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

nas pedras de cores brillantes de auga
nas pozas que a baixamar enchera
nas focas durmindo entre as rochas
o mar estaba por todas partes
sobre todo no aire e dentro de nós 

na soidade asistiamos ao espectáculo 
da continua construcción da terra
os derrubes do cantil descubrían
fósiles de animais mariños
e a magnitude verdadeira do ser humano

Nord Sea

in the brightly colored stones of water
in the pools that the low tide had filled
in the seals sleeping among the rocks
the sea was everywhere
especially in the air and within us

in solitude we attended the show
of the continuous construction of the earth
the collapses of the cliff exposed 
fossils of marine animals
and the true magnitude of the human being

Como un can rasco coas uñas no chan duro 
Escarvo á procura dun cabo de mecha 
dun pequeno cacho de corda miúda
por onde poder volverme atar á vida
tirar del cos dentes ata esgotar os recursos

Naveguei na éxtase húmida das suores
absorbendo na miña pel o sal de cada ninfa 
integrei no organismo as pegadas dos seus dedos
o alento doce e cálido dos seus beizos 

As mans logo da xornada de traballo, elas 
apuran para acudir antes da hora de peche
os dedos prenden unha vela ao carón 
do sacos de ósos, das cinsas de tres xeracións 
e nesta feble chama tremeluce a persistencia do clan 
arrolada no colo e no peito das mulleres

No bosque das miñas lembranzas
acariñando a copa das árbores frías
o vento zoa vagamente a melodía dos xemidos
o corpo aínda reacio a voltarse 
unha tarefa máis das mulleres 
á espera da pequena luz que marque
a sua eterna pertenza ao enxamio

The women, the substance

Like a dog scratching with its claws on the hard floor, I poke around in the dirt looking for a wick to pull, for a bunch of small rope where I can tie myself back to life, pull it with my teeth until run out of resources

I sailed into the wet ecstasy of sweat, absorbing into my skin the salt of each nymph, I integrated their fingerprints into my organism,  the sweet, warm breath from their lips

Women’s hands after the working day, they rush to come before closing time, fingers light a candle next to the sacks of bones, to the ashes of three generations and in this faint light flickers the persistence of the clan rolled up on women’s laps and chests

In the forest of my memories caressing the tops of the cold trees the wind vaguely plays the melody of moans, the body ‘s still reluctant to become another women’s task, awaiting the tiny flame that marks its eternel belonging to the swarm

Se o soubese daquela
se daquela o tivese sabido
non houbese iniciado 
a primeira libreta de versos

Como era ignorante
puiden ir avanzando 
aprendendo 
e sobre todo creando

Ignorance

If I had known it then 
if I was aware of that 
I would not have started 
my first book of verses

Since I was ignorant 
I was able to move forward 
to learn 
and, above all, to create

dou a volta e estou nun cuarto de paredes brancas 
con buratos onde estiveran os ganchos dos cadros 
e na pintura marcas de mobles retirados
a ventá que queda non ten cortinas 
nin barra de cortina, nin persiana, nin estores

cando dei a volta xa non estaban os libros
que constituiran a plataforma 
sobre a que vivira deitado 

dei a volta e xa marchara o tren, o andén 
baleiro e frío cheirando a pastillas de freo queimadas
un ambiente inhóspito sen as condicións 
adecuadas para a vida humana 

pola única ventá que queda sen tapiar 
só se ve a luz dun burato negro 
cara abaixo porén destacan os meus pes 
descalzos sucios de terra sobre a baldosa lisa 
alí comezara todo, iso si podo lembralo 
mesmo se xa non serve de moito

entra alguén, unha muller, e deixa sobre a repisa 
da ventá unha cunca de infusión amarga xa fría
os meus dedos enrédanse no cabelo 
mentres miro fixamente unha xunta do chan 
aínda nesta altura á procura da relaxante perfección

non imaxinei que correr atrás da morte 
ía ser castigado co desterro neste ermo

I turn around

I turn around and find myself in a room with white walls with holes where the canvas hooks had been and in the wall paint, marks of removed furniture, the remaining window has no curtains no curtain rod, no blinds, no shutters

when I turned around, the books that had made up the platform on which I had lived lying down were gone

I turned around and the train had already left, the platform empty and cold smelling of burned brake pads an inhospitable environment without the proper conditions for human life

through the only window that is not bricked up, only the light of a black hole can be seen, downwards, however, my dirty bare feet stand out on the smooth tile, that’s where it all started, I can remember that, even if it’s no longer of much use

someone comes in, a woman, and leaves a cup of already cold bitter brew on the windowsill, my fingers tangle in my hair as I stare at a floor joint, still at this point in search of relaxing perfection

I didn’t imagine that running after death would be punished with exile in this wilderness

Gales sempre me fai sentir como en Galiza
Un país máis pobre, con mar e toxo
E unha lingua distinta da do imperio

En Conwy a marea entra amansada
Como un rabaño de vacas preguiceiras
Estiba o seu cargamento de aromas 
Recén arribados do océano

E cando a baixamar volve descubrir os areais
Queda no aire o arrecendo de monstros mariños
Que a corrente arrastrou á superficie

A auga trae sabor de cuncha e iodo 
Que a melena de algas dos fondos 
Foi ceibando co baile das ondas

Viaxo ao sur e mesmo se só coñezo 
Un par de palabras en galés 
O inglés cantareiro desta terra 
É dos sotaques que mellor entendo 

