De camiño ao salón de peiteado (gl – en)

De camiño ao salón de peiteado
pasamos pola beiramar
Trouxonos papá de visita
cando nenos a ver o espectáculo
da descarga do peixe

Tres arrastreiros novos
con matrícula das Falklands
orgullosos apuntaban cas proas
cara a cidade indiferente

Anoto mentalmente o óxido
nos peiraos de carga
evito dicilo en alto, decátome
do reflexo do meu pai na miña voz

Finalmente, o tempo do corte
achégome á beira marabillado
como sempre da transparencia da auga

No sal desta ría
consérvanse as miñas memorias

On the way to the hairdresser

On the way to the hairdresser 
we passed by the waterfront
Dad brought us to visit
when we were children
to see the show of unloading the fish

Three new trawlers
with Falklands registration
proudly pointed their prows
towards the indifferent city

I make a mental note
of the rust on the loading docks
I avoid saying it out loud, I notice
the reflection of my father in my voice

Finally, the time of the haircut 
I approach the shore marveling
as always at water’s transparency

My memories are preserved
in the salt of this estuary

No caladoiro (gl – en)

Cando navegabamos no Gran Sol 
E os bonitos tinxían a popa de vermello
Nas horas mortas da tardiña
Saía á cuberta do barquiño minúsculo
Percorría os trinta e cinco metros de eslora
Esculcando o horizonte
Non achaba rastro da terra
Unha liña contínua rodeándonos
Illándonos do mundo
Eu, que non era pescador
Dos trescentos metros de profundidade
Daquel caladoiro extraía a substancia
Que había dar corpo aos meus versos

In the fishing ground

When we were sailing on the Sole Bank
And the albacore dyed the stern red
In the downtime of the evening
I used to go out on the deck of the tiny little boat
I covered the thirty-five meters in length
Looking at the horizon
There was no trace of land
Just a continuous line surrounding us
Isolating ourselves from the world
Me, who was not a fisherman
Of the three hundred meters of depth
From that fishing ground I extracted the raw material
That would give body to my verses

Nuevos cantos (es – en)

Durante la terapia
Mientras una fina capa de papel blanco
Me separaba del acolchado de la camilla verde
Partido desde lo profundo del estómago
Un pájaro muerto salió del interior de mi boca

Como su magia iba trabajando mi ser
Me causó un leve incomodo
Un pájaro muerto venido de no sé donde
Que yacía húmedo y frío
Al lado de mi cabeza

Antes de que sus manos
Acabasen el viaje de los rituales
Sobre mi cuerpo abandonado
Ordené a un esqueleto cubierto de plumas
que alzase el vuelo y dejase

Espacio para que la primavera
Enraizase sus nuevos cantos

New songs

During therapy
While a thin layer of white paper
Separated myself from the padding of the green stretcher
From the depths of the stomach
A dead bird came out of my mouth

As her magic was working my being
I felt a slight discomfort
When next to my head
A dead bird coming from nowhere
Laid wet and cold

Before her hands
Finished the journey of rituals
On my abandoned body
I ordered to a skeleton covered in feathers
to take flight and leave

Space for spring
Give roots to its new songs

De Fiori e Ferro in  Almerighi’s Gioielli Rubati

The italian version of my poem Of Flowers and Irons in Flavio Almerighi’s sunday column.

You can enjoy his selection by clicking on the link.

https://almerighi.wordpress.com/2024/06/09/gioielli-rubati-304-carlo-becattini-paolo-statuti-girolamo-mario-gullace-irene-rapelli-massimo-botturi-laura-segantini-abel-abilheira-elettasenso/

(It’s been a grass cutting day, I haven’t had time to post until now!)

Buon inizio settimana!

Have a nice week!

Xeografia dunha infancia (gl – en)

Na canteira do avó
Pedra e mar
Un baleiro no chan
Cicatrices minerais
Barrenos de dinamita
Conversando coa terra
Mar e pedra
Barcos de ferro
Enrugas de onda mariña
Viña e auga e pedra
Maceiras
Ovellas e bois
Pombas e coellos
Recunchos de infancia

Childhood geographies

In grandfather's quarry
Stone and sea
A void in the land
Mineral scars
Dynamite cartridges
Conversations with the earth
Sea and stone
Iron ships
Sea wave wrinkles
Vine and water and stone
Apple trees
Sheep and oxen
Pigeons and rabbits
Landscapes of childhood

De flores e ferros (gl – en)

