il y a des jours où même l’arc-en-ciel n’a que des gammes de gris pour s’exprimer

Na porta da casa, arrogante e altivo 

agardaba por min o imbécil 

que pensaba ter deixado 

por sempre, vinte anos atrás.

Ao pé das escaleiras do avión

alí estaba para recibirme de volta

*

malia as ganas de cuspirlle

que de súpeto me entraran

pensei ‘pobre ignorante 

que segue musculoso

a arrastrar polo chan a carga 

voluntario ignorante da roda’ 

*

logo avancei nos corredores estreitos 

as portas dos cuartos fechadas

da cociña escoitábase o testo 

dunha pota fervendo ao lume 

anque non recoñecía os olores,

as lámpadas, as cortinas, a alfombra

*

Nin sequera flotaba o acento suave 

que debuxara a fronteira borrosa 

do meu fogar imaxinario

só quedara aquel entullo abandonado.

Na rúa unha meniña chamou: “papá!”

mais tamén iso desaparecera

Welcome

At the door of the house, arrogant and haughty, the idiot I thought I had left behind for good, twenty years ago, was waiting for me. At the foot of the plane stairs he was there to welcome me back 

despite the sudden urge to spit on him, I thought: poor ignorant, still dragging the load along the ground with his muscles, voluntarily ignorant of the existence of the wheel 

then I advanced through the narrow corridors, the doors of the rooms were closed; from the kitchen I could hear the sound of a pot boiling on the fire, although I did not recognize the smell, the lamps, the curtains, the carpet

Not even the soft accent that had drawn the blurred border of my imaginary home was left. All that remained was that long ago abandoned debris. On the street, a little girl called out, «Dad!». That had also disappeared.

Aquí o mar, o meu mar 

con todos os seus adobíos

as cunchas dos que xa non están 

os corpos esvaradíos dos seus habitantes

as ondas que coñecen de memoria

o camiño ata os meus pés 

as anémonas, os camaróns das pozas

o sal que aínda non perdeu as propiedades

de crear ese agradábel proído no lombo

os arroases acompañándome no retorno

os bosques de algas creando escenarios

nos que se perde a fantasía

*

Aquí o meu mar

eu unha máis entre as suas criaturas

ao voltar sinto con máis forza

a sua falta, como quen día tras día, 

sen se decatar respira

nun ar pobre en osíxeno

*

Air and seA

*

Here the sea, my sea 

with all its decorations

the shells of those who are no longer here 

the slippery bodies of its inhabitants

the waves that know by heart

the path to my feet 

the anemones, the prawns of the pools

the salt that has not yet lost its properties

of creating that pleasant scratch on the back

the bottlenose dolphins accompanying my return

the forests of algae creating scenarios

in which fantasy gets lost

*

Here my sea

I am one more among its creatures

upon returning I feel its absence more strongly 

like someone who day after day, 

unconsciously, breathes 

oxygen-depleted air

Suas mans duas velas brancas

navegan miña estepa allea

volta coa calor do seu tacto

mar de golfiños e baleas

*

entre as suas mans viaxeiras

rendido á forza do seu peito

son mar de vida rebuldeira

con ondas de marea dentro

*

meu corpo de terra ríxida

demanda asilo no océano

que a danza das suas mans

enche de luz e de pétalos

*

The hands and the sea

*

Their hands two white sails

sailing my alien steppe

turned with the warmth of their touch

into sea of ​​dolphins and whales

*

between their traveling hands

surrendered to the force of their chest

I am a sea of ​​turbulent life

with tidal waves inside

*

my body of rigid earth

demands asylum in the ocean

that the dance of their hands

fills with light and petals

Ma frontière souffrait.

Ses lignes de barbelés,

Au lieux de protéger mon territoire,

Enfonçaient ses piquants

Sur ma peau, que la vie s’entêtait

À ignorer cons-cien-cieu-se-ment

*

De même qu’avec les autres conflits 

Finalement, il arriva le jour d’orage;

Au beau milieu d’un mois d’août

Saturé de sel et de sable

Le fil de fer fut corrodé d’abord

Puis emporté par le vent

*

C’est ainsi que ce champ 

Uniforme de cicatrices 

Est devenu le jardin 

Où mes deux fleurs 

Ont pu germer

*

Barren border

*

My border was suffering.

Its barbed wire lines,

Instead of protecting my territory,

Drawn its spikes

On my skin, which life persisted

To ignore conscientiously

*

As with other conflicts

Finally, the stormy day came;

In the middle of August

Saturated with salt and sand

The wire was corroded first

Then carried away by the wind

*

That is how this field

Uniform with scars

Became the garden

Where my two flowers

Were able to germinate

Para a pequena Xulia

Antes de deitarme soño 

con alas e correntes térmicas 

nas que flotar maxestoso

*

esperto no corredor do formigueiro 

arrastrando as lealtades 

concienciudamente

*

durmo e soño o soño do pobre 

que nin no máis íntimo se atreve

a asomarse á beira do mar

*

“o que cargas, miña filla, no lombo

son as nosas alas, co poder 

de tornar unha poza en océano”

*

 Family

*

Before I go to bed I dream 

of wings and thermal currents 

in which to float majestically 

*

I awake in the corridor of the anthill 

dragging loyalties 

conscientiously 

*

I sleep and dream the dream of the poor man 

who dares not even in his innermost self 

to look out at the seashore 

*

“what you carry on your back, my daughter, 

are our wings, with the power 

to turn a puddle into an ocean”

