Todo estaba xa alí 
Enrodelado en perfecta orde
Como unha semente a agardar 
polas chuvias de tormenta
Todo semellaba perfecto
A paixón, a ousadía, a ilusión, a constancia
Tamén o limiar onde a dor nómade 
instalaría os seus campamentos 

Latency and thresholds

Everything was already there
Rolled up in perfect order
Like a seed waiting
for the stormy rains
Everything seemed perfect
The passion, the boldness, the illusion, the perseverance
Also the threshold where nomadic pain
would set up its camps

Cando me encontrou vivía eu nunha illa
nunca tanto castiñeiro vira!
o Mediterráneo e a miña cegueira
miráronse aos ollos sorprendidos
marcharon cada un polo seu lado 

A menos de mil millas e só catro aeroportos
á saída do turno de noite no estaleiro 
unha taberna ofrecería rinchas asadas 
para abastecer de omega tres os obreiros
habitantes do corpo exausto do proletariado

En Didsbury Village na hora do peche
a peixería recolle as fermosas rinchas
que volvían á cámara sen espertar o desexo
levo a barca dereita cara ás gaivotas
que con algarabía balizan a zona de pesca

At fishmonger’s display

When she found me, I was living on an island
I had never seen so many chestnut trees!
the Mediterranean and my blindness
looked into each other's eyes in surprise
they each went their separate ways

Less than a thousand miles and only four airports away
at the end of the night shift at the shipyard
a tavern would offer grilled mackerel
to supply omega three to the workers
inhabitants of the exhausted body of the proletariat

In Didsbury Village at closing time
the fishmonger collects the beautiful mackerels
that returned to the walk-in fridge without having aroused any desire
I steer the boat right towards the seagulls
that loudly mark the fishing zone

Trala compra do sábado
Baixamos de Ashton a Salford
Entrando en Mánchester cruzamos o barrio xudío
Abraioume a inmersión no mundo dos chapeus
Quixera compartir co avó esta descuberta
Falar con el das guerras e dos supervivintes
Gozar do movemento fluido do cosmos na sua boca
Entregarlle un cacho do meu universo
Como cando el me levou á feira de Santiago 
para vender dous becerros
Ou cando explicou como voaba o diñeiro fácil do wolframio
Ou como se constrúe unha vida fructífera
nacendo fillo de zapateiro e sen zapatos 

The cosmos in his mouth

After Saturday shopping
We went down from Ashton to Salford
Entering Manchester we crossed the Jewish quarter
I was amazed by the immersion in the world of hats
I would have liked to share this discovery with my grandfather
Talk to him about wars and survivors
Enjoy the fluid movement of the cosmos in his mouth
Give him a piece of my universe
Like when he took me to the Santiago fair
to sell two calves
Or when he explained how easy money from tungsten 
slips through your fingers
Or how to build a fruitful life
being born the son of a shoemaker and without shoes

Cuántas veces me apuñalé las manos
cuántas veces pataleé 
hasta sangrar por las uñas de los piés
alguna de esas gotas mojó el suelo 
e hizo crecer las zarzas hacia atrás de mi

Cuántas veces mi niño se esconde en una jaula fría
y la Madre Tierra me ve realmente 
como una rata corriendo en la rueda
cuántos versos pesa mi alma 
y cuánta ceniza dejarán sobre el asfalto

No quiero un nicho, como se usa allá a lo lejos
Donde metan mis huesos en un saco
Quiero un entierro británico
Con tierra y raíces, y un árbol 
o al menos hierba o musgo 
Un sitio por donde pise la gente
No un parking donde se apoyen 
las ruedas insensibles de los camiones 

Quizá siga mi niño mimado llorando por azúcar
Calentando con su cuerpo las sábanas húmedas
Esperando que el mundo por sí solo se haga bueno

Cuántas veces he llorado y maldecido el destino
Sin saber que la solución había estado aquí siempre
¿Cuál es el residuo que queda 
tras todos estos años 
de inútil sufrimiento?

Residue

How many times I stabbed my hands
How many times I kicked
until my toenails bled
some of those drops soaked the ground
and made brambles grow behind me

How many times my child hides in a cold cage
and Mother Earth truly sees me
like a rat running on a wheel
how many verses does my soul weigh
and how much ash will they leave on the asphalt

I don't want a niche, like they do far away
where they put my bones in a sack
I want a British burial
with earth and roots, and a tree
or at least grass or moss
a place where people walk
not a parking lot where the insensitive wheels of trucks rest

Perhaps my spoiled child is still crying for sugar
warming the damp sheets with his body
waiting for the world to become good on its own

How many times have I cried and cursed fate
without knowing that the solution had always been here
what is the residue left 
after all these years 
of pointless suffering?

