Dous días antes do temporal 
achegámonos de noite á praia 
só un paciente pescador agarda 
pola robaliza na beira da auga 
coa cana espetada na area

o paseo baleiro de farolas acesas
só desfila algún can afortunado
na derradeira saída do día 

as ondas pasan a sua lingua 
lambendo con dozura a area 
repetindo con distintos tons 
a mesma teimuda ladaíña 

mesmo se cada vez 
escoitamos cousas distintas 
a base vai sempre 
ao fondo da alma 

"aquí está o teu sangue 
a bater nestas rochas 
teu rostro palidece
ao lonxe destas costas"

The language of the waves

Two days before the storm
we approached the beach at night
only a patient fisherman waits
for the sea bass at the water's edge
with its fishing rod stuck in the sand

the empty promenade lit by lampposts
only on the last walk of the day
parade some lucky dog

the waves pass their tongue
sweetly licking the sand
repeating with different tones
the same stubborn litany

even if every time
we hear different things
the base always goes
to the depth of the soul

"here is your blood
beating on these rocks
your face turns pale
away from this shore"

As articulacións ríxidas 
movémonos con sufrimento
tras tres días empaquetando 
o que queda de vida
tomamos tres horas de lecer
camiñamos Deansgate de despedida
traducimos e lemos poesía
tomando un café na Waterstones
ao peche imos por St Anne Square 
dicir adeus aos Shambles
onde a xente en calma bebe cervexa 
as pantallas publicitarias 
e as primeiras luces da noite 
alumean as lanternas chinesas
gromos do novo ano lunar

a caricia do vento 
que leva follas e plásticos 
arrastra tamén enganchado
o meu agradecemento 
pole dunha flor que nace 
no medio do peito encollido 
traemos a alma a retallos
cosida mil veces aos pes 
e o ciclo in extremis se pecha 
xusto con esa ventada na que
o cerebro recobra plasticidade

Chinese lanterns

Stiff joints
 we move with suffering
 after three days packing
 what is left of life
 we take three hours of leisure
 we walked down Deansgate on farewell
 we translate and read poetry
 having a coffee at Waterstones
 at closing we go through St Anne Square
 say goodbye to the Shambles
 where people calmly drink beer
 the advertising screens
 and the first lights of the night
 they light the Chinese lanterns
 lunar new year buds

 the caress of the wind
 that takes leaves and plastics
 drag also hooked
 my gratitude
 pollen from a budding flower
 in the middle of the shrunken chest
 we bring the soul in pieces
 sewn a thousand times to the feet
 and the cycle in extremis closes
 just with that wind in which
 the brain regains plasticity

Son pedra
Son pedra escura
Escura pedra no corazón
No corazón da montaña
Son pedra categoría iii 
Pedra cega descoñecedora 
Do aire, da auga e da luz 
E do resto dos motores da vida
Chegar ha un día unha fenda
Unha raíz, unha forza lancinante
Desintegradora que separe esta 
Masa impenetrable 
Serei entón area
Serei area, logo terra
Negra terra, fértil terra 
Onde naza unha simple bacteria
Ou unha pequena formiga atarefada
Ou un mamífero superior 
Con alma de pedra

Stone cycle

I am stone
I am dark stone
Dark stone in the heart
In the heart of the mountain
I am stone category iii
Blind stone ignorant
Of air, water and light
And the rest of the engines of life
A crack will come one day
A root, a stinging force
Disintegrator that separates this
Impenetrable mass
I will then be sand
I will be sand, then soil
Black soil, fertile soil
Where a simple bacterium will be born
Or a busy little ant
Or a higher mammal
With a soul of stone

Los caminos eran de cemento o de tierra
en muchas partes sin el pobre alumbrado público 
curvas oscuras donde acechaba el perro lobo
que soltaban cuando la noche daba la orden 
de llenar las casas de gente y de luz
el miedo nacía colgando de sus dientes 
y se extendía con sus gruñidos amenazantes

cuando a las siete yo volvía subiendo las cuestas
hubiera querido llevar un collar de pinchos 
o un palo pesado en la mano
en lugar de correr con la mochila a la espalda
hasta haber atravesado todo su territorio

