Foi necesaria esta tormenta

Que me parteu os ósos da alma

Para soltar a cinza que os puños apertaban

E relaxar os músculos da queixada

•

Uns afiados acordes de piano

Viñeron enganchar a alma

Feita un nobelo no centro do peito

Arrastrárona ao sol, bañárona nos doces 

Pétalos brancos da ameixeira

▪︎

The piano

This storm was necessary 

that broke the bones of my soul

To release the ashes that my fists were clenching

And relax the muscles of my jaw

▪︎

A few sharp piano chords

Came to hook my soul

Curled up in the center of my chest

They dragged it to the sun, bathed it in the sweet

White petals of the plum tree

Days were hectic, all of March was a non-stop move, visiting the new center, 5-hour trips at the wheel, from London to the north and back to the south. This week, dressed in the yellow sweater and navy blue jeans, I finally finished my year-long work in the capital, and as always, I was in a hurry until the last minute

I didn’t even realise that Gobblers by Masticadores had published my poem The Waffles. The last weeks I were detecting errors in WP, comments sent but not published, so I’m not surprised I didn’t receive the notice.

As I have done (almost) every month for a year, I thank Manuela Timofte for the publication, it’s an honor for me when my verses get a second life. I wrote The waffles two years ago when I was spending a season in Brussels for work, enough time to fall in love with la ville.

Finally, I would be flattered if you click on the link to read my poem:

The waffles

Por no abrir los ojos

Le pregunté a la Inteligencia

Si ya por fin había salido el sol

Si habían llegado sus rayos cálidos 

Al fondo de mi agujero

▪︎

Respondió que no tenía evidencias

Las fuentes eran un maquillaje

Nada podían afirmar con certeza

Solo segura de la diversidad de datos 

Me dibujó un bello paisaje soleado

•

Not wanting to open my eyes

Not wanting to open my eyes

I asked Intelligence

If the sun had finally risen

If its warm rays had reached

The bottom of my hole

▪︎

It replied that it had no evidence

The sources were a makeup

Nothing could be said with certainty

Only sure of the diversity of data

It drew me a beautiful sunny landscape

O tractor teimudo rascou a tona verde

Empuxado polo cortexo de plumas brancas

A terra aberta mostrou o seu ventre marrón

Fértil, debecendo pola vida acolleu a semente 

…

Pero no día sinalado, a semente e a terra, 

As aves e o tractor, desterrados, solitarios,

Axexaron o estático telón azul ata o horizonte 

Agardando en van algún movemento

Mentres mudos escoitaban festas ao lonxe

•

On the appointed day

The stubborn tractor scratched the green field

Pushed by the courtship of white feathers

The open soil showed its brown belly

Fertile, desiring life, it welcomed the seed

…

But on the appointed day, the seed and the soil,

The birds and the tractor, banished, solitary,

Stalked the static blue curtain to the horizon

Waiting in vain for some movement

While silently listening to distant celebrations

Levaba días remangado facendo cola

O meu corpo falábase en silencio

As cinco linguas dos océanos

Preparando as cadernas para a travesía

•

Levaba uns días de brisa cálida e salobre 

Viaxándome polas veas 

Rascando a ferruxe invernal acumulada

•

Espertaba tras unha noite abrazado 

Abrindo os ollos, o teu corpo 

Como auga, como fume esvaído

Escorregábame das mans, dos dedos

•

No peirao, finalmente hoxe pola mañá

Embarquei cheo de ilusión 

Na máis fermosa das primaveras

•

Boarding

•

I had been waiting in queue for days

My body spoke silently

The five languages ​​of the oceans

Preparing my ribs for the voyage

•

I’d been feeling a warm, salty breeze for days

Traveling through my veins

Scraping the accumulated winter rust

•

I was waking up after a night of hugging

Opening my eyes, your body

Like water, like fading smoke

Was slipping from my hands, from my fingers

•

On the pier, finally this morning

I embarked full of excitement

In the most beautiful of springs

Na presa, unha onda envolve e arrastra 

o papel no que melancólico escribira

versos sen rima, ferramenta extractora

no lento proceso de varrer a escuridade

•

envexo as propiedades intrínsecas 

das ás das gaivotas, 

a navegación fluida entre os rañaceos;

elas descoñecedoras da miña admiración 

seguen visitando cada mañá

a fedorenta empacadora

*

Admiration

In the rush, a wave grabs and drags away 

the paper on which melancholy I had written

unrhymed verses, an extractor tool

in the slow process of sweeping away the darkness

•

I envy the intrinsic properties 

of the seagulls’ wings 

their fluid navigation between the skyscrapers;

they, unaware of my admiration, continue to visit every morning

the stinking recycling centre

De pequenos non tiñamos alma

Eramos só unha materia que encher de coñecementos, futura man de obra na que meter os números, as letras, os nomes dos ríos, as divisións administrativas…