I wish you could enjoy the scent of roadside flowers

In the beginning, I was carved out of flowers and iron

Na viaxe ao norte 
O arrecendo das margaridas
Nos leva de volta ao instituto
Pasamos lista dos profesores
Seus acertos, seus abusos
Na parada de Rugby
A cunca de moca
Constrúe cercos a cada grolo
Como os aneis dunha árbore
Os restos da marea de Manchester
Nun almacén da compañía
Pacientes  agardan
A seren repatriados
Entre eixos de tren e carros de baterías
Épica viaxe ao norte
Non houbera querído outra vida
Máis sinxela, máis calmada

Of flowers and irons

On the journey north 
The scent of daisies
Takes us back to high school
We gave the register of teachers
Their successes, their abuses
At Rugby halfway stop
The cup of mocha
Build chocolate marks with every sip
Like the rings of a tree
The remnants of the Manchester project
In a company warehouse
Patient waiting
To be repatriated
Between train axles and battery blocks
Epic journey north
I would not have wanted another life
Neither smpler, nor more calm

Podo dicir (gl – en)

First published in January 2009, when I was living in Algeria

Podo dicir “por algunha razón que descoñezo”
trouxen cachos de ti
até nos petos máis pequenos
das miñas maletas
podo dicir mais non é certo,
cortei a posta retalliños
do teu corpo, paseinos tamén no dobre fondo
ocultos entre papel de aluminio
para que se abran nesta tumba
como fosforescentes sinais de tráfico
dirixíndome no fondo,
no abismo calado e escuro
onde só é a pel da polpa dos dedos
meu interlocutor co universo.
Retallos feitos de enderezos
en cachiños de papel enrugado,
de libros fetiche,
de marcapáxinas co teu olor,
complexos vitamínicos
estudados para combater
a soidade, a ausencia, o silencio
deste cuarto sarcófago
onde a pouca luz do sol que cae atrapada
na trampa do patio de luces
chega ao fondo lenta, cansa, apagada
perdidas xa as suas propiedades
curativas

I can say

I can say "for some reason I don't know"
I brought chunks of you
even in the smallest pockets
of my suitcases
I can say but it's not true,
I purposely cut pieces of your body
carried in the double bottom
hidden between aluminum foil
for them to be opened in this tomb
like phosphorescent traffic signs
for them to guide me in the deep
in the silent and dark abyss
where it is only the skin of the fingerstips
my interlocutor with the universe.
Clippings made of addresses
in crumpled pieces of paper
of fetish books,
bookmarked with your scent,
vitamin complexes
studied to combat
loneliness, absence, silence
of this sarcophagus room
where the little sunlight that falls is jailed
in the trap of the inner courtyard
it reaches the bottom slowly, tired, dull
their healing properties
already lost

Vivindo do recordo (gl – en)

Unha nube que soprada polo vento 
cambia totalmente de forma
xa non sabe quen é

antes un osiño de peluxe
agora un cabalo saltando a sebe
o meandro dun río indeciso
o mapa das illas Vanuatu

e así até a precipitación
ou a chegada ao encoro
onde se fusiona con outros centos
milleiros de nubes que tamén levaron
a marca que o ollo soñador
lles foi colando

e agora fundidas nunha masa densa
viven do recordo

Living on memories

A cloud blown by the wind 
completely changes its shape
it no longer knows what it is

once a teddy bear
now a horse jumping a hedge
the meander of an indecisive river
the map of the Vanuatu islands

and so on until the precipitation
or the arrival at the reservoir
where it merges with other hundreds
thousands of clouds that also took the mark
that the dreamy eye stuck on them

and now melted into a dense mass
they live on memories

Francophonie à Londres (fr – en)

À la rencontre du collègue marocain
j’ai ressenti la joie du poisson
qu’après avoir été pris dans le filet
se sent glisser par-dessus bord
enfin chez soi
dans l’eau salée à nouveau
pleine d'oxygène
ainsi ma langue se délie
se réjouit

Francophonie in London

Meeting my Moroccan colleague
I felt the joy of the fish
that after being caught in the net
feels itself slipping overboard
finally at home
in salt water again
full of oxygen
so my tongue loosens
rejoices

Refuxio (gl – en)

As noites nas que Deus, infundido do divino tedio pon a cazadora e sae de festa, quixera ser diminuto como unha grava do camiño ou estar perdido nun bosque escuro onde só a morte xogase comigo, de veras, até a chegada do día, ou de Deus, ou por sempre.

Refuge

The nights when God, infused with divine boredom, puts on His jacket and goes out partying, I wish I was as small as a gravel on the road or lost in a dark forest where only death would play with me, no kidding, until the arrival of the day, or God, or forever.