January 2010

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_____________________

hello, how are you?
this fear of being what they are:
dead.

at least they are not out on the street, they
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before their tv sets,
their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhood
of parked cars
of little green lawns
of little homes
the little doors that open and close
as their relatives visit
throughout the holidays
the doors closing
behind the dying who die so slowly
behind the dead who are still alive
in your quiet average neighborhood
of winding streets
of agony
of confusion
of horror
of fear
of ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.
-Charles Bukowski

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Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
-Mary Oliver

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The First Dream
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
-Billy Collins

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I Go Back To The House For A Book
I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor's office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me -- a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life.
-Billy Collins

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Las Palabras
No me gaste las palabras
no cambie el significado
mire que lo que yo quiero
lo tengo bastante claro

si usted habla de progreso
nada más que por hablar
mire que todos sabemos
que adelante no es atrás

si está contra la violencia
pero nos apunta bien
si la violencia va y vuelve
no se me queje después

si usted pide garantías
sólo para su corral
mire que el pueblo conoce
lo que hay que garantizar

no me gaste las palabras
no cambie el significado
mire que lo que yo quiero
lo tengo bastante claro

si habla de paz pero tiene
costumbre de torturar
mire que hay para ese vicio
una cura radical

si escribe reforma agraria
pero sólo en el papel
mire que si el pueblo avanza
la tierra viene con él

si está entregando el país
y habla de soberanía
quién va a dudar que usted es
soberana porquería

no me gaste las palabras
no cambie el significado
mire que lo que yo quiero
lo tengo bastante claro

no me ensucie las palabras
no les quite su sabor
y límpiese bien la boca
si dice revolución.
-Mario Benedetti

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El tiempo revela todas las cosas: es un charlatán y habla hasta cuando no se le pregunta.
-Eurípides

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I am Envy. I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.
-Christopher Marlowe (Doctor Faustus)

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Terapias
Un cronopio se recibe de médico y abre un consultorio en la calle Santiago del Estero. En seguida viene un enfermo y le cuenta cómo hay cosas que le duelen y cómo de noche no duerme y de día no come.

--Compre un gran ramo de rosas- dice el cronopio.

El enfermo se retira sorprendido, pero compra el ramo y se cura instantáneamente. Lleno de gratitud acude al cronopio, y además de pagarle le obsequia, fino testimonio, un hermoso ramo de rosas. Apenas se ha ido el cronopio cae enfermo, le duele por todos lados, de noche no duerme y de día no come.
-Julio Cortázar

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Etiqueta y prelaciones
Siempre me ha parecido que el rasgo distintivo de nuestra familia es el recato. Llevamos el pudor a extremos increíbles, tanto en nuestra manera de vestirnos y de comer como en la forma de expresarnos y de subir a los tranvías. Los sobrenombres, por ejemplo, que se adjudican tan desaprensivamente en el barrio de Pacífico, son para nosotros motivo de cuidado, de reflexión y hasta de inquietud. Nos parece que no se puede atribuir un apodo cualquiera a alguien que deberá absorberlo y sufrirlo como un atributo durante toda su vida. Las señoras de la calle Humboldt llaman Toto, Coco o Cacho a sus hijos, y Negra o Beba a las chicas, pero en nuestra familia ese tipo corriente de sobrenombre no existe, y mucho menos otros rebuscados y espamentosos como Chirola, Cachuzo o Matagatos, que abundan por el lado de Paraguay y Godoy Cruz. Como ejemplo del cuidado que tenemos en estas cosas bastará citar el caso de mi tía segunda. Visiblemente dotada de un trasero de imponentes dimensiones, jamás nos hubiéramos permitido ceder a la fácil tentación de los sobrenombres habituales; así, en vez de darle el apodo brutal de Anfora Etrusca, estuvimos de acuerdo en el más decente y familiar de la Culona. Siempre procedemos con el mismo tacto, aunque nos ocurre tener que luchar con los vecinos y amigos que insisten en los motes tradicionales. A mi primo segundo el menor, marcadamente cabezón, le rehusamos siempre el sobrenombre de Atlas que le habían puesto en la parrilla de la esquina, y preferimos el infinitamente más delicado de Cucuzza. Y así siempre. Quisiera aclarar que estas cosas no las hacemos por diferenciarnos del resto del barrio. Tan sólo desearíamos modificar, gradualmente y sin vejar los sentimientos de nadie, las rutinas y las tradiciones. No nos gusta la vulgaridad en ninguna de sus formas, y basta que alguno de nosotros oiga en la cantina frases como «Fue un partido de trámite violento», o: «Los remates de Faggiolli se caracterizaron por un notable trabajo de infiltración preliminar del eje medio», para que inmediatamente dejemos constancia de las formas más castizas y aconsejables en la emergencia, es decir: «Hubo una de patadas que te la debo», o: «Primero los arrollamos y después fue la goleada». La gente nos mira con sorpresa, pero nunca falta alguno que recoja la lección escondida en estas frases delicadas. Mi tío el mayor, que lee a los escritores argentinos, dice que con muchos de ellos se podría hacer algo parecido, pero nunca nos ha explicado en detalle. Una lástima.
-Julio Cortázar

