É xa case seguro que son poeta
Do paseo polo monte volvín 
Con tres garabullos no peto:
- Dous pauciños secos de toxo
- Un talo cortado de carqueixa
Xogo a adiviñar o pasado
Lanzando os tres sobre a mesa

Agardeite no porto ansioso
O mar pechado de neboa
Volvín de baleiro a casa
Pasei o pano na cuberta
Do libro de prosa de Sylvia

Ensaiei sorrisos resilientes 
Abrin de cheo as fiestras
- Entón, lenta e poderosa
- Asolagáchesme a illa
Con semente de esperanza
Entraches na luz das estrelas
Completando a rolda da noite

My island

It is almost certain that I am a poet
I returned from the walk in the hills 
With three twigs in my pocket:
- Two dried gorse stalks
- A cut stem of heather
I play guessing the past
Throwing all three on the table

I waited anxious for you in the port
The sea closed in fog
I returned home empty-handed
And wiped the cover of Sylvia's prose book

I rehearsed resilient smiles
Open the windows wide
- Then, slow and powerful
- You flooded my island
With a seed of hope
You entered in the starlight
Completing the night's round

El señor A no tiene vacaciones
A dónde sino puede ir un nómada
Que considere su hogar
Acogiéndose a Pessoa
Puede decir que su patria es la lengua
(Adaptándolo diría: son las lenguas)
Y el lugar físico es una mera circunstancia
Si duerme en Oporto, o en Coruña
En Chester u Oxford no cambia en nada
La esfera que permanentemente lo envuelve
Y se alimenta a diario de sus pensamientos
Es una y la misma
Y su piel huele a hoguera 
Una hora después de frotarla con esencias aceitosas
Sigue oliendo a humo y campamento
Entiende la mirada cuando pasa
Quisiera unas buenas vacaciones
Para volver cansado de sol al hogar de piedra
Majestuosos cimientos!
Raíces gruesas que lo agarrasen por los pies
Que no hubiese más movimiento
Al lado del avellano y la fuente
Uno más entre los suyos

Mr A and the movement

Mr. A doesn't have holidays
Where else can a nomad go
Who considers their home
Invoking the words from Pessoa
He can say that his homeland is language
(Adapting it, I would say: it's languages)
And the physical place is a mere circumstance
Whether he sleeps in Porto or Coruña
In Chester or Oxford, it doesn't change at all
The sphere that permanently envelops him
And feeds daily on his thoughts
Is one and the same
And his skin smells like a bonfire
An hour after rubbing it with oily essences
It still smells of smoke and camp
He understands the distrustful look when he passes
He would like proper holidays
To return, tired of the sun, to the stone home
Majestic foundations!
Thick roots that would hold him by the feet
So there would be no more movement
Next to the hazel tree and the fountain
One more among his people

Falo as linguas dos cinco imperios
Descoñezo profundamente a fala natural
Que se erosiona a diario no bordo das beirarrúas

Podo pois ter acceso aos representantes 
Das suas maxestades os emperadores
Portadores das fermosas macetas de terra estéril
Tan ben decoradas que simulan a vida

Saio de mañá cedo bordeo prados de ovellas negras
A un momento a estrada chega ao mar
Percorre a sua beira, copiando a liña férrea
Ambos, o tren e o coche soñan circulares soños 
Nos que bancos de rinchas cruzan o mar de Irlanda

O amarelo da flor do toxo complementa ao lila das urces
Nas fotos nas que sorrío fronte ao smartphone 
As silvas do país de Gales superando a inhóspita espiña
Tintan de morado as nosas ansias de terra

Empires and flowers

I speak the languages of the five empires
I am profoundly ignorant of the natural speech 
That erodes daily the kern of the sidewalks

I can therefore have access to the representatives 
Of their majesties the emperors
Carriers of the beautiful pots of sterile earth
So well decorated that they simulate life