Childhood territories

The paths were made of cement or dirt
in many sections without the poor public lighting
dark bends where the wolfdog lurked
released when the night gave the order
to fill the houses with people and light
fear was born hanging from its teeth
and spreaded with its threatening growls

when at seven o'clock I came back up the slopes
I would have liked to wear a spiked necklace
or a heavy stick in my hand
instead of running with the backpack on my back
until I had crossed all of its territory

O roce dos versos do mar 
contra o lombo mol do areal 
amenceu os meus amores 
cos seus corpos de salitre
corazóns de lua chea

ofrenda núa na marea 
os ósos brancos de coral
dos meus amores pasados
p'ra que o mar os acariñe, 
fágaos rolar contra a area
con cada onda, con cada verso
tornan minerais ao océano
voltan na brisa mariña
p'ra acender novos desexos

Archaic poem of offering and recycling

The friction of the sea’s verses against the soft back of the sand dawned my loves with their bodies of saltpeter and hearts of full moon

The coral white bones of my past loves are a naked offering on the tide, for the sea to caress them, make them roll against the sand, with each wave, with each verse they return minerals to the ocean, then come back in the sea breeze to ignite new desires

Protexido polo valo de madeira 
Avanza agachado axexando
O poderoso tigre do desexo
Levanto o brazo sinto o peso
Da lanza coa punta aceirada
Debecendo por trazar a parábola 
de sangue no eixo do X

Sen que me tivese decatado 
Agora é un rato vello espeluxado
Que mordeu no veleno da vida 
Non precisa xa de traxectoria 
De voo para a chegada da morte 

Cae a lanza pesada aos pes
Comezo a elevarme lixeiro 
A fibela da bota engancha no andel
O mantel de gancho, guinda no chan
As miñas pálidas figuras de porcelana
Amuletos que termaban da raiz do aire
Escachan e deixan o cuarto en ruínas

Mighty tiger

Protected by the wooden fence progresses crouching, lurking, the mighty tiger of desire.  I raise my arm and feel the weight of the spear with the steel spearhead longing for the parabola of blood on the X axis

Unbeknownst to me, it is now an old, disheveled mouse that has bitten into the poison of life. It’s no longer needed a flight path for the arrival of death

The heavy spear falls to my feet, I begin to rise lightly, the buckle of the boot catches the crochet tablecloth on the shelf, my pale porcelain figures fall to the floor, amulets that were holding the root of the air, break into pieces and leave the room in ruins

Os poucos días que neva madrugo 
antes que esperten os veciños
saio dar un paseo ata o cemiterio 
para comprobar se na neve fresca 
aparecen as pegadas dos mortos
nas raras ocasións en que xuntan forzas
para se achegaren ao centro de reciclaxe, 
do outro lado da rúa, matar o aburrimento 

Eu que si podo moverme con liberdade
teño o meu animal despelexado 
unha dor vermella de tripas e sangue
amarrada cunha cadea de barco oxidada
á altura das primeiras tumbas
decátome que son miñas as únicas pisadas
e o canto das botas con cada paso 
descóbreme que en realidade só queda
liberar e sandar o meu prisioneiro
ou adicarme a rebuscar no lixo alleo

Lullaby of boots in the snow

The few days that it snows, I get up early before the neighbors wake up and go for a walk to the cemetery to check if the footprints of the dead appear in the fresh snow on the rare occasions when they join forces to approach the recycling center to kill the boredom, from  across the street,

 I, who can move freely, have my skinned animal, a red pain of guts and blood tied with a rusty ship’s chain.  Arriving to the first graves I realise that the only footsteps are mine and the sound of boots with each step reveals to me that in reality the only thing left to do is to free and heal my prisoner or devote myself to rummaging through other people’s trash

Mis palabras son puntas de flecha de obsidiana
que se clavan en la sombra de tus huellas
la desgarran sin que tus pasos se desvíen

En la oscuridad temblorosa de la caverna
aprendí la lengua sombría de trazos negros
útil para transacciones con las tinieblas 

La interacción con la luz fue confusa
pasaron eras hasta que me abrí a otras voces
pero ya habías desaparecido en el horizonte

