Lorsque j’ai ouvert mes yeux 
l’hiver était encore là 
retourné sur le plancher 
de mon arrière jardin
pointant le bout de son nez 
aux vitres de la cuisine 
étonné de me trouver 
à pétrir la pâte à pain 
en un effort soutenu 
au fil des quatre saisons 
pour me sentir à ma place
au fond de ce labyrinthe
nous v'là donc: l’hiver, sa glace, 
moi et mon puissant chauffage, 
à nous battre comme jadis 
au duel du kilowatt 
tandis qu'en silence, doucement 
la langue de l’Angleterre 
malgré moi elle m’engloutit 
telle un puits de sable mouvant 
qui sait si dans une année 
avec les neiges d'automne 
j'aurai déjà disparu 
it could be totally vraie
je crains que ça ne m’étonne

winter comes back

When I opened my eyes
winter was again here
returned to the wooden deck
of my rear garden
pointing the tip of his nose
at the kitchen windows
amazed to find me
to knead the bread dough
in a sustained effort
through the four seasons
to feel in my place
at the bottom of this labyrinth
So here we are: winter, its ice,
me and my powerful heater,
to fight like in the old days
in the kilowatt duel
while in silence, gently
the language of England
in spite of myself it swallows me up
like a well of quicksand
who knows if in a year
with the autumn snows
I will have already disappeared
it could be totally true
I'm afraid that will surprise me

Buscando la perfección
me quedé a dormir bajo la parra
me dije que no escribiría 
mientras no tuviese el poema perfecto
Incluso me permití despreciar lo que otros construían
¡Bah, eso lo hago yo mil veces mejor!
así que me eché a dormir abrigado por los sarmientos
en aquel suelo fértil de esperanzas

Vinieron los vendimiadores primero
y cayeron luego las hojas secas 
pasaron los podadores dejando el emparrado
aseado, lista la viña para la nueva cosecha
yo seguía soñando la perfección
A base de soñar, con los años, 
me fui secando hasta que 
me convertí en una piel seca de serpiente,
no había ya terminaciones nerviosas 
que captasen sentimiento alguno
nada ya que mereciese la pena ser contado
¿De que hablaría pues? 
¿De los cantos rodados que como yo 
apuntaron a la perfección
y que la alcanzaron tras milenios de rodadura?
no sé si tendría tanto tiempo

Cada noche, siguiendo un estricto horario 
el raposo marcaba su territorio en mi campo onírico
y venía por la mañana el rocío
a diluír las lindes de aquel reino
Podría ser lo que yo llegase a ser,
un reflejo dorado sobre el agua mansa del lago
un jirón de niebla adornando el valle
algo bello, que al pasar el Sol
en Su lento caminar matutino
dijese, ¡vaya hombre! hoy si que me ha alegrado la jornada
aquella niebla perezosa extendiéndose 
más allá de los bosques de eucaliptos
cubriendo las casa pobres
ese brillo sobre la mancha azul del embalse.
Daría lo que fuese por ser sólo uno de los cantos rodados
que partidos por la mitad conforman el empedrado 
en una calle de Basilea, 
Algo hermoso por dentro resplandeciendo hacia afuera
formando parte de una sociedad que cada tarde 
al sentir bajo la suela de sus zapatos aquella lisa superficie 
se dijese, ¡qué bello es mi país!
O quizá una fórmula matemática redonda y útil
que atormentase la infancia de los poetas.

Pero estaba en el mismo viñedo
muda de ofidio que ni a las hormigas interesa
condenado eternamente a los nitratos de las marcas fronterizas
a la humedad de la mañana y al sol tibio del otoño
¿Cuantos siglos más pasarían hasta lograr materializar la belleza?

Looking for perfection

Looking for perfection
I stayed to sleep under the vine
I told myself that I would not write
as long as I didn't have the perfect poem
I even allowed myself to despise what others built
Bah, I do that a thousand times better!
so I went to sleep sheltered by the vine shoots
in that fertile soil of hopes

The grape pickers came first
and then the dry leaves fell
the pruners passed by leaving the arbor
neat, the vineyard ready for the new harvest
I kept dreaming of perfection
Based on dreaming, over the years,
I was drying up until
I became a shedding snake skin,
there were no longer nerve endings
to capture any feelings
nothing worth being told
What would I talk about then,
about river stones that the same as me
they aimed for perfection but reached it
after millennia of rolling?
I don't know if I would have that long

Every night, following a strict schedule
the fox marked his territory in my dream field
and the dew came in the morning
to dilute the borders of that kingdom
I could be what I could become
a golden reflection on the still water of the lake
a wisp of mist adorning the valley
something beautiful, that when the Sun passes
in His slow morning walk
He says, what a surprise! today my day has brightened
that lazy mist spreading
beyond the eucalyptus forests
covering the poor houses
that glow on the blue stain of the reservoir.
I'd give anything to be just one of the river stones
which halves make up the cobblestone
on a street in Basel,
something beautiful inside shining out
being part of a society that every afternoon
feeling that smooth surface under the soles of his shoes
they could say, how beautiful my country is!
Or maybe a useful round math formula
that tormented the childhood of poets.

