Respuestas Vegetarianas a los Misterios del Universo

Universo / de objetos que rumian brillantes / con almas numéricas únicas / en huertos oscuros / sin vallado / en pantallas de plasma / enmarcadas más allá

Tú respiras siempre gravedad (por favor, aspire) / Expiras siempre energía (suelte el aire) / ¡Otra vez! / Respiras gravedad (por favor, aspire) / Expiras energía (suelte el aire)

Así vives, respirando / toda nuestra pasión y candidez / Expirando tanto problema / y a veces tosiendo de agobio

Eres, Universo, curiosidad / estimulada / a lo largo de un inteligente viaje sin claves / mientras hojeas las páginas del Tiempo / sorteando antimateria / regateando misterios

Eres una simulación para olvidar / el pesar exclusivo / de tu grandeza / y soledad

Eres una simulación para representar / nuestro singular privilegio /  de habitar / en el sótano

de una pirámide invertida / de ecosistemas / en permanente estado de rebelión

¿Y las respuestas? / ¿dónde están las respuestas? / Esas las dejo / de deberes / para vosotros y vosotras, mis queridas y queridos / Estudiantes, / para el próximo seminario, /

Eso lo dejo / para otro humano, / alguien que escriba / el código santo / de un Modelo de Lenguaje / de Ética Artificial / de Belleza Artificial / de Amor Artificial.

Y como siempre, / dejemos responder / a los cazadores diestros / de altos galardones / depredadores / bien relacionados / de hábitos omnívoros / que digieren / y producen / metáforas comerciales.  

Poema escrito en inglés en la mañana del 30 de diciembre de 2022 y traducido al español por el autor. Imágenes generadas a partir de extractos del poema por la Inteligencia Artificial de by Wombo

Vegetarian Answers to the Mysteries of the Universe

The universe / bright bodies roam / with unique numerical souls / in dark fields / with no fence / on plasma screens / with frames beyond

Breathing gravity in (Please Inhale) / Breathing energy out (Please Exhale) / (Again!) / Breathing gravity in (Please Inhale) / Breathing energy out (Please Exhale)

Breathing in / all our passion / and candor / Breathing out / so much trouble / Sometimes coughing in despair    

Curiosity / stimulated / in a clueless / intelligent journey / (perusing the pages of cosmos) in the skies / dodging antimatter / scrambling / through mystery

A simulation to forget / the exclusive sorrow / of being so grand / of being so lone

A simulation to perform / the singular privilege / of inhabiting / the basement

of an inverted pyramid/ of ecosystems / in constant state of rebellion

And the Answers? / Where are the Answers? / I leave those / as homework / for you, / Dear Students, / for our next seminar,

I leave those / with another human, / who will write / the holy coding / for a Language Model / of Artificial Ethics, / of Artificial Beauty, / of Artificial Love.

I leave, / at the end, / the Answers to your Questions / with the skilled hunters, / the networking predators, / of the highest honors / of the finest prizes, / the carnivore minds / of metaphors for sale.

Poem written in the morning of the 30th of December 2022. Images generated from text extracts of the poem by Artificial Intelligence by Wombo


¿Cuál es el futuro / de las hormigas-proyectil? / Perdigones / en cápsulas de acero y plástico / Nos lanzan / por cañones de asfalto y cemento / a sofocar, / rivales, / nuestra propia rebelión

Qual é o futuro / das formigas-projetil? / Chumbos / em cápsulas de aço e plástico / nos lançam / por canhões de asfalto e cimento / para sufocar / rivais / nossa própria rebelião

Escrito en São Paulo, agosto de 2018. Com agradecimiento a Amanda C. Santos

Screenshot 2020-03-02 at 10.56.26

Atoms (Quantum)


AA-TT-OO-MM-SS-SS-SS-SS / Atoms! Shiny and Ready, Electrons overflying / Protons! Inside out, parading on The Altar / Dust we come from, DNA / Blown by windy, utter Fission / Dust we are, Waves we turn to: / Nuclear Matter        doesn’t matter!/ Rhizomes! Marching straight, Trooping all the Photons / Brass off! Copper and Zinc, Alloys are dismantled / Dust we come from, DNA / Blown by windy, utter Fission / Dust we are, Waves we turn to: / Nuclear Matter        doesn’t matter? / AA-TT-OO-MM-Shhh, Shhh, Shhh, Shhh…

Screenshot 2020-02-27 at 09.32.20

With thanks to for the Gif

The Night of Trump

I held my heart,
my breath,
my iPad.

I looked through the screen
like an agonising wizard
who casts
his eyes
on the hidden
of a crystal

How many emotions,
how much attention,
could the map
of the States

red and blue,
the numbers of colleges,
the random borders
of arbitrary plots
meant to me
what they meant that night:

an evil that no soul
will ever forgive,
a twilight that our dawn
will have to redeem.

