I saw the prettiest bird I’d seen all year

the belted kingfisher, crested in his Aegean

blue plumage…

Ada Limón

Desde el primer verso 
de la mano te pasea por su mundo

te muestra un animal, una planta 
un insecto, un zorro, una ballena
un diente de león, una forsythia 
un fresno negro

piensas: me gusta tu mundo 
me siento a gusto en él
¿pero dónde está lo que venía buscando?

continúas caminando y sin darte cuenta
conforme te acercas al final de la página 
notas que algo desde el suelo 
te fue subiendo por las piernas

como si fueses de papel absorbente 
te encuentras totalmente empapado
en el último verso

What I was looking for

From the first verse
she takes you by the hand through her world 

she shows you an animal, a plant
an insect, a fox, a whale
a dandelion, a forsythia
a black ash tree 

you think: I like your world
I feel at ease in it
But where is what I was looking for?

you continue walking and without realizing it
as you get closer to the end of the page
you notice something from the ground
climbing up through your legs

as if you were made of absorbent paper
soon you find yourself completely soaked
In the last verse

Baixa o rioxa pola gorxa abaixo

Áspero, seco, duro

Como a terra na que a cegas 

avanzan as raíces da videira

—

The rioja runs down your throat

Rough, dry, hard

Like the earth in which

The vine’s roots grow blindly

O plan era amarte
ainda que non sabía nin por onde
saían as estrelas

O plan era coidarte
durmir rendido ao teu carón
a liturxia da miña relixión 

O plan era remendar os erros
non volver aos berros
sobre o cuarto dos nenos

O plan era un traballo esgotador
endereitar a órbita dos astros
para que lucira perfecta

O plan era ser sobrehumano
pódesme crer, malia a vontade
Tampouco eu o logrei

In dad’s wake

The plan was to love you
although I didn't even know 
where the stars rose

The plan was to take care of you
sleep surrendered next to you
the liturgy of my religion

The plan was to remedy the mistakes
don't go back to yelling
about the children's room

The plan was exhausting work
straighten the orbit of the celestial bodies
to make it look perfect

The plan was to be superhuman
you can believe me, despite the will
I didn't make it either

A minha pátria é a língua portuguesa

Pessoa

O silencio é a miña patria 
alí, á calor da soidade 
reencóntrome cos meus
pensamentos 
non existe continente, nin océano
non queda xa terra, nin auga
só os pitidos incesantes do silencio
e a miña voz 
que se fala a si mesma

estamos sós, 
miña mente, meu corpo, nós
sentindo como a erosión do tempo
gastou un lazo, que reducido a pó 
voa en suspensión na miña alma

miña pátria de poalla e herbeira
agarrada á corda 
dunha vaca leiteira
pacendo na cuneta 
unhas ervas soltas
todo o que queda é ese sentimento
de baleiro tras o esvaimento 
do meu povo 

My homeland is silence

Silence is my homeland 
there, in the heat of loneliness 
I meet again with my
thoughts 
there is no continent, no ocean
there is no land left, no water
just the incessant beeps of silence
and my voice 
talking to itself

we are alone 
my mind, my body, us
feeling how the erosion of time
wore a bond out 
which reduced to dust 
remains in suspension in my soul

my homeland of drizzle and grass fields
clinging to the rope 
of a dairy cow
grazing in the ditch 
some loose grass
all that's left is that feeling
of emptiness after the fade 
of my people 

No Montseny durante un retiro 
Lin a Emily Dickinson 
Na Finestres preguntei por poetas
Exquisítamente asesorado
Leveime a Mercè Marçal 
Que leo en Londres

(Pueril defininme amante dos versos 
De Sylvia, de Gil de Biezma
Buscaba o equivalente de Yolanda Castaño)

Hoxe subimos visitar Oxford 
o
Onde logo de comer na Waterstones 
Publiquei un poema en francés
E entrei mergullar nas estrofas 
De Margaret Atwood. 

Esta semana google anúnciame 
Que en agosto visitei
2 países, 33 cidades, 81 lugares
Poderíase inferir que o movemento
É sustento para a miña vida

Así como a poesía se converteu 
No imparable viaxe cara adentro 
Ao infindo universo agochado
Baixo a dura superfície de pedra

Poetry and spacetime

At Montseny during a retreat 
I read Emily Dickinson 
At Finestres I asked about poets
Exquisitely advised
I took Mercè Marçal 
What I read in London

(Pueril defined me as a lover of verses 
From Sylvia, from Gil de Biezma
I was looking for the equivalent of Yolanda Castaño)

Today we went up to visit Oxford 
Where after eating at Waterstones 
I published a poem in French
And I dived into the stanzas 
Of Margaret Atwood. 

