Poetry is my desperate attempt to become a human being instead of the ant that goes out every day in search of food

Poetry is the difference between staying just a rigid shape or being able to growing coloured blossoms around

I was an ox pulling a cart loaded with stones from the quarrel

I was a yoke of oxen dragging a heavy cart over square wheels 

And a herd of oxen tied with soil shackles to our land

I was the surface of the hard and hermetic things that keep feelings in the dark

Princípios e raizes

A poesia é minha tentativa desesperada de chegar a ser humano em vez da formiga que sai todos os dias a procura de alimento

A poesia é a diferença entre ficar apenas uma forma rígida ou ser quem de cultivar flores coloridas ao redor

Eu fui boi a puxar um carro carregado com pedra da pedreira

Fui junta de bois sob uma pesada carga acima de rodas quadradas 

E manada de bois amarrados com grilhões de terra ao nosso chão

Fui a superfície das coisas duras e herméticas que mantêm os sentimentos na escuridão

Coas últimas apertas tento conxelar o tempo, tapar o burato por onde abrollará a cachón a tristura. 

Pasamos sobre Rande despedíndome tamén da ría, ese mar recollido onde pacen rabaños de bateas. Adeus mexillóns, adeus aos oligoelementos! 

Coas últimas apertas tento cargar as reservas de cariño a rebordar, para cando veña a triste soidade poder pasarlle a língua á superficie doce dos recordos e tirar as vitaminas que tornen a enfermidade como se torna unha vaca das coles.

Dígolle adeus, xa dende a ventá do avión á cidade de edificios apertados acaroada ao mar, adeus aos verdes montes salpicados de casiñas, e á fin no interior, adeus á luz e ao aire do xardín que trouxeron un adianto da primavera, adeus logo ás primeiras flores da ameixeira.

Adeus sobre todo aos teus abrazos, porta doutra dimensión onde o espazo non permita viaxar e o tempo nunca se esgote para estarmos así xuntos por sempre.

The last hugs

With the last hugs I try to freeze time, cover the hole where sadness will spring up.

We passed over Rande bridge, also saying goodbye to the estuary, that secluded sea where herds of rafts graze.  Goodbye mussels, goodbye to the trace elements!

With the last hugs I try to fill the reserves of affection to overflow, so that when the sad loneliness comes I can pass my tongue to the sweet surface of memories to extract the vitamins that drive away the disease as the farmer shoos away the naughty cow that eats his cabbages.

I say goodbye, already from the plane window, to the city of tight buildings facing the sea, goodbye to the green hills dotted with houses, and eventually inside, goodbye to the light and air of the garden that brought a preview of spring, goodbye to the first plum blossoms.

And goodbye mainly to your hugs, door to another dimension where space does not allow travel and time never runs out to allow us to be together forever.

January’s shadow gives the tree a mirror in which to look at itself

Chega a enfermidade sempre no momento inoportuno, non molestan tanto as dores que me trae como a desorganización que me deixa. 

E a doenza non viu antes porque estaba tan atarefado eu que non topou unha fenda no meu horario por onde coarse.

Teño tantas tarefas pendentes, que continuaría correndo trala morte, de feito ás veces penso se sigo aínda vivo ou xa estou únicamente imaxinando unha vida e o meu corpo xace inerte nalgures.

Illness

Illness always comes at the wrong time and it is not as much the pain that it brings as the disorganization it leaves me with.

And the disease did not arrive before because I was so busy that it did not find a hole in my agenda to sneak.

I have so many pending tasks that I would continue to run after death, in fact sometimes I wonder if I’m still alive or I’m just imagining a life and my body lies inert somewhere.

Á ameixeira os anos trouxéronlle amáis de liques e musgos para abrigar as pólas, o poder de ler os soños e pesadelos femininos.

Aínda que xa é unha árbore vella, tivo coma min a sorte de coñecer únicamente as dores da paz. Ela non nacera aínda cando a señora da casa era só unha meniña de nove anos asustada mentres as balas batían contra a fachada.

Esta é a casa das mulleres, anque hoxe só queda en ela a derradeira da liñaxe, e a eira arredor encheuse de recunchos baleiros onde as follas de carballo xogan á roda, cóllense da man do vento e perséguense unhas ás outras cun louco frenesí, como nenas no pátio da escola.

A ameixeira ergueuse en protectora da casa, por se un día volveran os disparos, parar coas suas pólas vestidas de musgo os proxectiles antes de que puidesen volver bater contra o marco da ventá e asustar as nenas indefensas.

Comecei a podala o inverno pasado, convertinme así no humilde servidor do Vixía no Centeo.

A casa tiña postos que cubrir e eu fun o escollido.

The Women’s house

In addition to lichens and mosses to cover the branches, the years have brought the plum tree the power to read women’s dreams and nightmares.

Although it is already an old tree, it was as lucky as me to know only the pains of peace. It hadn’t been born yet when the lady of the house was just a nine-year-old girl scared as bullets hit the façade.

This is the house of the women, although today only the last of the lineage remains in it, and the threshing floor around it is filled with empty corners where the oak leaves play Ring a Ring o’ Roses, while holding on to the hand of the wind and they chase each other with a mad frenzy, like girls in the school yard.

The plum tree established itself as the protector of the house, in case one day the shots came back, it would stop the projectiles with their moss-covered branches before they could hit the window frame again and scare the helpless girls.

I started pruning it last winter, so I became the humble servant of the Catcher in the Rye.