I leave early in the morning, I border meadows of black sheep
A moment later the road reaches the sea
It runs along its shore, copying the railway line
Both, the train and the car dream circular dreams
In which schools of mackerel cross the Irish Sea

The yellow of the gorse flower complements the lilac of the heather
In the photos in which I smile in front of the smartphone
The brambles of Wales overcoming the inhospitable thorn
They dye our yearnings for land purple

El mundo era una casa de paredes rectas y esquinas cuadradas donde no llegaba la escoba 

Tras siglos de limpieza apurada se acumulaba el colesterol de la humanidad 

El aire melífluo, denso de convenciones ahogaba a sus criaturas

Con los útiles que la ciencia de su tiempo puso al alcance: agujas, cristales rotos, virutas afiladas del torno

Arrastró la sangre espesa, lenta de gusanos, circunspecta de hielo

Abrió las arterias que habían permanecido, durante eras, subterráneas, secretas, remotas

Hizo circular por ellas el mar de Gales, sus algas marrones, sus botes de pesca

De manera que hoy, si aproximas la oreja a la carne, sientes el olor de un banco de caballas

Y sobre la lámina hidráulica de tus ojos abiertos se resbalan dos sapos en celo

Así, liberados nos dejó a solas con la vestimenta holgada de la poesía 

Legacy and conjecture

The world was a house with straight walls and square corners where the broom couldn't reach

After centuries of hurried cleaning, humanity's cholesterol had accumulated

The honeyed air, dense with conventions, suffocated its creatures

With the tools that the science of its time made available: needles, broken glass, sharp shavings from the lathe

He dragged the thick blood, slow with worms, circumspect with ice

He opened the arteries that had remained, for ages, underground, secret, remote

He made the Welsh sea circulate through them, its brown algae, its fishing boats

So that today, if you put your ear to the flesh, you smell a shoal of mackerel

And on the hydraulic sheet of your open eyes two toads in heat slide

So liberated he left us with the loose clothing of poetry

Pasei en autobús pola Vila de Outes 
cos ollos ben abertos camiño de Muros
indo á Pobra atravesei Lestrobe 
levando a Rosalía na bicicleta 

Os poemas un esqueleto de saudade
no que co abraio das viaxes 
fixen medrar a carne do mito

Agora ferve no peito unha sustancia 
que a través dos ollos quere 
estourar cara ao mundo

Na boca de Óliver Laxe
“je suis galicien”
unha declaración sinxela 
que eu repetín durante anos

A través da neboa da distancia
albisco a implosión dunha estrela
as poetas remexen coa língua
un monte de follas secas

Something bursting inside my chest

I passed through Vila de Outes by bus
with my eyes wide open on the way to Muros
going to Pobra I crossed Lestrobe
taking Rosalía on the bike

The poems a skeleton of longing
in which with the amazement of the travels
I made the flesh of the myth grow

Now a substance boils in my chest
that through my eyes wants to
burst out towards the world

In the mouth of Óliver Laxe
“je suis galicien”
a simple declaration
that I repeated for years

Through the fog of the distance
I glimpse the implosion of a star
the poets are stiring with their tongues
a pile of dry leaves

Illa de San Simón – verán 2013

Como a vida estaba feita de todo

E a forza do sol aceleraba os eventos

Quitei o traxe de perlas salgadas

Decidín aproveitar a enerxía do momento

Summer

How life was made of everything

And the force of the sun accelerated events

I took off my salty pearls suit

I decided to seize the energy of the moment

Hier il est parut le numéro 3 de la revue poétique Hespérie et cette fois-ci  avec un poème à moi!

Tout d’abord, il faut remercier Jean-Marc Feldman pour le travail qu’il a accompli. Dans une publication numérique de 144 pages il a compilé les vers de dix-neuf auteurs. Pour moi c’est une fierté et un honneur de partager cet espace avec eux tous et toutes.

Je vous laisse le lien, pour que vous puissiez la télécharger et ainsi la savourer par petites doses.

https://hesperie.blogspot.com/2025/07/le-numero-3-de-la-revue-poetique.html

Yesterday, issue number 3 of the poetry magazine Hespérie came out, and this time there is one of my poems in it!