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Mèsi papa Desalin
Papa Desalin, mèsi
Chak fwa m' santi sa-m ye
M' di mèsi, Desalin
Chak fwa m' tande youn nèg koloni
Ki poko lib pale
M'di: Desalin, mèsi
Se mwen k' konnen sa ou ye pou mwen
Mèsi, papa Desalin
Si m' youn nonm
Se pou m' di : mèsi, Desalin
Si m' ouvè je-m gade
Se gras a ou, Desalin
Si m' leve tèt mwen pou m' mache
Se gras a ou, Desalin
Chak fwa m' gade lòt nèg
M' di mèsi, Desalin
Lè m' wè sa k' ap pase lòt kote
M' di: mèsi, Desalin
Lè m' tande kèk nèg parèy mwen pale
M' di: mèsi, papa Desalin
Se mwen k' konnen sa ou ye pou mwen
Towo Desalin
Desalin, san mwen
Desalin, de grenn je-m
Desalin, zantray mwen
Se mwen k' konnen
Se pou tout nèg di:
Mèsi Desalin
Se ou k' montre nou chimen nou
Mèsi Desalin
Se ou k' limyè nou
Desalin
Se ou ki ban-n tè n' ap pile a
Syèl ki sou tèt nou an
Pyebwa, larivyè
Lanmè, letan, se ou
Desalin, se ou k' ban-n solèy
Ki ban-n lalin
Ou ki ban-n sè, frè-n
Manman, papa-n, pitit nou
Se ou ki fè-n youn jan youn mannyè
Nou pa kou tout nèg
Si m' gade tout mounn nan je
Se ou k' ap gade yo, Desalin
Se ou ki ban-n dlo pou n' bwè
Ou ki ban-n manje pou n' manje
Mèsi, papa Desalin.
Epi, se ou ki ban-n kay pou n'rete
Ou ki ban-n kote pou n' fè jaden
Se ou k' montre-n chante
Ou k' montre-n di: non
Yo di gan nèg ki di: wi,wi.
Gan nèg ki di: yèssè
Ou montre-n di: non
Desalin, montre tout nèg
Tout nèg sou latè di: non
Mèsi, papa Desalin
Gan nèg ki vle esplike:
"Tan jodi pa tan pase
E ke wi alèkile
La fraternité humaine
L' humanité, la civilisation"
Tou sa, se franse
Mwen menm, se Desalin m' konnen
M' di: mèsi, papa-m
Se ou k' fè-m
Manman-m se pitit ou
Tigason, tifi, se pitit ou tou
Mèsi, Desalin
Pitit-pitit mwen, se pitit ou
Wa Desalin, mèsi
M' pa bezwen pale pou drapo a!
Pa bezwen pale pou Lakayè
Pou Gonayiv!
Yo di sa deja
E ki mounn k' ap tande sa ankò?
Mès rekwiyèm 17 oktòb?
Ki mounn ki pral Katedral?
Diskou Minis?
Ki mounn k'ap koute sa?
Men, sa m' di la a
Se youn sèl mo: mèsi
Mèsi Desalin papa-m
Gan mounn ki pa konnen
Fò m' di yo
San ou nou pa ta la a
Mèsi, papa Desalin
Epi, fini ak Patè Nostè-w la a
Monseyè, Desalin pa mouri
Ase pale franse, Minis
Desalin pap janm mouri
Desalin la
Nèg sa a ta ka mouri!
Desalin nan kè-m
Lam-o-pye
Desalin ap veye
Youn jou Desalin va leve
Jou sa a, nou tout n' a konnen
N' a konnen si 1804
N' a konnen si Lakayè
N' a konnen si Lakrèt-a-Pyewo
N' a konnen si Vètyè
Desalin te fè tou sa
Pou ti nèg ekri powèm
Pou Minis fè diskou
Pou pè chante Te Deoum
Pou Monseyè bay labsout
Desalin pa bezwen labsout
Tou sa Desalin fè bon
Youn jou Desalin va leve
W' a tande nan tout lanmè Karayib
Y'ape rele kote-l
Desalin pran lèzam
Arete-l
Lè a, w' a tande vwa-l kon loray
Tout nèg koupe tèt boule kay
W' a tande nnan tout Lamerik
Y' ape rele: rete-l
Vwa Desalin deja an radyo
Koupe tèt boule kay
Nan tout "Harlem" Desalin ap mete lòd
W' a tande: bare Desalin
Jouk "Dakar"
Jouk "Johannesburg"
W' a tande: kote Desalin pase?
Koupe tèt boule kay
Desalin pa bezwen labsout
Pa bezwen padon Bondye
Okontrè: Desalin se bra Bondye
Desalin, se jistis Bondye
Pa bezwen Patè Nostè Monseyè
Ni eskiz nèg yo vle mande blan a yo
Desalin pa bezwen
Pou tou sa l' fè m' di: papa Desalin, mèsi
Pou tou sa l' pral fè
M' di: mèsi, papa Desalin
-Félix Morisseau-Leroy