The Flight of the Figs

Once upon a time
I was a fig

(Yes, a fig)

full of little flowers inside,
plenty of endless dreams…

I was born
in a casual tree
of those that nobody grooms,
of those that never get rain,
of those that drain you to death.

punished by birds
who picked on my white sweaty sweetness
and left me scarred,
but made me stronger.

One day,
an arrogant orange,
of a garden nearby,
called for a meeting of peers
and suggested the idea
of forming a fruital system.

(Yes, a fruital system)

The rest of fruits agreed.

So, the orange stood in the centre,
cause she was too tangy to spin.

Everyone else
came forward
in a perfect queue
that started to curl
coiling outwards
around the self-proclaimed star.

The apple, the peach, the pear,
the lemon and even the grape
found quickly a place
in a galaxy they called
“The Juicy Way”.

They all looked so lush,
as they floated
in their glorious ether
of mechanically smooth subjects.

I want a place in this system,
I said.
I want to be an aster too.
I deserve to be there,
in harmony
with you.

The apple and some others
started to giggle
with patronising
swivel-eyed disdain.

I am sorry my love,
said the eloquent
sunny leader,
but this is a fruital system
where everything works
out of our own



Everyone wins,

everyone contributes.

The magnetic fields
of our respective masses
are already balanced.

That is why we levitate up here,
so graciously.

If we take you on,
we will have to open the floodgates of the universe.

How many more fruits
could we feasibly accommodate?

So, after this rational rejection,
I had no choice
but to become
a zero-hours planet,
also known as a comet.

(Yes, a comet)

So now,
I am a wrinkly wild comet
full of odd rugged cracks.
I am not round,
not even pear shaped,
I have no clouds,
no satellites,
no green bits,
no rings of dust,
no frozen lakes of gas…
but I don’t give a damn!

I am a prince of the universe,
planets fear my freedom,
no one knows my trajectory,
it is hard to land on my surface,
I come and go as I please.

But if someone

if someone on behalf
of that master of creation
messes about with my equations
pushing me out my orbit,
I may end up crashing
on one of their gardenly planets.

And, who knows?

If some shepherds see
my falling tail,
flying in the night
in the skies in winter,
they may grant me godly status
an invent a religion
at my place of collision.

Who knows?

I have nothing to lose.

I am a wrinkly wild comet,

I am a pirate
in an orderly show of stars
who learnt their moves
in the Youtube version
of the Book of Genesis,
in the phallic columns
of The Sun Says,
in the go-home section
of the Daily Mail.

Watch them
as they tamper
with Victorian
time machines!

Watch them,
as they sink
in the black hole
of their Brexit!

Unlike them,
I am my own choreographer.

Only infinite heavens will tell you
what I am made of!


Watch me!

Watch me as I fly!
with millions of figs like me, like you,
away from a supernova
of stupid national greed.

Copyright © 2016. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Originally published in Poetry Life and Times as “The fig”

Image ”Bursting at the seams” courtesy of ESA/Hubble, Creative Commons Licence International 4.0 Attribution (CC BY 4.0)

The Grapes

The grapes
don’t die
in the vineyard
with the harvest
in the summer.


They transcend
and translive
in the wine,


like the poem in the song,
like our talent in discoveries,
like parents in their children,
like a nurse in our health,
like a friend in our strength,
like teachers in our wisdom,
like rebels
and activists of the Common
in ordinary
and achievements.


But our labour,
our paid labour,
is taken away
in corporate cloaks
to private shrines
far in some islands
for cultural worship
(our cultural worship)
and power,
the power hoarded by few
that is used against the many.


And the soldier,
poor soldier,
is sent to kill and die,
sacrificed for national pride,
(or political reasons
reserved for great minds)


for whose mother?


for mother-what?


The wine
of the grapes
of the land
of the peasants
is a miracle of humanity.


Copyright © 2016. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Inspired in the poem “La transvida” (“Translife”), published in Spanish in Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess). Murcia. Diego Marín. 2015..


Image from Æsop´s Fable 2, “The Stag and the Vine”, in John Ashton (1882) Chap-books of the Eighteen Century (p.465). London. Chatto and Windus, Picadilly. 1882. Found in

A rendition of the Fable:

A Stag, pursued by the huntsmen, concealed himself under cover of a thick vine. They lost track of him. Supposing all danger to be over, the Stag began to browse on the leaves of the Vine with the intention of eating them. The movement drew the attention of the returning huntsmen, and one of them, supposing some animal to be hidden there, shot an arrow at a venture into the foliage. The unlucky Stag was pierced to the heart, and, as he expired, he said, “I deserve my fate for my treachery in feeding upon the leaves of my protector.” (adapted from translation by