A las 13:08 la saqué del horno. La masa hubiera necesitado más tiempo de fermentación pero ya tenía hambre.

Los trabajos de la harina me procuran satisfacción: el placer de hacer algo con las manos y la recompensa del sabor de las cosas de verdad. Me hacen sentir más integrado en el universo.

Sobre todo ahora que se me acabaron los libros de poesía y ando algo desnortado.

Pizza in tree moves

At 13:08 I took it out of the oven. The dough would have needed more leaven time but I was already hungry.
Flour work gives me satisfaction: the pleasure of doing something with my hands and the reward of real things taste. It make me feel more integrated into the universe.
Especially now that I’ve run out of poetry books and I’m a bit disoriented.

la pensée est comme un grillon
cachée dans son trou
il faut la chatouiller avec des dessins
pour la faire chercher la lumière
je lui peint des flèches et des couleurs
pour attirer son attention
une fois arrivé à la mettre dehors
doucement je l’entoure
avec les lignes de mon stylo
lui faisant des pièges, des enceintes 
où elle finalement devra se soumettre
et découvrir les paroles de son chant

The thought catcher

thought is like a cricket
hidden in its hole
you have to tickle with drawings
to make it seek the light
I paint arrows and colors
to get its attention
once arrived to put it outside
gently I surround it
with the lines of my pen
making traps, enclosures
where it finally will have to submit
and discover the lyrics of its song

non son nada
ren
ou se algo for sería 
o brillo sobre un croio
no que non asenta o musgo

escribo como un carpinteiro
que usando taboas medio podres
constrúe un galpón
por onde se coa o vento
que abanea as arañeiras

nunca souben que é unha alma
nin tiven mais coñecemento 
que o das cousas sólidas
vivín como un animal
que se alimenta dos restos
dun vertedoiro
coa pelaxe chea de calvas
e costras de feridas recentes

non son nada
e se algo puider ser
sería un vagalume pequeniño
que un neno de doce anos
atopa nun valo nunha noite de verán
un lucecú cunha pequeniña luz 
que se fixa imperecedeira
no vizoso territorio 
da infancia
e se torna faro
guía para voltar
ao asombro deses ollos 
que buscan xoias na noite
cando camiñes
no ermo azoutado
pola nevarada

confession

I'm nothing
nought
or if I were something it would be
the glow on a pebble
in which the moss does not settle

I write like a carpenter
which using half-rotten boards 
builds a shed
where the wind blows 
waving the cobwebs

I never knew what a soul is
nor did I have more knowledge 
than that of solid things
I lived like an animal
which feeds on the remains
of a landfill
with the coat full of bald spots
and scars from recent wounds

I'm nothing
and if anything I could be
it would be a tiny firefly
that a twelve-year-old boy 
finds in a fence on a summer night
a firefly with a small light
which is fixed imperishable
in the fertile territory
of childhood
and becomes a beacon
guide to return
to the astonishment of those eyes
looking for jewelry at night
when you´d walk
in the whipped moor
by the snowfall

No interior hai un mar salgado
que medrou paseniñamente
pinga sobre pinga
ano tras ano

o mar cóbreo todo 
dende a planta dos pés torturados
ata o punto máis alto do cerebro
brando e circunnavegador
- nin se decata de estar a pisar
decote o mesmo chan -

por dentro el era auga
era un meniño e era auga
o meniño tiña o reverso de onda mariña
que bate o rochedo

pena tras pena
dor sobre dor
as lágrimas que non toparan
leito de rio ao que saltar
crearan humidade de billa vella
poderosa nai de océanos

no interior hai unha bágoa
rompendo na alma

Inner liquid

Inside there is a salty sea
which grew slowly
drop by drop
year after year

the sea covers everything
from the sole of the tortured feet
to the highest point of the brain
soft and circumnavigator
- it doesn't even realize it’s stepping
always the same ground -

inside he was water
he was a boy and he was water
the reverse of the boy was a sea wave
that hits the rock

grief after grief
pain over pain
tears had not encountered
river bed to jump to
they created old tap damp
powerful mother of oceans

inside there is a tear
crashing on the soul

https://wp.me/p1g7it-1cr

Je laisse ici le lien vers les résultats du concours de poésie organisé par Christophe Condello dans lequel j’ai obtenu une troisième mention.

I leave here the link to the results of Christophe Condello’s poetry contest in which I have obtained a third mention.

Moi contento co resultado, e máis contento aínda de ir aprendendo o manexo da linguaxe poética.

Très heureux du résultat, et encore plus heureux d’apprendre à utiliser le langage poétique.

Very happy with the result, and even more happy to learn the management of poetic language.

Prazeres com farinha

Antes de que el lavavajillas comience el rumiado 
de la loza de la víspera todo es paz
el sol de abril entra por todas las ventanas abiertas de la casa 
mientras el barrio sigue durmiendo 
solo un coche pasa sin prisa 
hacia sus ocios de fin de semana.
los tilos cubren las calles con su color verde más tierno
y el seto tras los contenedores de basura
avanza en su descubrimiento de la primavera.