Estate atento al momento:
como densas gotas de miel 
caerán tres sombras 
en su oscura estela
vendrá encriptado el mensaje 
la clave, la contraseña 
que libera el cerrojo

En mi pecho baila una bala
entró de golpe por la sien 
tras vencer resistencias
cayó a la estepa del pecho
donde con su punta afilada
camina abriendo surcos de hiel

En el pecho una sombra
y tres balas navegan solitarias
sin saberlo palpan por dentro
en busca de una salida
sin saberlo logran hacer
de su vida, mi vida
de mi dolor, su sustento

The steppe

Be alert to the moment:
like dense drops of honey
three shadows will fall
in their dark wake
the encrypted message will come
the key, the password
that unlocks the bolt

A bullet dances in my chest
it entered suddenly through my temple
after overcoming resistance
it fell to the steppe of my chest
where with its sharp point
walks, carving furrows of gall

In my chest a shadow
and three bullets sail alone
unknowingly feeling inside
in search of a way out
unknowingly turning 
their lives into my life
feeding on my pain

only fireworks when victory is not an inner one

O silencio
trala victoria

Trala victoria
o silencio
como o dunha impávida galaxia 
avanzando silandeira

Quietude
trala victoria
como a cotiandade da poza
onde ignorantes medran as rás

Trala victoria
a devota compaña
do eterno asubío 
que case lograra ignorar

Victory

The silence
after the victory

After the victory
the silence
like that of an imperturbable galaxy
advancing silently

Quiet
after the victory
like the daily life of the pond
where ignorant frogs grow

After the victory
the devoted companion
of the eternal whistle
that I had almost managed to ignore

Today Manuela Timofte published my prayer of gratitude for life, which I wrote almost three years ago, in Gobblers by Masticadores. I’m so glad to read it again!

I would like people to feel something similar when they read it.

Grateful

No comezo unha luz descoñecida
Guindou comigo nas pedras duras do deserto
O ascetismo un refuxio seguro
Onde o camiñar fose amortización

Por sorte o difuminado ballet de Degas
Abre un burato no solo estéril 
Fúgase a miña mente co sorriso da bailarina
Os meus pés feridos atopan os seus doídos nocellos

Polos espazos abertos do seu vestido
A miña pel descobre unha selva tropical
Converso do seu corpo, aprendo os pasos
Quen me salvará agora da exuberancia
Se só entrenei o corpo na escaseza

Choreography

In the beginning an unknown light
threw me against the hard stones of the desert
Asceticism a safe refuge
Where walking was redemption

Fortunately the blurred ballet of Degas
Opens a hole in the barren ground
My mind escapes with the smile of the dancer
My wounded feet find her sore ankles

Through the open spaces of her dress
My skin discovers a tropical jungle
I convert to her body, I learn the steps
Who will save me now from exuberance
If I only trained my body in scarcity

Oggi Flavio Almerighi ha pubblicato la mia poesia «Acciacchi» nel suo domenicale. Adoro leggere i miei scritti in italiano, una lingua che non padroneggio appieno, anche se riesco a leggerne gran parte senza il traduttore. Avendo vissuto per un anno in Corsica, ho studiato un po’ la lingua, anche se non sono mai riuscito a parlarla fluentemente.

Sono molto felice di questa opportunità di raggiungere più lettori. Grazie mille, Flavio!

Gioielli Rubati 376: Savina Dolores Massa – Paolo Pera – Mara Mattavelli – Mauro Contini – Giulia Menolascina – Gisella Canzian – Abel Abilheira – Enrico Marià.

Today Flavio Almerighi published my poem «Ailments» in his Sunday magazine. I love reading my writings in Italian, a language I don’t fully master, though I can read most of it without a translator. Having lived in Corsica for a year, I studied the language a bit, though I never managed to speak it fluently.

I’m very happy to have this opportunity to reach more readers. Thank you so much, Flavio!

Sigo remando no medio da ría
Sen acadar todavía a outra beira
No caderno de bitácora volvo a anotar 
A ausencia de deus nestas augas
Sigo sen encontrar armada que me defenda
Eu e os dous remos somos un só
Meus brazos ríxidos de pau 
Padexan a auga tentando avanzarmos
Entre todos os territorios imaxinados
Non encontro ningún tan merecedor da liberación
Como o que me medrou por dentro
Neste limbo marítimo 
Onde a terra nin me toca

Rowing on

I keep rowing in the middle of the estuary
Without reaching the other shore yet
In the logbook I once again note 
the absence of God in these waters
I still haven't found an army to defend me
I and the two oars are one
My stiff wooden arms
They struggle with the water trying to move forward
Among all the imagined territories
I don't find any so deserving of liberation
As the one that grew inside me
In this maritime limbo
Where the land doesn't even touch me