This Sunday Flavio Almerighi includes my poem The Language of Waves in his Sunday selection. I am very grateful!

You can read the jewels with the following link. Enjoy ithem!

https://almerighi.wordpress.com/2024/02/18/gioielli-rubati-288-abel-abilheira-silviatico-guido-mazzolini-alessandro-della-valle-tiziana-botti-gian-ruggero-manzoni-rosario-sarino-bocchino-julie-sopetran/

Lixeiro navego sobre a tona da auga
Onde os ventos tolos deciden levarme
Rabuño coa quilla o lombo oceánico
A efémera cicatriz branca do ronsel 
Di pouco ou nada dos meus desvelos

A miña alma de cetáceo devece 
polas frías profundidades mariñas
Anhela o esforzo reparador da apnea 
Abandonar a superficie de sol e brisa 
Tan docemente carentes de peso

Sailing boat

Lightly I sail on the surface of the water
Where the crazy winds decide to take me
Scratching the ocean's back with my keel
The ephemeral wake's white scar
Says little or nothing about my concerns

My cetacean soul craves 
For the cold depths of the sea
It longs for the restorative effort of apnea
Leaving the sunny and breezy surface
So sweetly weightless

Somos contedores
bastante febles
con esforzo case logramos
manter este caos rodeado
de auga, invisibel, inaccesibel
só a liña contínua do horizonte
separa o ceo da terra

Chaos held back

We are pretty weak containers
with effort we almost manage to keep this chaos surrounded by water, invisible, inaccessible
only the continuous line of the horizon separates the sky from the earth

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