First hour in the morning

Before the dishwasher begins ruminating 
on the crockery of the day before, all is peace
the April sun enters through all the open windows of the house.
while the neighborhood continues to sleep 
only one car passes slowly
to his weekend leisure.
lime trees cover the streets with their most tender green colour
and the hedge behind the wheelie bins
advances in his discovery of spring.

A pouca terra seca 
que queda pegada ás raíces
despréndese cando subo 
aos avións, animais do aire
que foxen das tormentas

reconcíliome coa cidade 
regateando nos cais
-como papá e mamá 
-cando ía da man
-aprendendo o nomadismo
tomo uma francesinha
compro um casaco 
cor de azulexo…

curo o esvaecemeento
con versos apátridas
que aboian soltos 
sen a áncora 
dunha bandeira
só coa pegada do meu 
adn viaxeiro

Stateless

The little dry soil
that remains in the roots 
comes off when I get on 
the planes, air animals 
fleeing the storms

I reconcile with the city
haggling on the docks 
-like Dad and Mom
-when I used to go hand in hand
-learning nomadism
I have a francesinha, 
buy a jacket
tile color

I hail the fading
with stateless verses
floating loose
without the anchor
of a flag
just with the imprint of my
traveler DNA

Mi pasado más oscuro 
me estaba esperando allí 
como el cadáver de un perro destripado 
salvo por el ajetreo de los gusanos blancos 
y la urgencia de la náusea
todo era silencio estático

El festival de la cobardía 
y la narcótica atonía 
de la procrastinación
habían dejado el suelo cubierto 
de manchas pegajosas 
y de basura esparcida 
un fuerte olor a cañerías 
y aquel perro muerto llamando al vómito

Ahí estaba mi yo de antes

Ahora vuelvo a mi pueblo
con la túnica de monje budista
y ya nadie me conoce
o si lo hacen piensan que soy otro
sólo que dentro se derrama 
como leche hirviendo
el mismo miedo, la misma dejadez
constantemente debo pasar la bayeta
para que mi yo de hoy consiga
sobrevivir
sin dejar más cadáveres 
insepultos a mi paso

Ruins

my darkest past
was waiting for me there
like the corpse of a disemboweled dog
save for the hustle and bustle of the white worms
and the urgency of nausea
everything was static silence


The festival of cowardice
and the narcotic lethargy
of procrastination
they had left the ground covered
of sticky stains
and scattered garbage
a strong smell of plumbing
and that dead dog calling vomit

There was the me from before

Now I go back to my town
in the robe of a Buddhist monk
and no one knows me anymore
or if they do they think I'm someone else
only inside it spills
like boiling milk
the same fear, the same carelessness
I constantly have to wipe
so that today's me can get
survive
leaving no more corpses
unburied in my path

A tarde silenciosa envólveme a cabeza
cos dous pitidos agudos que permanentemente
me acompañan anque só se fan molestos cando como hoxe
poalla, e semella a casa no fondo dun océano calmo
a humanidade enteira desaparecida
quitando algún coche que amodiño se achega ao cruce
diante da ventá do salón
non hai gritos de nenos xogando
nin berros de parellas que xa non se entenden
o mundo dorme baixo a superficie 
do mar no que botou raíces a casa
Talvez non haxa casualidades 
só un encadeamento de feitos
acurralando o día nunha mesma dirección
levándoo paseniñamente cara á melancolía
morna dos que sobrevivimos aqueles ollos tristes
e non soubemos interpretar o desespero
dende o fondo do vestiario mira para o meu teléfono
mentres lle fago unha foto uns meses antes 
de que lograse porlle fin por fin
ao seu inferno
agora ao fin por fin afondo na sua mirada
un pozo de dor que aspira o día enteiro
cara este baleiro no que o seu recordo
me afunde
a min e á casa cortados do mundo
por centos de millas de auga salgada

Google Photos memories

The silent afternoon wraps my head
with the two high-pitched beeps that permanently
accompany me although they only become annoying when, like today,
it drizzles, and it seems that the house is at the bottom of a calm ocean
the entire humanity disappeared
except for a car slowly approaching the intersection
in front of the living room window
no screeching of children playing
nor cries of couples who no longer get along well
the world sleeps below the surface
of the sea in which the house took root
Maybe there are no coincidences
just a chain of events
cornering the day in the same direction
slowly leading him to lukewarm 
melancholy of those of us who survived these sad eyes
and we did not know how to interpret despair
from the back of the locker room he looks at my phone
while I take a picture of him a few months before
that he finally managed to put an end 
to his hell
now finally in the end I immerse myself in his gaze
a well of pain that absorbs all day
towards that emptiness in which the memory of him 
sinks me
me and the house isolated from the world
under hundreds of miles of salt water