Stone age

My words are obsidian arrowheads
that stick in the shadow of your footprints 
and tear it apart without your steps deviating

In the trembling darkness of the cave
I learned the dark language of black strokes
useful for transactions with darkness

The interaction with light was confusing
eras passed until I opened myself to other voices
but you had already disappeared on the horizon

lyric killer

January, between frosts and readjustments pours its toxic bleach on the lyric soft velvet that drops, shrinks, the skin covering its bones without substance for the feeling

In January, the most feline face of my verses longs for the melodic sound of the song, free from the aseptic prose on this cold post Christmas crunch

Written and published in 2009 on my first blog

Son as tres da mañá no cuarto do que fora o meu apartamento neste bairro alto da capital

cando menos é iso o que calculo, espertei hai cinco minutos enchoupado en suor

e non lembro ter escoitado en soños a chamada á primeira oración do día

ademáis afóra segue a mesma claridade das lámpadas da noite

e un canto de paxaros nocturnos que por un intre me descoloca no mencer

Son as tres da mañá e decátome de que os dous cobertores para esta madrugada de outono

foron abrigo de máis, e as sabas xa están empapadas, vou a cociña, bebo auga

pasando á beira do radiador de gas vexo que os mistos queimados seguen no chan

onte estaba nervioso de máis para conseguir acender o queimador

por iso o reforzo do segundo edredón, e esta sede intempestiva a cortarme a noite

Son as tres da mañá e teño tempo dabondo para cair nos lugares comúns do meu pensamento

as voltas, que nunca te devolven ao mesmo ponto de partida e toda esa trangallada

como sempre, desaproveitara o tempo que tivera para facerme á idea

de que os post-it son de papel e os meses de chuvia fanlles cair as letras de tinta indeleble

decaido por teren caido tamén todos os je t’aime que pegara co meu cuspe na sua pel

Eran as tres e cuarto e volvín onda ti, aínda que me fora difícil lembrarte, o cabelo mudara

mas os ollos seguían combinándose sedutoramente co timbre tranquilo da tua voz

volvín á cama e do teu corpo collín só unha man, agarreime a ela

e mentres ti soñabas eu soñei que agardabamos xuntos a fin do mundo

das seis da mañá, de volta ao teu Centre Ville onde as cancións de berce dos klaxon

recordarante mañá os paxaros desta noite, na que aínda que non o saibas

prometinche morder a tua língua antes de deixar a miña alma escapar pola boca

e colárseche aos pés e ás plumas do teu traxe de bailarina para que non poida

xa separarme de ti…

sen dor 

Farewell to Algeria

It’s three in the morning in the room of what used to be my apartment in this upper district of the capital

at least that’s what I reckon, I woke up five minutes ago drenched in sweat

and I do not remember hearing in dreams the call to the first prayer of the day

moreover, the same clarity of the night lamps continues outside

and a song of nocturnal birds that for a while displaces me in the morning

It’s three in the morning and I realize that the two blankets for this autumn morning

they were too warm, and the sheets are already soaked, I go to the kitchen, I drink water

passing by the gas radiator I see that the burnt matches are still on the floor

Yesterday I was too nervous to get the burner on

that’s why the reinforcement of the second quilt, and this untimely thirst to interrupt my night

It’s three in the morning and I have plenty of time to fall into the common places of my thinking

the turns, which never return you to the same starting point and all that strangulation

as always, I had wasted the time I had had to come to terms with the idea

that post-it notes are made of paper and the months of rain cause the letters in indelible ink to fall off

Decayed because all the je t’aime that I had stuck with my saliva on her skin have also fallen

It was a quarter past three and I came back to you, even though it was hard for me to remember you, the hair had changed

but the eyes continued to combine seductively with the calm tone of your voice

I went back to bed and I took only one hand from your body, I held on to it

and while you were dreaming I dreamed that we were waiting for the end of the world together

at six in the morning, back to your Center Ville where the klaxon lullabies

remind you tomorrow of the birds of this night, in which even if you don’t know it

I promised you to bite your tongue before I let my soul escape through my mouth

and sneak up on your feet and the feathers of your ballerina costume so I can

no longer separate myself from you…

without pain