Thank you Dessalines,
Father Dessalines, thank you
When I realize who I am today
I say Thank you, Dessalines
Every time I hear a colonized Negro,
A Negro that is still captive of censorship
I say : Thank you, Father Dessalines
Only I, know what you mean to me
Thank you, Father Dessalines
If I am a whole human being today
I have to say : Thank you Father Dessalines
If I can open my eyes and look at my surroundings
It is thanks to you, Dessalines
If I walk with my head up high
It is thanks to you, Dessalines
Every time I look at another Negro
I say : Thank you Dessalines
When I look at what's happening in the world
I say : Thank you, Dessalines
When I hear the White men's voices
I say : Father Dessalines, thank you
When I hear my brothers and sisters
I say : Thank you, Father Dessalines
Only I, know, what you mean to me
Mighty Dessalines,
Dessalines, my blood,
Dessalines, apple of my eye
Dessalines, my womb
Only I know why
All Negroes must say
Thank you Dessalines,
You showed us the way
Thank you Dessalines
You are our guiding light
Dessalines,
You gave us the earth we walk on
The skies over our heads,
The trees, the rivers
The sea, the ponds, it is all you,
Dessalines, it is you who gave us the Sun
The Moon,
You gave us our brothers, our sisters
Our mothers, our fathers, our children
It is you who shaped us this way
Who thought us to be unique
We are not like other Negroes
When I look people straight in the eye
It is you who is looking at them, Dessalines
It is you who gives us water and who quenches our thirst
It is you who gives us food and satisfies our hunger
Thank you, Father Dessalines
And, it is you who gives us shelter
The earth we harvest
It is you who taught us to sing
It is you who taught us to say : NO
They say some Negroes say : yes, yes!
Other says: Yes, master !
You taught us to say : NO!
Dessalines taught all Negroes on earth how to say : NO
Thank you, Father Dessalines
Some Negroes try to explain
That today does not resemble yesterday
And that now,
Human fraternity,
Humanity, civilization,
All that is gibberish!
All I know is Dessalines!
I say : Thank you, dear father
You gave me life
My mother is your daughter
Young boys and young girls are your children
Thank you, Dessalines
My grandchildren are your children
King Dessalines, thank you
No need to mention our flag!
No need to evoke Archaie
And Gonaïves
We already mentioned it!
Who needs to hear it again?
October 17th requiem mass?
Who visits the cathedral?
The Minister's speech?
Who will listen to it?
As far as I am concerned
I will say one word : thank you
Thank you Father Dessalines
Some do not know,
I must tell them
That without you we would not exist
Thank you, Father Dessalines
Let us finish with our Pater noster
Your Eminence, Dessalines is not dead
Stop speaking French, Minister
Dessalines will never die
Dessalines is amongst us
This man cannot die!
Dessalines is in my heart
Ready to fight
He's watching
The day will come when Dessalines will rise
That day, everyone will know
We will know if Dessalines made
1804
Archaie
Crête-à-Pierrot
And Vertières
So our writers could write poetry
So our ministers could say speeches
So our priests could sing Te Deum
So Your Eminence could give absolution
Dessalines does not need absolution
All that Dessalines accomplished is respectable
One day Dessalines will rise
And shouts will come from the Caribbean sea
Asking : Where is he?
Dessalines took his weapons
Arrest him!
At that moment, we will hear his voice like thunder
At the signal: Decapitate them, burn their houses!
They will ask that he be arrested
Dessalines' voice will already be on the air
Decapitate them, burn their houses!
In Harlem, Dessalines is putting the house in order
We will hear : Arrest him!
All the way to Dakar
All the way to Johannesburg
We will hear : where has Dessalines gone?
Decapitate them, burn their houses?
Dessalines does not need absolution
Dessalines does not need God's forgiveness
On the contrary : Dessalines is God's hand
Dessalines is God's justice
He does not need Your Eminence's Pater noster
Some men are requesting the White men's excuses
Dessalines does not need these actions
For all Dessalines accomplished : Father Dessalines, thank you
For all he will do
I say : Thank you , Father Dessalines.
-Félix Morisseau-Leroy
(Translated by Marie-Hélène Destiné)