First of all, I must thank Jean-Marc Feldman for all his work. He compiled the verses of nineteen authors into a 144-page digital publication. It’s a source of pride and honor for me to share this space with all of them.

I’ll leave you the link so you can download and enjoy it in small doses.

Esta mañá asomeime á beira do mar,
Aínda que a marea estaba alta
Había o cheiro á liberdade morta
Dunha paxareira superpoboada

Seguramente estaban cocendo
Na empresa de conxelados
Da que despediran a R durante a folga
Na que se chantara en primeira liña

Tamén na esplanada do porto
Recén saídos da fábrica de papá
Milleiros de coches agardan
A seren cargados no barco de Francia

Acompañan esa repetición obsesiva
Os monótonos chíos dos pardais
Constantes como unha migraña
Lonxe da anunciada recesión

R, my sister

This morning I looked out to the sea,
Even though the tide was high
There was the smell of dead freedom
From an overcrowded aviary

They were probably cooking
In the frozen food company
From which R had been fired during the strike
In which she had been on the front lines

Also on the port esplanade
Freshly out of dad’s factory
Thousands of cars are waiting
To be loaded onto the ship to France

Accompanying that obsessive repetition
The monotonous chirping of sparrows
Constant as a migraine
Far from the announced recession

I have to thank Manuela Timofte once again for publishing another poem of mine, «While Preparing the Salad,» in Gobblers by Masticadores. Sometimes we’re not as far removed from animals as we might think. I wrote it a year ago when we were living in London and I had the little incident with the seagull.

While preparing the salad

Ás veces por erro atravesa a luz do sol a fiestra
Como unha liña de tinta dourada
Desvela a galaxia invisíbel de pó

Ao meu lado descubro o brillo duro e negro
Dun cacho de material radiactivo
Demasiado tarde para evitar o contacto

Así que sigo, como os antigos esquimos,
Avanzando cara adiante sobre o xeo
Agarrado á liña que traza o círculo polar ártico 

Podería ser nómade, ou un representante 
Dunha marca de zapatos, de vila en vila
Se non for polo traxe mal planchado do fuxitivo

No meu sangue o coitelo
E non atopo unha prisión 
Na que repousar de tanta carreira 

Levanto o campamento en canto
No horizonte comeza a clarear o ceo
Que non me sorprenda o sol durmido

There isn’t a prison

Sometimes sunlight enters the window by mistake
Like a line of golden ink
Unveiling an invisible galaxy of dust

Beside me I discover the hard, black glow
Of a lump of radioactive material
Too late to avoid contact

So I continue, like the ancient Eskimos
Advancing forward on the ice
Holding the line traced by the Arctic Circle

I could be a nomad, or a representative
Of a shoes' brand traveling from town to town
If it weren't for the fugitive's poorly ironed suit

In my blood the knife
And I can't find a prison 
to rest in from such a rush

I break camp as soon as
On the horizon the sky begins to lighten
May the sun not surprise me sleeping

No hi ha cap presó

De vegades, per error, la llum del sol entra per la finestra
Com una línia de tinta daurada
Revela una galàxia invisible de pols
al meu costat descobreixo la dura i negra resplendor
Un munt de material radioactiu
Massa tard per evitar el contacte
Així que segueixo, com els esquimals d'antany,
Avançant sobre el gel
Guiat per la línia fina que dibuixes
El cercle polar àrtic 
Pot ser nòmada o un representant 
D'una marca de sabates que viatja de poble en poble
Si no fos perquè gairebé segur que porto el vestit mal planxat del fugitiu
El ganivet és a la meva sang
I no puc trobar una presó on descansar
D'una carrera com aquesta 
Desmuntaré el campament tan aviat com pugui.
A l'horitzó el cel comença a aclarir-se
No deixis que el sol adormit em sorprengui.