This week google announces me 
That in August I visited
2 countries, 33 cities, 81 places
It could be inferred that the movement
It is sustenance for my life

Just as poetry has become 
The unstoppable journey inward 
To the infinite hidden universe
Under the hard stone surface

Tout ce dont j’ai besoin 
pour ce voyage 
tient dans la coupe 
de mes mains 

Il faut la volonté et la patience
de les tenir jointes 
pour que l’amour y porté 
ne s’en écoule pas

Tout ce qu'entraîne 
le flux de la vie 
n’est pas du tout lourd
ne prend pas de place

parfaitement tient 
dans la coupe 
de mes petites mains 
têtues à la manœvre

Luggage

All I need
for this journey
fits in the cup
of my hands

It takes the will and the patience
to hold them together
so that the love carried
does not flow out

Everything brought 
by the flow of life
is not at all heavy
does not take up any space

fits perfectly
in the cup
of my little hands
stubborn in the maneuver

Creo que da cidade húmida e fría do norte quédame o tratamento que as follas das árbores (ou as suas pólas espidas) facían cada mañá sobre a miña alma, de camiño ao traballo, cando pasaba conducindo por Wilbraham Rd e Birchfields Rd.

Creo que daquela en segredo agardaba a chegada dalgún mesías, que me dixera “tranquilo, o teu tema pronto vai solucionarse” pero malia a fe o único que me axudaba eran as fermosas alternancias de cor, volume e textura nas follas das árbores, ou na sua ausencia, o filtro da luz nas pólas espidas, ano tras ano.

The northern city

Of the northern city, I think I’m left with the treatment that the leaves of the trees (or their bare branches) did to my soul every morning commuting as I drove past Wilbraham Rd and Birchfields Rd.

I think at that time I was secretly waiting for the arrival of some messiah, who would tell me «don’t worry, your concern will be soon addressed» but despite my faith, the only thing helping me were the beautiful alternations of color, volume and texture in the leaves of the trees, or in their absence, the filtre of light in the bare branches, year after year.

Mentres recollemos as toallas
paseniño diríxese á saída da ría 
o enorme cruceiro tras a visita á cidade

A pasos curtos, cargado coa nevera 
e a tumbona abandonamos a praia 
polo carreiro de area solta 
entre as dunas 
logo á sombra dos piñeiros 
subimos ata o parking

É o derradeiro día do verán
e eu quixera que o mundo 
se desconectase de min

Quedar o que me quede 
convertido en fermoso cardo
a vixiar as mareas 
enraizado no lombo da duna
entre as Hébridas e Galiza
como un meniño arrolado 
polas ondas

The thistle

While we collect the towels
slowly head to the exit of the estuary 
the huge cruise after the city visit 

In short steps, loaded with the cooler 
and the sunbed we left the beach 
along the loose sand path 
between the dunes 
then in the shade of the pines 
we went up to the parking lot 

It's the last day of summer
and I wanted the world 
to disconnect from me

Stay,  the time left 
turned into beautiful thistle
to watch the tides 
rooted on the slope of the dune
between the Hebrides and Galicia
like a little boy 
rocked by the waves

O tacto, meu gran abandonado 
Insípido, inodoro, cego e xordo
Envolve a máis poderosas das enerxías
Tócanme uns dedos 
Roza a miña perna espida 
O cabelo dunha melena
Ourízanseme os pelos dos brazos
Medra en min esa forza no querer
Vóltase necesidade, isólome no degoiro 
Non o deixo converterse en urxencia
Constrúo un universo 
Onde escasez é fortaleza
E sigo comigo, ascetándome 
Co meu sexto sentido
Intacto

The touch

Touch, my great forsaken 
Tasteless, odorless, blind and deaf
It involves the most powerful of energies
Some fingers touch me 
The hair of a mane
Brushes against my bare leg 
My arms hair bristles
That strength in wanting grows in me
Becomes a necessity, isolates me in yearning 
I don't let it become an emergency
I build a universe 
Where scarcity is strength
And I'm still with me, ascetic 
My sixth sense
Intact

Vinheram os espíritos 
Levaram o negro dos meus cabelos

Trazeram mensagens in extremis
Derradeira via para recolocar
As pedras caídas do valo

Enfadei-me com eles
Que vindes reparar? 
Já nem existem
Os prados que dividiam 
Nem as dores das que termavam

Só ficava como a couça
A raiva antiga na minha alma 

Co cuspe co que nos desterraras
No campo das patacas
Amassamos o barro para os ladrilhos
Das nossas novas casas

Agora que nem os livros de história
Lembram o nosso conflito
Venhem os espíritos 
Trazem branco aos meus cabelos
Levam o rancor que se ocultara
Nos alicerces do meu império

The spirits

The spirits came
They took the black of my hair

They brought messages in extremis
The last way to replace
The stones fallen from the wall
I got angry with them
What are you coming to repair?

The meadows keeping us separated 
No longer exist
Nor do the pains that they held

All that remained, as woodworm,
Was the old anger in my soul

With the spit that banished us
In the field of potatoes
We kneaded the clay for the tiles
Of our new houses

Now that not even the history books 
Remember our conflict
The spirits come

They bring white to my hair
They take away the resentment that was hidden
In the foundations of my empire