jueves, 21 de marzo de 2013

El Silencio, 9.



9


El Siempre Cambiante,
así me he de llamar.
El que ríe, y llora, y corre, y en silencio,
suspendido como lamento que divaga,
alienta rosas entre labios por besar un sueño que no llega.
Noches lentas como caracoles en manada,
cuerpos rotos como anillos nupciales,
amor, callando, cierro
las puertas del abismo que carnívoro me aguarda.
Hundido estoy, vacío, destrozado,
y sin embargo tan lleno de felicidad, y vida
que quiero morir para renacer en la orilla
de aquel mar revuelto que trae consigo olas de fuego.
Quiéreme, hiéreme, bésame el costado.
Dime que todos mis destinos van a parar siempre en este río,
en este amar que fluye desde extremos
y acude a mi alma en forma de palabras, henchidas de sentido
pero rotas, como mi alma, como el cielo,
como ese mar que arde sin espuma.






lunes, 18 de marzo de 2013

Story of remoteness, 3.



Involuntary poem written for the Winter



The beauty of the moment, the second that awakes
in consciousness a terror never premeditated,
a kind of blue that precedes the maximum excitation
and irrepressible snatches the senses.
Winter: final: Spring.
Avoided concatenation in the wind, if steady hands fail to mend it,
to tie it down to the world,
to make a poem out of it.
The beauty of Now, the terror of Tomorrow,
the long waiting,
the shine of a water silence when it trembles,
the remarkable fall of glances at that one place
where flowers and animals desperately hold the same rhythm.
Words, yes, maybe,
but also promises, advances, secret prayers,
plethoric ideas of shedding love,
undisputed beauty, at last,
and sea,
and music. 







jueves, 14 de marzo de 2013

El Silencio, 8.



8


Cuando llega, el amor,
qué rápido, cuán lentamente
consume los silencios que nunca brillaron.
Con sus dulces manos de nácar
te conduce adonde ya estabas, sin saberlo,
y rompe sobre tu pecho como una escama,
abriendo rincones donde dormían estatuas calladas
que eran a un tiempo mi espíritu y tu esperanza.
El amor,
cuando llega,
tan callando, como la mañana,
robando el tiempo que antes vibraba,
esas mismas horas que ayer, irradiado,
tratabas de evitar huyendo hacia un sol que nunca ardía.
Y la luz, que con su eterna suavidad intacta,
fluyendo de tu fuerza perfecta,
antes corría hacia la distancia,
ahora cae sobre ti como agua límpida,
como sal exacta,
como arroz en ascuas que devoras a veces
cuando sabes que, llegado el amor,
amas.
Porque amar es una ficción de la carne
y solamente existen los cuerpos que se aman.






jueves, 7 de marzo de 2013

El Silencio, 7.



7


No te duermas, alma,
no te engalanes de tus dulces sueños.
Luego, despierta, confundes el mundo con tu deseo
y regresas a mí, llorando
cuando la verdad es fea y te inunda de tristeza.
No te mientas, tampoco.
No te digas nada.
Calla, alma mía.
Calla.
Si música sientes,
calla.
Si sientes amor, si necesitas dar
y con voz delicada cantar todas las bellezas,
no lo hagas.
Calla.
Si quieres volar, y a cada uno
besar con dulzura en la mejilla
mientras con flores y fragancias inundas otras almas,
no lo hagas.
Calla.
Ya llegará el tiempo de donar.
El día vendrá – te lo prometo –
en que puedas entregarte por entero.
Cuando ese día llegue, lo sabrás.
Y entretanto calla.
Nadie te sabe aquí escuchar.





miércoles, 6 de marzo de 2013

Story of remoteness, 2.



Words



Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues,
and words move me as if they were good, good mothers,
unconditional friends, comrades.
Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city,
it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness.
Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play,
and a voice that imposes with its brief strings
is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy
and comes back to claim its name
allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it.
Happiness could very well be just a word
but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth,
my ardent breath that happily becomes verb
and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony
shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty
and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away
to those who have an ear for music.
To talk, talking about anything,
just saying beautiful things,
not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility,
loosing talk,
saying yes, no, sometimes,
saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long,
and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words
when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes,
smiling to the stranger,
to the walking woman,
to the child that’s always playing.
And just listening with unusual care to what they say.
If they’re happy, the words
are not only words.
They are bridges lying between two shadows,
they are lights in the starless night,
they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes
so do the spirits.
Saying yes, when everybody else denies,
is a cardinal virtue.
To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance
should be granted the rank of Prince
since their gallantry means highness.
And talking with your own life,
saying pretty things by just living,
with the only air that you breathe,
setting the example of laughing…
that also justifies our existence.
Because being is a problem
and the very solution, just a word.
Whether it has meaning or not,
whether it is new or made up,
the word, said in the appropriate space and time,
lasts.
It is stronger than stone.
Children are always learning to speak:
and so am I, for I am a child
born of the heart of speech.
And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings,
I jump from complexity to simplicity,
I lie, discover, celebrate, certify,
extend grubby checks
and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss
that I always steal from a beautiful woman.
I speak as well, for not only does the poet,
other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness,
those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own.
Many believe they are talking,
but they should just keep quiet.
We, the happy,
even in silence say tricks.
Happiness:
believe me, it is not only a word,
but well spoken, it could also be true.








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