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Poems of departure
1
The idea of separation
affords us the greatest intimacy
'I am going away' means
you can open your arms
with the greatest of ease
the risks are minimal from
now on
and because there is nothing to lose,
only miles to cover,
the honesty can be
enormous
we go out to each other
in a new way
with a sense of loss
already.

2
I am speechless with
the distance of it.
Words stretched out across the
plains don't
thread together
easily
it is too far to go between
the hedges to get
sense.
Really, the act of leaving defies
all reasoning.
The subtlety of it is contained in
each step taken towards
the doorway
in the packing and sealing of boxes
in the suitcases
the empty walls.
-Jenny Bornholdt, from This Big Face (VUP, 1988)

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Serena I
without the grand old British Museum
Thales and the Aretino
on the bosom of the Regent's Park the phlox
crackles under the thunder
scarlet beauty in our world dead fish adrift
all things full of gods
pressed down and bleeding
a weaver-bird is tangerine the harpy is past caring
the condor likewise in his mangy boa
they stare out across monkey-hill the elephants
Ireland
the light creeps down their old home canyon
sucks me aloof to that old reliable
the burning btm of George the drill
ah across the way a adder
broaches her rat
white as snow
in her dazzling oven strom of peristalsis
limae labor
ah father father that art in heaven

I find me taking the Crystal Palace
for the Blessed Isles from Primrose Hill
alas I must be that kind of person
hence in Ken Wood who shall find me
my breath held in the midst of thickets
none but the most quarried lovers

I surprise me moved by the many a funnel hinged
for the obeisance to Tower Bridge
the viper's curtsy to and from the City
till in the dusk a lighter
blind with pride
tosses aside the scarf of the bascules
then in the grey hold of the ambulance
throbbing on the brink ebb of sighs
then I hug me below among the canaille
until a guttersnipe blast his cernèd eyes
demanding 'ave I done with the Mirror
I stump off in a fearful rage under Married Men's Quarters
Bloody Tower
and afar off at all speed screw me up Wren's giant bully
and curse the day caged panting on the platform
under the flaring urn
I was not born Defoe

but in Ken Wood
who shall find me
my brother the fly
the common housefly
sidling out of darkness into light
fastens on his place in the sun
whets his six legs
revels in his planes his poisers
it is the autumn of his life
he could not serve typhoid and mammon
-Samuel Beckett

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Thank you, Howard. It is an honour to have read you, heard you, learned from you, known you at least a little. You will always be missed, always be celebrated. Your history is our history, irreplaceable, unforgettable, as contagious as your smile, a blessing, a warning, a measuring stick, an example to us all.
-Viggo Mortensen

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"Dissent is the highest form of patriotism."

"There is no flag large enough to cover the shame of killing innocent people."