But I was in the same vineyard
shedding snake skin that not even the ants are interested in
Eternally doomed to borderline nitrates
to the morning damp and the warm autumn sun
How many more centuries would it take to achieve beauty?

Este amencer de árbores espidas 
cando o tráfico aínda dorme 
conduzo pola ruta da liña cento once
de camiño ao taller que nunca pecha os ollos
vou acompañado ao teléfono
"qué fermoso amencer no chan cuberto de follas"
avanzo atrás do autobús ecolóxico
respetuoso co límite das 20 millas
leva un cartel de letras que corren
con mensaxes do covid
"wear your face mask and so on"
Tento que vivas ti desde tan lonxe
o percorrido de árbores liberadas
pola paz destas rúas medio espertas
e ao mesmo tempo sinto do outro lado 
a casa nosa que te rodea, 
o arrecendo da leña ardendo
para quencer a cociña
e afora a ameixeira a coidar da fachada 
o rabirrubio vixiando decote as fronteiras 
e na horta e nas viñas
malia estrugas e silvas
nacen flores de orballo que che adornan as pernas
e entre este ir e vir de palabras 
envoltas en follas de papel 
do xornal cheirando a tinta
vai nacendo en min o extrano sentimento
de pertenza a un fogar, a unha cidade
amarrando por fin a alma 
que como un globo de helio solto, 
leva anos vagando paseada polo vento
volvo sentir esa calor no peito 
e as raíces atopan terra escura 
na que de novo buscar alimento

Autumn conversations

This dawn of bare trees
when the traffic is still asleep
I drive the route of line one hundred and eleven
on the way to the workshop that never closes his eyes
I am accompanied to the phone
"what a beautiful daybreak on the ground covered with leaves"
I walk behind the green bus
respectful of the 20 mile limit
it carries a scrolling messages display
giving advice for covid
“wear your mask and so on”
I try to make you live from so far away
the tour of liberated trees
through the peace of these streets half awake
and also I can feel on the other side of the line
our house around you,
the smell of burning wood
to heat the kitchen
and the plum tree taking care of the façade
the black redstart continually guarding the borders
and in the vegetable garden and the vineyards
despite nettles and brambles
dew flowers are born that adorn your legs
and between this coming and going of words
wrapped in newspaper sheets 
still smelling of ink
the strange feeling of belonging 
to a home, to a city
is being born in me
finally tying the soul
that like a loose helium balloon,
has been wandering in the wind for years
I feel that heat in my chest again
and the roots find dark soil
in which to search for food again

Non só o ser humano se rebela;
cando as árbores miraron 
no que se convertera esta cidade
viñeron en masa dende hábitats afastados
nos peteiros das aves,
arroladas polo río ou no colo do vento,
no intestino de mamíferos corredores
e se instalaron nas rúas estériles de ladrillo
para oporse a este mundo mineral morto
trouxeron a cor, a danza do murmurio
das suas polas a xogar co aire
así o pobo arbóreo 
formado por castiñeiros e faias,
carballos e pradairos
cerdeiras e bidueiros
chantou os seus pés na terra fértil 
oculta baixo a beirarrúa
e espallou a vida no cemiterio de ladrillo
e os centos de etnias que aquí viñemos
arrastados pola marea
agarrámonos das suas follas
e puidemos seguir respirando 
lonxe das nosas terras

Tree rebellion

Not only the human being rebels;
when the trees saw
what had this city turned into
they came en masse from distant lands
on the beaks of the birds,
rocked by the river or in the lap of the wind,
in the gut of running mammals
and settled in the barren brick streets
to oppose this dead mineral world
they brought the color, the murmur dance
of its branches playing with the air
thus the tree people 
formed by chestnut and beeches,
oaks and maples
cherries and birches
it planted its feet in the fertile soil
hidden under the pavement
and spread life in the brick graveyard
and the hundreds of ethnic groups thrown here
washed away by the tide
we clung to its leaves
and could keep breathing
far from our territories

Mentres lavaba a louza a auga morna correndome polas mans trouxome o recordo da cuarto escuro que necesitaba para illarme do mundo. Ás veces a mente traballa así, hai unha sensación física asociada a unha memoria e ao reproducirse aquela preséntase de volta esta de maneira diáfana.

Ante a miña inadaptación á sociedade usei do alcohol para tentar encaixar, e funcionaba pero só cando levaba moito bebido e logo volvía estar máis illado aínda, e necesitaba esconderme nun cuarto escuro, onde ninguén me vise. Era a única forma de soportar a vida.