The house had posts to fill and I was the chosen one.

Vivo rodeado das latas de atún
que foron nun día efímero alimento
e non podo mover un só músculo
sen provocar un caótico cacharreo
meu corpo paseniñamente volveuse
ríxido e liso lombo de peixe mariño
Flexibel espiña de bonito enlatado!
Mundo de pau que parte e estala!
Busco en ámazon polo i de imán
como no meu dicionario de neno
sigo coa dereitura dos mastros
que aprendín a imitar no colexio
E xa só ese son metálico disonante 
das latas a baterse entre elas
e o cheiro dos restos de aceite rancio
me envolven nunha familiaridade tépeda
conseguindo así agachar a superficie
áspera desta soidade do inadaptado 
á procura dun imán que sen esforzo
limpe os cascallos do pasado

Internal landscape with tuna

I live surrounded by cans of tuna
which one day were ephemeral food
and I can't move a single muscle
without causing a chaotic mess
my body slowly became
a rigid and smooth marine fish back
Flexibel fishbone of canned bonito!
world of dry twigs that breaks and bursts!
In amazon, I go to m looking for a magnet
as in my childhood dictionary
I continue with the straightness of the masts
which I learned to imitate at school
And now only that dissonant metallic sound
of the cans beating each other
and the smell of the remnants of rancid oil
they envelop me in a tepid familiarity
hiding the rough surface
of maladjusted's loneliness
looking for a magnet that effortlessly
clean up the rubble of the past

vese o home dende arriba
como filmado cun dron dende o alto
vese que camiña manténdose entre as duas liñas amarelas
no carreiro que ten un moneco amarelo pintado
esfórzase por non pisar ningunha das duas liñas
e case sempre o consegue

O paxaro está atordado
e voa e bate coas paredes
non consegue sair a campo aberto
nin sequera soña que veña unha man quente
mostrarlle o camiño de saída
abrirlle a ventá e liberalo das paredes deste cuarto
Pero non morre, desnortado quedará no chan
recuperándose acabará á fin por topar a saída

Séguese vendo o home dende arriba
cínguese aos espazos delimitados,
ás raias dos pasos de cebra, 
ás luces verdes dos semáforos.

E así a todo as colleitas son sempre fracas
as árbores sécanlle na horta
o escarabello venlle estragar o cultivo

O home non entende
pensou que manténdose dereito
a vida traeríalle canto precisara.
Mais agora xa non ten folgos 
para botar o pe fóra do límite
arriscándose ao mundo prohibido, 
e lograr escapar destes grillóns 
moldearonllos na zafra a medida
e non hai ferreiro que os saque

paths of men and birds

the man is seen from above
as filmed with a drone placed on him
it is seen he walks keeping between the two yellow stripes
on the path with the walking person symbol in yellow
he tries hard not to step on any stripes
and he almost always gets it

The bird is stunned
and flies and hits the walls
can't get out in the open
it doesn’t even dream of a warm hand coming
to show the way out
to open the window and release it from the walls of this room.
But it does not die, it will be left on the ground disoriented
recovering and eventually end up bumping into the exit

The man is still seen from above
confines to delimited spaces,
to the stripes of the zebra crossings,
to the green lights of the traffic lights

And so the crops are always weak
the trees dry up in the orchard
beetles come to spoil the plants

The man does not understand
he thought while standing up straight
life would bring him what he needed.
But now he has no longer strength
to put his feet out of bounds
to risk the forbidden world,
and manage to escape from these shackles
custom molded in the forge
there is no blacksmith to take them out

Los ojos del soldado 
vuelven enfermos de sombra
sus huesos han guardado 
el hielo de los montes 
su espalda por siempre 
ya solo el dolor nombra
los dedos contraídos 
se han tornado torpes 

Su mente fue un arroyo 
rodando falda abajo
los cantos blancos del cauce 
las flores de la orilla 
presagiaban el valle 
caudaloso y manso 
no se imaginaba 
entrando en la guerrilla

Dejó el taller, la novia 
y el equipo de fútbol 
toda el agua salvaje 
corre ya entubada
lucha, dolor, soledad, 
exilio, prisión, disgusto 
se suceden en tromba 
años lejos de casa

Cuando por fin retorna 
es ya un perro enfermo
y viejo y sin brillo 
y como una astilla
molesta y revive 
lo que queremos muerto 
como el bocinazo 
de una caracola 
que no agrada oír 
se le va apartando 
ni estatuas, ni heroe 
ni campo de amapolas

La derrota última 
es la vuelta al país 
desearía haber 
muerto de una bala
cuando aún podía disparar

The soldier

The soldier's eyes
come back sick of shade
his bones have kept
the ice of the mountains
his back forever
only names the pain
the fingers contracted
and he has become clumsy

His mind was a stream
rolling hillside down
the white stones of the riverbed
the flowers of the river bank
foreshadowed the valley
mighty and meek
he did not imagine
entering the guerrilla

He left the workshop, the girlfriend
and the football team
all wild water
run already piped
fight, pain, loneliness,
exile, prison, disappointment
years away from home
happened in a rush

When he finally returns
he is already a sick dog
and old and dull
and like a splinter
annoys and revives
what we want dead
like the honk
of a conch
unpleasant to be heard
they are moving him away
no statues, no hero
no poppy field

The ultimate defeat
it is the return to the country
he wish he had been
killed by a bullet
when he could still shoot

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?