Termina la noche del sábado, 
me ofrezco a llevar a P a casa 
Habíamos estado todos bebiendo 
bailando, hablando con dificultad 
por encima de aquella música de los bares

Sobre mi pierna se apoya parsimoniosa la palma de la mano de P
Como una llave cauta, suavemente intenta abrir el cofre en el que yo viajaba,    su mano
y con la misma suavidad se retira 
a su reino de ilusión y aventura
/nos despedimos amistosamente

Por la naturaleza contradictoria de las cosas
mi cuerpo sin haberlas nunca conocido, recuerda hoy las condiciones atmosféricas del suyo: humedad, presión, temperatura 
su olor de tormenta
con más intensidad que si nos hubiésemos de cualquier manera poseído 

Alguna vez en las sombras 
Como hoy, digo: P!  
P! Tu piel que la mía sueña!

Ode to P

Saturday night is over,
I offer to take P home
We had all been drinking
dancing, talking with difficulty
over that music in the bars

P's palm rests slowly on my leg
Like a cautious key, it gently tries to open the chest in which I was travelling,     his hand
and with the same gentleness it retreats 
to its kingdom of illusion and adventure
/we say goodbye in a friendly way

Due to the contradictory nature of things
my body, without ever having known them, remembers today the atmospheric conditions of hers: humidity, pressure, temperature
her smell of storm
with more intensity than if we had possessed each other in any way

Sometimes in the shadows
Like today, I say: P!
P! Your skin that mine dreams!

Today Manuela Timofte publishes my poem Migratory Birds in Gobblers by Masticadores. As always, I love seeing my poems brought to new readers.

Galicia, my birthplace, is a rainy area compared to the rest of Spain. After living in Manchester (UK) for a few years, I found it even arid.

Many thanks to Manuela, and please, follow the link to read an emigrant poem.

Migratory Birds

Dentro

Pola fiestra vese un patio interior

equipos de aire acondicionado

cubos do lixo e un pequeno campanario

sorprende a ventá oxival 

da parede traseira da igrexa 

que confundira cun galpón industrial

semella un caos recollido, oculto

parece unha mira da miña alma

nesta época de incertezas

*

Afora

O vento como un león case domado

bota as gadoupas á tristura que arrastro

coma una bolsa de plástico anacrónica

levaa contaminar outros eidos

agarro da gorra, agora sorrío arreo

na sobremesa quedo absorto

nos movementos envolventes 

do leite disolvéndose no té

até acadar uniformidade 

*

fascíname a idea da fermosa asimilación 

desta integración sosegada

*

Contrast

*

Inside

Through the window it can be seen an interior courtyard

air conditioning equipment

wheelie bins and a small bell tower

It’s surprising to find out an ogival window

on the back wall of the church

which I had mistaken for an industrial warehouse

it looks like a collected, hidden chaos

it seems a peephole to my soul

in this time of uncertainty

*

Outside

The wind, like an almost tamed lion

throws its claws at the sadness I carry

like an anachronistic plastic bag

it takes it away to contaminate other areas

I grab my cap, now I smile non-stop

at dessert I become caught up

in the enveloping movements 

of the milk dissolving in tea

til it reaches uniformity 

*

I am fascinated by the idea 

of ​​the beautiful assimilation 

of this peaceful integration

Falaba do seus animais, da horta 

da praia na que aprendera a nadar 

– míraa, alá abaixo!

das costas, do monte, das herbeiras

das viaxes en bicicleta percorrendo 

a beira da ría dunha punta á outra 

mostraba unha vista satélite daquela rexión 

onde medrara, onde vivira a xuventude

*

falaba do avó, das peles de raposo 

a secar cravadas na porta do horreo

das vacas, da herba seca, do clan, da escola

*

Falaba pouco de duas fillas que tivera 

cunha francesa, que na tormenta do divorcio

ficaran á deriva lonxe da terra firme

*

Cubría de imaxes bucólicas aquela ferida

*

Wound 

*

He spoke of his animals, his vegetable garden

of the beach where he’d learned to swim

– look at it, down there!

of the coasts, the mountains, the meadows

of his bicycle trips along

the estuary from one end to the other

he showed a satellite view of that region

where he’d grown up, where h’d lived his youth

*

he spoke of his grandfather, the fox skins

to dry nailed to the barn door

of the cows, the hay, the clan, the school

*

He spoke little of the two daughters he had

with a Frenchwoman, who in the storm of divorce

had drifted far away from the mainland

*

He covered that wound with bucolic images

Desperto e nos cristais da ventá as uñas da tormenta xa rabuñan a sua ira

Quixera durmir un pouco máis, por se cambiaran as isobaras ou por roubar uns minutos insensatos de paz ao abeiro do edredón 

Pero alá vou mirarlle a cara, antes de que medren os ventos, me adianten e enchan este cuarto de entullo e flores pisadas

Attitude

I wake up and on the window panes the storm’s nails are already scratching its anger

I would have liked to sleep a little longer, in case the isobars changed or to steal a few foolish minutes of peace under the cover of the duvet

However, I’m going to face it, before the winds grow, get ahead of me and fill this room with rubble and trampled flowers