"If the gods had intended for people to vote, they would have given us candidates"

"Americans have been taught that their nation is civilized and humane. But, too often, U.S. actions have been uncivilized and inhumane."

"We need to decide that we will not go to war, whatever reason is conjured up by the politicians or the media, because war in our time is always indiscriminate, a war against innocents, a war against children"

"In the United States today, the Declaration of Independence hangs on schoolroom walls, but foreign policy follows Machiavelli."

"If those in charge of our society - politicians, corporate executives, and owners of press and television - can dominate our ideas, they will be secure in their power. They will not need soldiers patrolling the streets. We will control ourselves."

"(Nationalism is) a set of beliefs taught to each generation in which the Motherland or the Fatherland is an object of veneration and becomes a burning cause for which one becomes willing to kill the children of other Motherlands or Fatherlands"

"One certain effect of war is to diminish freedom of expression."

"I'm worried that students will take their obedient place in society and look to become successful cogs in the wheel - let the wheel spin them around as it wants without taking a look at what they're doing. I'm concerned that students not become passive acceptors of the official doctrine that's handed down to them from the White House, the media, textbooks, teachers and preachers."

"Small acts, when multiplied by millions of people, can transform the world."

"I don't think there's any question that the United States is going to have to get out of Iraq. The only questions are: How long will it take? How many more people will die? And how will it be done?"

"War itself is the enemy of the human race."

"People like Eugene Debs, Helen Keller, Emma Goldman, Jack London and Upton Sinclair were wonderful writers who joined the movement against war and injustice, against capitalism and corporate power. That was a very exciting period in American history."

"The UN should arrange, as US forces leave, for an international group of peacekeepers and negotiators from the Arab countries to bring together Shiites, Sunnis and Kurds, and work out a solution for self-governance that would give all three groups a share in political power. Simultaneously, the UN should arrange for shipments of food and medicine, from the United States and other countries, as well as engineers to help rebuild the country."

"Most wars, after all, present themselves as humanitarian endeavors to help people."

"When people don't understand that the government doesn't have their interests in mind, they're more susceptible to go to war."

"I suggest that if you know history, then you might not be so easily fooled by the government when it tells you you must go to war for this or that reason -that history is a protective armor against being misled."
-Howard Zinn

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VIOLINBYGGERNES BY
Hver gang du kommer tilbage
kunne jeg dræbe dig for det
- af misundelse over den udsigt
jeg ikke fik set, floden
der slyngede sig gennem byen og ud
i et blomstrende landskab
medmindre det var en strøm af blå heste
bjergenes sne og de indfødtes
sprog, de indforståede vittigheder
de fortalte om deres konge.
'Violinbyggernes by' har jeg ofte
døbt det sted, hvor jeg leder
efter din sjæIs foretrukne tilholdssted
din melankolis skovbund, og den særlige
tone i lyset over din kind
den som gør mig gal sidst på vinteren
eller med andre ord: Om døden ved jeg intet
men en sådan afmagt tillægger jeg de døde
en sådan genstandsløs længsel
at intet billede kan gøres
på trods af rammen, som altid er der:
Hele natten ned ad floden
lå vi ikke desto mindre vågne på dækket
og lyttede til strygermusikken
der blev båret ud mod os fra usynlige bredder.
-Henrik Nordbrandt


THE CITY OF VIOLINMAKERS
Every time that you return
I could kill you for it -
out of envy at the view
I never gained a glimpse of, the river
that wound its way through the city and out
into lush countryside
unless it was a stream of blue horses
the snow of the mountains and the local
language, the inside jokes
they made about their kings.
'The city of violin makers' I have often
christened the place where I search
for your soul's preferred haunt
your melancholy's woodland floor, and the special
tint in the light across your cheek
the one that drives me mad in late-winter
or in other words: I know nothing of death
but I ascribe such powerlessness to the dead
such an undirected yearning
that no picture can be made
despite the frame that is always present:
Throughout the night downriver
we nevertheless lay awake on deck
listening to the string music
borne out to us from invisible banks.
-Henrik Nordbrandt
(translation: John Irons)

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Pour Toi
Estoy de ti florecido
como los tiestos de rosas,
estoy de ti floreciendo
de tus cosas...
Menudo limo de amores
abona mis noches tuyas
y me florecen de sueños
como los cielos de luna...
Como tú mido los pasos
y la distancia es más corta,
hablo en tu idioma de amor
y me comprenden las rosas...
Es que ya estoy florecido.
Es que ya estoy floreciendo
de tus cosas.
-Pedro Mir

____________________


Hay Un País En El Mundo
Hay un país en el mundo
colocado
en el mismo trayecto del sol.
Oriundo de la noche.
Colocado
en un inverosímil archipiélago
de azúcar y de alcohol.

