viernes, 6 de diciembre de 2013

Los verdaderos poetas son de repente

Los verdaderos poetas son de repente:
nacen y desnacen, dicen
misterio y son misterio, son niños
en crecimiento tenaz, entran
y salen intactos del abismo, ríen
con el descaro de los 15, saltan
desde el tablón del aire al roquerío
aciago del océano sin
miedo al miedo, los hechiza
el peligro.

Aman y fosforecen, apuestan
a ser, únicamente a ser, tienen mil ojos
y otras mil orejas, pero
las guardan en el cráneo musical, olfatean
lo invisible más allá del número, el
vaticinio va con ellos, son
lozanía y arden lozanía.

Al éxtasis
prefieren el sacrificio, dan sus vidas
por otras vidas, van al frente
cantando, a cada uno
de los frentes, al abismo
por ejemplo, al de la intemperie anarca,
al martirio incluso, a las tormentas
del amor, Rimbaud
los enciende:
«Elle est retrouvée
Quoi? L´Eternité »


Pero la Eternidad es esto mismo.



viernes, 29 de noviembre de 2013

Twisted days from "Scylla and Charybdis"


Creeping crawling starving
Scylla is fast and silent

you see the shining sun
eat cheese and lemon cake
you close your eyes and heart
you feed Scylla’s fangs

you honey and vertigo filled
you get home and think
the monster only happens
to everybody else

eat bread eat lies at night
sorrow until tomorrow
keep sugar honey sweets
behind your twisted days


Whirling twisting shining
Charybdis is charm and whimsy

you see the scary wound
drink urine and sweet sweat
you open arms and legs
you hold onto Charybdis

bile and saccharine soaked
you dream and come to wish
that that peach can only be
yourself without a doubt

strip and drink and dance
eat flesh eat bones at dawn
keep sugar honey sweets

behind your twisted days.
  -----------------------------------------
This poem belongs to the series of poems published as "Scylla and Charybdis". The book can be bought here and the preface of it can be read here.

miércoles, 13 de noviembre de 2013

Amor con chocolate

Amor de tormenta, de esperanza, de sueño, de ensueño. Amor que va a venir, que fue, que solo pasó. Amor de aquellos, de amores, de siempre.
Amor que llega con la marea, con la tarde, con un huracán, en medio del desierto, por correo. Amor que llega, ya casi, ya merito 'ora si.
Amor que se lleva la vida, amor que la trae, la arrastra, la transforma, la estabiliza, la enciende y la incendia, la congela y la perpetúa.
Amor que está lejos, que es un quizá, que sigue ahí, que quiere ser. Amor a la medida, a la distancia que es cauda de planetas en desorden.
Amor en luna llena, en duna plena, en desierto, en cañón, en delta. Amor de ojos llenos, de caminos que se cruzan, amor de pocas palabras.
Amor en paralelo, que no se toca, que solo se mira, solo de lejos. Amor de malentendidos y complicidad, de secretos y demasiados silencios.
Amor al por mayor, aderezado, adormecido, amor embriagado, amor a cuenta gotas. Amor que no se da, amor que es solo entrega, amor con chile.
Amor urgente, amor exprés, amor por recomendación médica, amor a dieta y dieta de amor.Amor descalzo, amor sin puerto, amor a pierna suelta.
Amor imaginado, amor perfecto, amor cubierto de besos y saliva, de rosas y chocolate, amor bañado en mezcal, naranjas y flores de azahar.
Amor que deslumbra, amor que deja sin palabras, que no tiene palabras, que no tiene perdón. Amor de marea, amor que tiene el sonido del mar.
Amor eterno, amor de soles, lunas y supernovas. Amor que surca el cielo horadando constelaciones. Amor terreno, de moles, dunas y gardenias.
Amor de rutina, que cambia con el tiempo, amor que se esfuma, que es de papel, amor de aniversario. Amor sin piel desnuda, amor en silencio.
Amor de mensaje de texto, de cartas perfumadas, amor que lo sabe todo, amor de corazón de vinil, amor ansioso, amor que se tropieza y crece.