Respiro o mar de Irlanda
Definitivamente case estou en casa

Trip to North Wales

Wales always makes me feel like in Galicia
A poorer country, with sea and gorse
And a language different from the one of the empire

In Conwy the tide comes in tame
Like a herd of lazy cows
And unloads its shipment of aromas
Freshly arrived from the ocean

Later when the low tide uncovers the sands again 
The smell of sea monsters 
That the current dragged to the surface 
Remains in the air

The water brings the flavor of shell and iodine 
Released by the mane of algae at the bottom 
With the dance of the waves

I travel south and even if I just know
A couple of Welsh words
The melodic English of this land
It's one of the accents I understand the best

I breathe the sea of Ireland
I am definitely almost home

Sinto unha arañeira branca
Que me cobre os pulmóns

A soidade fixou residencia no peito 
E alí teceu a sua rede de tristura

O derradeiro falante da Lingua
O clan só un recordo efémero
 
Namáis as herbas xeadas e as ondas
teimudas responden ao meu verbo

Spider web

I feel a white cobweb 
covering my lungs

Loneliness settled in my chest 
and there it wove its web of sadness

The last speaker of the Language
The clan just an ephemeral memory

Only the frozen grass and stubborn waves 
respond to my words

repetindo mecánicamente movementos
busquei desterrar o sentimento de incompetencia
que levaba anos instalado en min

vinme o froito imperfecto do amor
de dous nenos ilusionados 
creadores de universos

durante moitos anos sentinme unha copia
pobre de papá que malia os esforzos
de titán non lograba engalanar 

hoxe vino a el mirándome dende o espello 
'puxen en ti a miña parte máis doce
non tentes afogala quedando na superficie'

Talks in front of the mirror

mechanically repeating movements 
I sought to banish the feeling of incompetence 
that had been installed in me for years

I saw myself as the imperfect fruit of love 
of two excited children 
creators of universes

for many years I felt like a poor copy of dad 
that despite my titanic efforts 
I was unable to adorn

today I saw him looking at me from the mirror 
"I put my sweetest part in you 
don't try to drown it by staying on the surface"

Ao facer o balance pesan os paseos 
á beira dos cantís do desespero 
respirando o aire electrizado 
que se condensa nos puntos de inflexión 

Ao chegar ao final da axenda 
deixo correr cara atrás as páxinas 
e se me crava no dedo a cruz negra 
que deixou o avó en marzo 

Doutra parte houbo unha amnistía xeral 
por fin o lado máis feminino voou ceibe 
envolto nas plumas de cincocentos versos 
que pasaron desapercibidos 

Volvín descubrir a ilusión 
que me envolvía no patio do colexio
da man dun novo compañeiro de xogos 
retomei a escalada, volvín á infancia

Tamén este ano perdín o meu fogar 
o máis lonxevo nos últimos vinte anos
quedei varado nesta praia 
dun barrio do nordeste de Manchester
agardando pola marea que veña reflotarme 

ou poida que cos restos dos naufraxios que me rodean
constrúa unha balsa salvadora e me lance a navegar 
levando firme o temón 
mentres percorro a superficie dos océanos 
lonxe dos niños de gaivota e as rochas afiadas 
que cortan a pel dos pes.

Diary end

Taking stock of this year, the walks along the cliffs of despair stand out, breathing the electrified air that condenses at the turning points

When I get to the end of the agenda I let the pages run backwards
and the black cross that grandfather left in March sticks into my finger

On the other hand, there was a general amnesty and finally my more feminine side flew free
wrapped in the feathers of five hundred verses that went unnoticed

I rediscovered the excitement that filled me in the schoolyard
with a new playmate I resumed climbing returning to childhood

Also this year I lost my most long-lasting home in the last twenty years
I was stranded on this beach in a North East neighbourhood of Manchester
waiting for the tide to come and refloat me

or maybe with the remains of the shipwrecks that surround me
I will build a life raft in which to set sail
holding the rudder steady as I ride the surface of the oceans
away from the seagulls' nests and the sharp rocks that cut my feet's skin

Ces vers avaient été écrits pour l’antologie numérique de Christophe Condello ‘grabuge’ mais finalement j’en avait envoyés d’autres

des chevaux avec de solides fers 
faisaient entendre le nerf 
de ses corps en sueur 
sur les dalles à la cour de l'hôpital

Papa, arrête la lumière du jour!
qu'elle ne vienne pas brûler ma solitude
enfoncer son museau bruyant 
dans mes plaies de nuit
et silence
Borde moi, Papa, que le froid
ne s'échappe de ces os 
de cette chair muette

Ah si seulement il pouvait y avoir pour mon cadavre
une pierre tombale ou les jeunes s'y rassemblent
abandonnent leur bouteilles vides 
et continuent leur grabuge
lorsque les chevaux et moi 
ne serons plus de ce monde!

Fallen verses

horses with strong shoes made the nerves of his sweaty bodies heard on the flagstones in the hospital courtyard

Dad stops daylight!  that it does not come and burn my solitude, to thrust its noisy snout into my wounds of night and silence
Tuck me in, Dad, so that the cold doesn't escape from these bones, from this mute flesh

Ah, if only there could be a tombstone for my corpse where the young people gather around, abandon their empty bottles and continue their mayhem when the horses and I will be no longer in this world!