I’ve got lost in Valencia
walking around a recovered landfill
far from the City of Arts and Sciences

I’ve got lost in Kabylia
in my way to Constantine 
stopping at every village in the mountains

I’ve got lost in Algiers clubs
and woke up with a girl that had breakfast
with the two beers of my fridge

I’ve got lost in Karekare thicket
then I found the way out 
and went for a running on the black sands

I’ve got lost in Saint-Etienne fields
and in Luxembourg’s Grünewalt woods

Bored of the regular track
have got lost in Corsican Monte d’Oro
and in Welsh Glyderau mountains

I thought I was an idiot 
to get lost wherever I went
now I know it was the means 
life used for me to learn

No baixo da casa na que viviamos papa tiña un taller de soldadura no que facía portais, reixas, verandas… eu axudaba co meu traballo de agarrador de ferros aprendendo a aguantar as muxicas que saltaban do electrodo.

Houbo un tempo no que non tiña un par de calcetíns que non estivese picado da soldadura; saía á discoteca cos meus furos da vergonza e quedaba nun recuncho da barra bebendo algo que me liberase de tanto medo, de tanto auto odio, que me axudase a aceptarme rompendo os muros da prision na que me escondía.

Naquel tempo eu era perfecto pero non o sabía, escondíame da luz e sufría no vento xeado, tiña tanto medo que non era quen de ver arredor, cheguei a pensar que a soidade era o estado natural do ser humano.

Non entendía como o resto da xente facía para abrirse, para encontrarse; eu era unha illa de medo afastada do continente, de calquera continente. 

Só nos eventos culturais, só nos bares, só nas manifestacións, só na miña soidade

Agora que pasaron tantos anos e aprendín que só hai unha lei da gravidade, gostaríame preguntarche papá, como se fai na vida para manterse firme ao temón cando todo é caos, ou é só que estar ao temón é estar só, tentando ordenar unha décima parte do caos?

Pierced socks

On the ground floor of the house where we lived, dad had a welding workshop where he built gates, grilles, banisters… I helped with my job as an iron gripper, learning to bear the sparks that sprout from the electrode.

There was a time when I didn’t have a pair of socks that wasn’t pierced from welding; I used to go out to the disco with my shame holes and stay in a corner of the counter drinking something that freed me from so much fear, so much self-hatred, to help me accept myself by breaking the walls of the prison in which I was hiding.

At that time I was perfect but I didn’t know it, I hid from the light and suffered in the icy wind, so afraid that I couldn’t see around, I came to think that loneliness was the natural state of the human being.

I didn’t understand how the rest of the people did to open up, to meet; I was an island of fear far from the continent, from any continent. 

Alone in cultural events, alone in bars, alone in demonstrations, alone in my solitude

Now that so many years have gone and I’ve learned there’s only one law of gravity, I’d like to ask you dad, how do you stay steady at the helm when everything is chaos? Or is it just that being at the helm is being alone, trying to sort out a tenth of chaos?

Na espera a boca fáiseme poesía  
o ceo nocturno inzado de estrelas 

e de infindas chairas de espazo escuro 
onde sementar faíscas dos meus versos

–oOo–

While waiting, my mouth becomes poetry  
the night sky full of stars 

and of endless plains of dark space 
where to sow sparks of my verses

Á última hora volven os fuxidos
Envorcallados en mil chairas
No corpo traen restos de neve 
Terra entre os dedos das mans
Nas comisuras da boca grans de area

Os ollos velados con auga de chuvia
Xa só poden mirar cara adentro
A língua lastrada solitaria
As mans como o autobús de liña 
Presas en percorridos rutinarios

Coladas aos costados 
Carrexan palabras estrañas
Perderon preposicións 
Mudaron significados

Reintegran a comunidade
Pero nin ela é a mesma
Nin eles se percatan
Que xa non son eles

They come back

At the last minute the fugitives return
Rolled around in a thousand plains
On their skin they carry remnants of snow 
Soil between their fingers
In the corners of the mouth grains of sand

Eyes veiled with rainwater
They can only look inwards
The lonely weighted tongue
Hands like the regular buses 
Jailed on routine tours

Glued to their sides  
They bring strange words,
Have lost prepositions 
Changed some meanings

They reintegrate the community
But neither is it the same 
Nor do they realize 
They are no longer themselves

https://wp.me/pb25V4-38v

It is inspired by the trees of Manchester, which made the years I lived there more enjoyable.