Amor de cabaret, de oficina, de verano, de secundaria, amor legalizado, a la antigüita, amor bendecido, sanforizado, almidonado, desatado.

martes, 5 de noviembre de 2013

Caminos

Amar en la frontera entre el amor y el olvido, añorar entre el ahora y el después, regresar entre el mañana y el jamás, dudar siempre dudar.
Andar en el filo que divide el día de la noche; soñar en el borde de la vigilia y el sueño; vivir en el segundo entre la vida y la muerte.
Odiar entre el ego y el después, indignarse en el borde de la vanidad y la existencia, subir por la intrincada vereda de la futilidad.
Vivir de nostalgia, esperanza y desesperación, volver del futuro pasando por el pasado, caminar hacia el presente por la puerta de atrás.
Recorrer la muralla entre la autocomplacencia y la sustentabilidad, desmembrar la congruencia hasta hacerla trizas,sólo porque está de moda.
Ir y venir recorriendo los círculos del cliché y el deber ser, correr contra el tiempo, navegar el río del éxito en la balsa del fracaso.
Flotar en espuma de manías y neurosis acumulada, olvidar el amor y el porqué; dejarse llevar sin respirar con los ojos intactos de ignorar.

martes, 29 de octubre de 2013

Busy

Get busy
pretend to be busy
proclaim to be busy
flaunt your busyness
parade with your busyness

Be busy
be important
disdain non-busyness
we need important people
we need you to be admired

Get busy
get successful
get outstanding
get celebrated
get world-class

Get busy
pretend to be important
proclaim to be distinguished
flaunt your success
parade with your trophies

Get busy
get dull
be a slave of your success
be unimportant
go on

Get busy

I will watch you from here.

martes, 22 de octubre de 2013

Reloj de arena

El tiempo se mide en soles, soles que circulan el cielo, que entran y salen de la bóveda celeste, que suben y bajan, soles que calientan.
El tiempo se mide en lunas, las que nos dieron luz, las que no estuvieron, en las que quisimos amar y amamos, las lunas rojas del atardecer.
El tiempo se mide en olas, las olas de las que huimos, en las que nos adentramos, sobre las que navegamos, las olas llenas de espuma y sal.
El tiempo se mide en palabras, las que aprendimos y olvidamos, las que susurramos y callamos, las sonoras y poderosas palabras que pensamos.
El tiempo se mide en caminos, los que andamos y los que evitamos, los que inventamos, los caminos que nos esperan y los que nos desesperan.
El tiempo se mide en ríos, los que nos traen agua y cantos rodados, los que nos arrastran, los fragorosos ríos que nos recorren por dentro.
El tiempo se mide en silencios, los que tememos, los que caen como truenos, los que nos juntan y separan, los suaves silencios que buscamos.
El tiempo se mide en miradas, las que ocultamos, con las que acariciamos y entramos, las miradas con las que vemos, entendemos y aprendemos.
El tiempo se mide en estrellas, las que caen y las que mueren, las que nos guían, las estrellas que nos cubren con su luz de soles lejanos.
El tiempo se mide en caricias, con las que buscamos y encontramos, con las que recorremos, las caricias que iluminan y nos abren los ojos.
El tiempo se mide en soles, lunas, olas, palabras, caminos, ríos, silencios, miradas, estrellas, caricias. El tiempo es arena, solo es arena.

El tiempo es un reloj de arena. 

jueves, 10 de octubre de 2013

Sonnet – To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?


jueves, 3 de octubre de 2013

The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.


viernes, 27 de septiembre de 2013

The Bells

I
Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells-
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!-
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Image by Olia Pishchanska.

sábado, 21 de septiembre de 2013

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.



La extraordinaria versión de Radio Futura puede escucharse aquí.

martes, 10 de septiembre de 2013

The Raven


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore –
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!