of different color and fur.

-Daniel de Culla

CITY OF LIGHT AND LOVE

Paris, City of Light and Love

What a joke!

As the City of Light has little

Unless you go up the Seine River

Go to the Amusement Park

You get on the Ferris Wheel

And you see a heaven to see:

On one side, the Notre Dame Cathedral

On the other, the Eiffel Tower

For later, after the trip

You look like the Hunchback

When you walk.

If, in the middle of the road

You are thirsty

Do not order water or beer in a café bar

Well, they will cost you a lot

Don’t even drink the holy water

From the cathedral font.

Well it’s cloudy and tastes like feet

And, the sacristan who takes care of it

Is a blind man who sees nothing.

Like City of Love

It is nothing more than the Tale of the Stork:

The one that brings

Stuffed in a sack

The children conceived

Silly and crazy

So that female on duty

Recounts the miracle

That male worked in her womb

Saying with her rag tongue:

-Children come from Paris!

Now, I refer the counter miracle

What happened to me with some friends:

Like honest and prudent gentlemen

For our dear wives and parents

We wanted to look for a different half orange

One day

In the famous Pigalle neighborhood

At the foot of the Montmartre hill.

At the famous and iconic Moulin Rouge

On the Boulevard of Clichy

We asked to a diva

That she was sitting in an armchair

Madame “O” style

“If here there was sex for us.”

Charitable and our persecutor

She stood up with great rigor

Telling us:

-Me, and our dancers, today

Have a garden

Where the harvest of the erect fruit

Iis harvested everyday.

Today we have no French or Dutch

Only Galicians.

Maybe next Sunday

Some Romanians come to us.

What a disappointment we got!

We did not want Galicians

So we went to a sex shop

Where my friends had sex

Through the wall

And Me, no

Because who knows

Perhaps you stung sown

Or reinforced cement.

Furthermore

My father already warned me:

-That it is better to see females

Together in a room

And see the garden

Where you are going to enter

Lest there be strange little birds

Or trumpeter mosquitoes

Culex pipiens

That feed on blood.

-Daniel de Culla