Thanks to Manuela for the selection!

Escribo 
escribo pequenos textos 
ás veces tan tristes que se afogan eles sós antes de chegaren ao mar

Evito
evito até onde son consciente
de me regodear na magoa
de deixala á fronte da expedición

Abro
abro a gaiola das rotinas
saboreo o suplemento literario
camiño á beira do río

As pegadas dos patos 
escriben textos no limo
abro a camara do tradutor 
que evita dar unha resposta útil

Language not supported

Weekend

I write 
I write short texts
sometimes so sad that they drown themselves 
before they reach the sea

I avoid
I avoid as far as I'm aware 
gloating in the hurt
leaving it to be in heading the expedition

I open
I open the cage of routines
savour the literary supplement
walk by the river

Duck footprints write lines in the silt
I open the camera of the translator 
that avoids giving a useful answer

Language not supported

after reading ‘Your bicycle’ by Joe Carrick-Varty

Cando penso á bicicleta cuberta pola herba e o musgo
sinto unha magoa mesta escorregarme pola alma abaixo 
lembro a derradeira vez que fora en ela polo pan
no movemento a rua enchíase con estertores
de óxido e rodamentos gastados

Uns meses despóis estorbaba no garaxe
mudou ao descanso eterno atrás do galpón da leña

Enrédaseme o pensamento buscando a razón desta tristura das derradeiras veces
Este sentimento parece ter algo a ver coas incertezas das fronteiras da vida 

Preciso sair camiñar á beira das papoulas 
Que o sol morno de maio derreta este pesadume invasor
E a cada paso quede estrado no camiño
Deixando espazo para a entrada da luz

The bike

When I think of the bike covered in grass and moss
I feel a thick sorrow slipping down my soul
I remember the last time I rode it for buying bread
in the movement the street was filled with death rattles
of rust and worn bearings

A few months later it was getting in the way in the garage
so it was moved to eternal rest behind the woodshed

My thoughts are tangled, looking for the reason for this sadness of the last times
this feeling seems to have something to do with the uncertainties of life's borders

I need to go for a walk by the poppies
may the warm sun of May melt away this encroaching heaviness
and at every step it pours in the path
leaving space for light to enter

Algérie, avril 2009

A cada paso nos chanzos
a cada golpe de cada un dos teus pes
nas escaleiras que te traen
chamas amodiño polo tempo
que quedara durmido,
vai acordando

e cando soa o timbre
da miña porta
baixa da cama, bótase a correr
e comezas na conta atrás
a escribir o teu nome
no vaso que bebes
na manta que retiras
na toalla que mollas
na silhueta que se agarra ao espello

como se vai apagando o eco
dos teus pasos
nas escaleiras que te levan
e o tempo bocexa
e se durme outra volta
tempo en coma
que me deixa o tempo
para a leitura das obras completas
do teu nome en cada obxecto

In each object

At every step on the treads,
with each stroke of each of your feet
on the stairs that bring you to me
you call softly for the time
that had fallen asleep
it starts to wake up

and when the doorbell rings
at my door
it gets out of bed, starts running
and on the countdown
you start to write your name
in the glass you drink
in the blanket you remove
in the towel you wet
in the silhouette of yours 
that clings to the mirror

as the echo of your steps fades 
on the stairs that take you away
the time yawns
and it sleeps again
time in coma
that leaves me the time
for reading the complete works
of your name on each object

Escribín tanto tempo escarvando na alma á procura do entendemento! Nunca saían palabras de gloria, de éxtase ou de contento. Se morrer mañá que che habería quedar en herdanza? Só o efémero vapor dun corpo partido disipándose rápidamente entre as pólas das árbores

Escríboche agora este poema coas esquinas romas e as patas dos mobles acolchadas, un espazo liso onde todo é amable e nada che demanda. Unha ventá soleada onde non medre o musgo e poidamos ser bendecidos polo salitre mentres escoitamos a eterna respiración das augas aló embaixo.