De pequenos había uns roles moi marcados, se nacías home non podías usar colonia, vestirte de colores, nin chorar.

De pequenos non importaba para nada a parte de dentro, creo que eramos como o gando, alimentados para producir.

De pequenos, na escola, eramos animais sen alma, calquera indicio de sensibilidade era afogado pola burla.

We had no soul

When we were little, we had no soul

We were just a matter to be filled with knowledge, future workforce to put numbers, letters, river names, administrative divisions into…

When we were little, there were very defined roles, if you were born a man you couldn’t wear cologne, dress in colors, or cry.

When we were little, what was on the inside didn’t matter at all, I think we were like cattle, fed to produce.

When we were little, at school, we were soulless animals, any hint of sensitivity was drowned out by ridicule.

Un ano despóis 

sobre o moble da televisión 

do piso catorce do aparthotel 

como o orificio de saída 

un libro e unha libreta 

que me deixa esta cidade 

ao acabar de atravesarme

•

Non imaxinaba 

que a potente enerxía 

que abrolla nesta cidade 

ía conseguir moverme os marcos 

abrir a cancela e facerme comprender 

que mundo aí afora 

nin se move só, 

nin está afora

•

Exit wound

•

A year later

on the TV cabinet

on the fourteenth floor of the aparthotel

like the exit wound

a book and a notebook

that this city leaves me

after passing through me

•

I never imagined

that the powerful energy

that erupts in this city

would manage to move my frames

to open the gate and make me understand

that the world out there

neither moves alone,

nor is outside

Nas mans os mobles

Casiña de bonecas enchendo a furgo

Nas mans os mobles

Arquitectura dunha vida xuntos

Que pouco ocupan os nosos escenarios!

As nosas dores viaxan mesturadas

Entre madeiras e bisagras

Bolsas de roupa e caixas de libros 

As sombras coas que batemos

Engánchansenos aos vultos 

Quixera un océano de sal e vento

Non esta noite de camións e autoestradas

As pálpebras a cancelar a primavera

Mentres as nosas mans xuntas

Carrexan os mobles

•

Furniture

▪︎

In the hands our furniture

Dollhouse filling the van

In the hands our furniture

Architecture of a life together

How little our stages occupy

Our pains travel mixed

Between wood and hinges

Clothing bags and book boxes

The shadows we beat

Cling to our bundles

I wish for an ocean of salt and wind

Instead of this night of lorries and motorways

My eyelids canceling spring

While our hands together

Carry our furniture

Perdo o tempo 

Levo as agullas á perfección das estatuas

Dez e dez dos mundos mortos

Como a corda que ata a cabra

•

Hai un universo por descubrir

Limando as horas na falida imitación

Do mil veces emulado

A perfección, límite do coñecemento

•

Na plantilla dun soneto 

Escribo palabras ao chou

Co único condicionante da rima

Morte Sorte Porte Corte

Marta Sarta Carta Parta

Xa teño as fibras da corda

So queda o traballo de tecido

•

Nada fóra do circulo de pasto

Só a sonoridade do canto

Podería tirar algún proveito

▪︎

The rope

•

I waste my time

I take the needles to the perfection of the statues

Ten past ten of the dead worlds

Like the rope that ties the goat

•

There is a universe to discover

Filing the hours in the failed imitation 

of what has already been emulated 

A million times

Perfection, the limit of knowledge

•

In the template of a sonnet

I write words at random

With the only condition of rhyme 

Die, Shy, Thigh, High

King, String, Wing, Fling

I already have the fibers of the rope

All that remains is the work of weaving

•

Nothing outside the pasture circle

Only for the melody of a song 

Could it be of any use