Bloqueado polo feito de só sentirme a gusto separado do mundo, fun pensando que se o cuarto fose mais pequeno me seguiría protexendo, e funo reducindo ata convertelo nunha caixa dentro da cal podía viaxar a calquera sitio, seguro, protexido, illado da xente.

O seguinte paso, para facilitar a mobilidade foi ir reducindo a caixa ata ila pegando máis e máis ao corpo, para facer máis doado o paso polas portas, o subir ao tranvía ou baixar polas escaleiras do metro.

Cun gran esforzo de adaptación conseguín pegar a caixa completamente ao meu corpo e convertila en algo así coma un traxe de bucear de 5 mm de gordo. A xente via o “meu” traxe pero non me vían a min e seguía podéndome desprazar con confianza.

O seguinte paso e o definitivo foi descubrir que así como o meu traxe non era eu, tampouco a miña pel o era. O meu ser non era unha uña o un cabelo, ou a derme que cobre todo o corpo. Decateime de que a xente podia verme por fora, ver os meus ollos, os meus dentes e era como se visen as paredes do cuarto no que vivira escondido. O meu ser non estaba aí, ao aire, por iso non sufre polo contacto das persoas. Eu son máis ca ese envoltorio e estou ben protexido na miña alma, non preciso esconder o exterior porque este é só unha parte insignificante e mesmo desprezabel comparado co resto de min. 

Por iso acepto que xa non necesito barreira, máis ca necesaria para manter a temperatura corporal en cada estación.

The fall of the barriers

While doing the washing-up, the warm water running through my hands brought me the memory of the dark room I needed to isolate myself from the world. Sometimes the mind works like this, there is a physical sensation associated with a memory and when years later the body feels the same sensation, it triggers the reappearance of that memory.

In the face of my poor adaptation to society I used alcohol to try to fit in, and it worked but only when I drinked heavily, however with the hangover I became even more isolated, and needed to hide in a dark room, where no one saw me. It was the only way to endure life.

Blocked by just feeling at ease apart from the world, I started to think that if the room were smaller it would continue to protect me, and I was reducing it to a box inside which I could travel anywhere, safe, protected, isolated from people.

The next step, to facilitate mobility, was to reduce the box to bring it progressively closer to the body, so that it would be easier for me to go through the doors, get on the tram, go down the subway stairs.

With a lot of adaptation effort I managed to stick the box completely to my body and turn it into something like a 5mm thick diving suit. People saw “my” suit but they didn’t see me and I could still move around with confidence.

The next and final step was to discover that just as my suit was not me, neither was my skin. My being is not a nail or a hair, or the dermis that covers the whole body. I realized that people could see my outside, my eyes and teeth and it was as if they looked at the walls of the room where I lived hidden. My being wasn’t there, exposed to air, so he doesn’t suffer from people’s contact. I am more than that wrapper and I am well protected in my soul, I don’t need to hide the outside because it is just an insignificant and even despicable part compared to the rest of me.

So eventually I accept that I don’t need a barrier, more than what is necessary to maintain body temperature at every season.

Salade composée à base de carottes et courgette râpées
laissées en macération dans du jus de citron
le temps de lire quelque poèmes de Néruda
après les vers y ajouter les compléments
pissenlit, tomate, olives, grains de grenade, raisin secs
arrosé de la vinaigrette à la bonne huile d’olive, 
vinaigre de pomme et un chouya de miel;
à l’objet d’y ramener une pincée du goût de mer 
ainsi que pour l’affaire protéique
ouvrez une boîte de maquereaux bien huileux
et mélangez le tout jusqu’à ce que vos yeux en soient rassasiés.

Faire la cuisine est devenu ma dernière frontière pour éviter la mort de la créativité. Le micro-ondes et les plats précuits sont la menace toujours à l’affût de ma faiblesse

Aujourd’hui est apparu dans la boîte au lettres mon diplôme DELF B2 après deux années d’attente. Chouette!

Mixed salad

Mixed salad made with carrot and zucchini grated
left to marinate in lemon juice
just the time to read some of Neruda's poems
after verses add in complements
dandelion, tomato, olives, pomegranate seeds, raisins
drizzled with the good olive oil vinaigrette,
apple cider vinegar and a little honey;
and to bring back a pinch of sea flavor
as well as for the protein issue
open a can of very oily mackerel
and stir everything until your eyes are satiated

The kitchen has become my last frontier to avoid the death of creativity. The microwave and ready meals are the threat, always on the lookout for my weakness

My DELF B2 diploma appeared in the mailbox today after two years of wait. Nice!

A nosa cama, como unha lata de sardiñas aberta aboiando á deriva nun océano en tormenta

Memória da dor e do baleiro coberta con sabas de flanela que viaxa levada polas ondas lonxe dos países onde fomos infelices, lonxe dos cristais rotos que cubriron o chan da nosa casa un ano tras outro.