Un espazo de amor é o poema este ao que poderás voltar topar a paz cando eu non estea.

A nosa pel salgada activaranos o apetito, o alimento será a robaliza que a marea ao retirarse nos deixa nunha poza. Cortarei e fritirei o peixe en aceite de oliva e sei que xa estás salivando, o mar coida de nós!

Coa miña lingua percorrerei paseniño o extenso territorio da tua pel recolectando as moléculas de brisa na cara interna das tuas coxas. 

Reflectirán os teus ollos avelá o solpor laranxa dende a liña do horizonte, o último sol do día tinxirá os nosos abrazos.

Neste poema nada está construído en pulgadas ou centímetros a base métrica é a palma da tua man por iso cada utensilio, cada picaporte se adapta a ti de xeito que te sentirás cómoda sen saberes porque.

Aquí non precisas preguntar ámasme? A esencia desta casa é a máis sinxela e poderosa: o amor. Sentiraste amada e completa.

Así que volve a este teu poema refuxio, onde vibra o meu amor, tantas veces como precisares. Ata que se enchan as reservas de cariño e poidas voltar ao mundo en harmonía e equilibrada. 

Tampouco tes que esperar a que eu morra para gozar desta utopía.

Ven

Love prose

I wrote so long digging in the soul in search of understanding! Words of glory, ecstasy or contentment never came out. If I die tomorrow, what would you inherit?  Only the ephemeral steam of a gone body quickly dissipating through the branches of the trees

Now I’m writing you this poem with blunt corners and cushioned furniture legs, a smooth space where everything is kind and nothing demands you.  A sunny window where no moss grows and we can be blessed by saltpeter while listening to the eternal breathing of the waters down there.

A space of love is this poem to which you can return to find peace when I am not there.

Our salty skin will activate our appetite, the food will be the sea bass that the retreating tide leaves us in a pool. I will cut and fry the fish in olive oil and I know you are already salivating, the sea will take care of us!

With my tongue I will slowly travel the extensive territory of your skin collecting the molecules of breeze on the inside of your thighs.

Your hazel eyes will reflect the orange sunset from the horizon line, the last sun of the day will dye our hugs.

In this poem, nothing is built in inches or centimeters, the metric base is the palm of your hand, that’s why every utensil, every door handle adapts to you so that you will feel comfortable without knowing why.

Here you don’t need to ask “do you love me?”, the essence of this house is the simplest and most powerful: love. Here you are going to feel loved and complete.

So come back to this refuge poem of yours, where my love vibrates, as often as you need.  Until the reserves of affection are filled and you can return to the world in harmony and balance.

You don’t have to wait for me to die to enjoy this utopia either.

So come

A vida deixa manchas de sangue seco no mantel(e)
Por muito c’o laves e os teus ollos xa n’as vexan 
o sol aínda é quen de percorrer 
co seu dedo as fronteiras do medo

soño pesadelos esperto 
levo ás costas todas as cidades 
nas que me cortei os dedos

os pés se m’enterran
non hai enlace tan forte 
que non o venza este peso

porén, sempre qu’acordo sinto 
o suave roce das miñas ás contra o costado
seguro que un día aprenderán 
os outos camiños do ar levado

Feather touch

Life leaves dried blood stains on the tablecloth
no matter how much you wash it  
even if your eyes can no longer see them
the sun is able to travel 
with his finger the borders of fear

I dream nightmares awake
I carry on my back all the cities 
where I cut my fingers

my feet sink
there is no bond strong enough
that this weight cannot overcome it

however, whenever I wake up 
I feel the gentle brush of my wings against my side
surely one day they will learn 
the high paths of the turbulent air