Polo menos aquí hai aire dabondo para non asfixiar, e anque non veña o día podemos seguir deitados indolentes, sen medo xa á morte porque isto só é un soño.

Mires onde mires só hai mar e ceo e a roupa da cama que cada vez está máis mollada, pero seguimos flotando e navegando sen coñecer o rumbo. 

Seguro haberá un día un porto, ou a cama afundirá sen remedio, non se sabe o que chegará primeiro. Algo sucederá tarde ou cedo que mude o noso destino, pero polo momento estamos ben aquí deitados, xuntos, arrolados polo vento salgado gozando da paz deste temporal que non nos toca.

Fomos ficando sós
o mar a cama e máis nós

Adrift

Our bed, like an open sardine can floating adrift in a stormy ocean

Memory of pain and emptiness covered with flannel sheets traveling carried by the waves away from the countries where we were unhappy, away from the broken glass that covered the floor of our house year after year.

At least here there is enough air not to suffocate, and even if the day does not come we can continue lying lazyly, without fear of death already because this is just a dream.

No matter where you look there is only sea and sky and bedding that is getting wetter and wetter, but we keep floating and sailing without knowing the course.

Surely one day there will be a port, or the bed will sink hopelessly, it is not known what will come first. Something will happen sooner or later that will change our destiny, but for the moment we are well here lying, together, rolled by the salty wind enjoying the peace of this storm that does not touch us.

We were progressively left alone
the sea the bed and us

Marchar é sempre triste. Anque esa tristura agáchase tras os nervios e as presas, os controis e os cacheos, a exposición en ringleiras como unha mercadoría máis

A preocupación por ter toda a documentación en regra fai parecer a pena da partida como un sentimento secundario, algo de entidade menor que non debe estorbar o desenrolo da viaxe.

Cando por fin chegas a destino e desaparece a neboa só che queda o cansazo nas articulacións

e a magoa de ter que vivir lonxe do teu pobre país que se encontra cada vez máis aillado e receloso do exterior

cun excedente de man de obra barata, debecendo por subvencións, por un posto na administración pública onde poder descansar, pola chegada da xubilación canto antes, pola vinda da morte

Meu país do que fuxe o talento e no que a mediocridade bota raíces fondas

preparas nas universidades á xuventude lista para a exportación,

paxaro de alas mutiladas condenado a correr nun galiñeiro

pobre país meu, non sei xa se te soporto, e canto te boto de menos!

Foto do derradeiro solpor desta visita  – Photo of the last sunset of this visit

Emigrant

The depart is always sad. Although that sadness hides behind the nerves and the rush, the controls and the frisks, the exposure in rows as another good.

The concern of having all the documentation in order makes it seem worthwhile to leave as a secondary feeling, something of a minor entity that should not hinder the development of the trip.

When you finally reach your destination and the fog disappears, you only have fatigue in your joints and the pity of having to live far from your poor country which is increasingly isolated and wary of the outside

My country, with a surplus of cheap labor, longing for subsidies, for a position in the public administration where you can rest, for the arrival of retirement as soon as possible, for the coming of death

My country from which talent flees and in which mediocrity has deep roots

you prepare the youth in the universities, packaged for export,

mutilated-winged bird doomed to run in a chicken coop

poor my country, I don’t know if I can stand you anymore, how much I miss you already!

Despois dunha viaxe tan longa
a luz do amencer chega lixeira e cálida
para acariñar a superficie das cousas
e darme unha nova oportunidade
de reconstrución

Sería idiota o desaproveitala
ancorándome ás sombras da noite

The light of dawn

After such a long journey
the light of dawn comes light and warm
to caress the surface of things
and give me a new chance
of reconstruction

It would be stupid to waste it
anchoring me in the shadows of the night

Os que temos un nivel básico de inglés coma min, cústanos moito entender a língua nun rexistro distinto do estándar. O B1 que saquei hai catro anos, nunha escola do meu país, permíteme sobrevivir a duras penas no noroeste de Inglaterra. 

Quitando os temas nos que estou traballando, as máis das veces intúo o que din e case sempre perdo unha parte da mensaxe. Isto fai que me sinta torpe e non logre integrarme co que resulta un sentimento de soidade como un zumbido de fondo, ao que te afás pero que o cobre todo permanentemente.

Not fluent

Those who have a basic level of English like me, find it very difficult to understand the language in a register other than the standard.  The B1 level exam that I have passed four years ago, at a school in my country, allows me to barely survive in the North West of England.

Except for the topics I’m working on, most of the time I intuit what they say and I almost always miss a part of the message. This makes me feel awkward, have difficulties settling in so that results in a feeling of loneliness like a background buzz, even if you get used to, it covers everything permanently.