Sencillamente
liviano,
como un ala de murciélago
apoyado en la brisa.

Sencillamente
claro,
como el rastro del beso en las solteronas antiguas
o el día en los tejados.

Sencillamente
frutal. Fluvial. Y material. Y sin embargo
sencillamente tórrido y pateado
como una adolescente en las caderas.

Sencillamente triste y oprimido.

Sencillamente agreste y despoblado

En verdad.
Con tres millones
suma de la vida
y entre tanto
cuatro cordilleras cardinales
y una inmensa bahía y otra inmensa bahía,
tres penínsulas con islas adyacentes
y un asombro de ríos verticales
y tierra bajo los árboles y tierra
bajo los ríos y en la falda del monte
y al pie de la colina y detrás del horizonte
y tierra desde el canto de los gallos
y tierra bajo el galope de los caballos
y tierra sobre el día, bajo el mapa, alrededor
y debajo de todas las huellas y en medio del amor.

Entonces
es lo que he declarado.

Hay
un país en el mundo
sencillamente agreste y despoblado.

Algún amor creerá
que en este fluvial país en que la tierra brota,
y se derrama y cruje como una vena rota,
donde el día tiene su triunfo verdadero,
irán los campesinos con asombro y apero
a cultivar
cantando
su franja propietaria.

Este amor
quebrará su inocencia solitaria.
Pero no.

Y creerá
que en medio de esta tierra recrecida,
donde quiera, donde ruedan montañas por los valles
como frescas monedas azules, donde duerme
un bosque en cada flor y en cada flor la vida,
irán los campesinos por la loma dormida
a gozar
forcejeando
con su propia cosecha.

Este amor
doblará su luminosa flecha.
Pero no.

Y creerá
de donde el viento asalta el íntimo terrón
y lo convierte en tropas de cumbres y praderas,
donde cada colina parece un corazón,
en cada campesino irán las primaveras cantando
entre los surcos
su propiedad.

Este amor
alcanzará su floreciente edad.
Pero no.

Hay
un país en el mundo
donde un campesino breve,
seco y agrio
muere y muerde
descalzo
su polvo derruido,
y la tierra no alcanza para su bronca muerte.

¡Oídlo bien! No alcanza para quedar dormido.
Es un país pequeño y agredido. Sencillamente triste,
triste y torvo, triste y acre. Ya lo dije:
sencillamente triste y oprimido.

Procedente del fondo de la noche
vengo a hablar de un país.
Precisamente
pobre de población.
Pero
no es eso solamente.
Natural de la noche soy producto de un viaje.
Dadme tiempo
coraje
para hacer la canción.

Plumón de nido nivel de luna
salud del oro guitarra abierta
final de viaje donde una isla
los campesinos no tienen tierra.

Decid al viento los apellidos
de los ladrones y las cavernas
y abrid los ojos donde un desastre
los campesinos no tienen tierra.

El aire brusco de un breve puño
que se detiene junto a una piedra
abre una herida donde unos ojos
los campesinos no tienen tierra.

Los que la roban no tienen ángeles
no tienen órbita entre las piernas
no tienen sexo donde una patria
los campesinos no tienen tierra.

No tienen paz entre las pestañas
no tienen tierra no tienen tierra.
.......
Miro un brusco tropel de raíles
son del ingenio
sus soportes de verde aborigen
son del ingenio
y las mansas montañas de origen
son del ingenio
y la caña y la yerba y el mimbre
son del ingenio
y los muelles y el agua y el liquen
son del ingenio
y el camino y sus dos cicatrices
son del ingenio
y los pueblos pequeños y vírgenes
son del ingenio.

Es verdad que en el tránsito del río,
cordilleras de miel, desfiladeros
de azúcar y cristales marineros
disfrutan de un metálico albedrío,
y que al pie del esfuerzo solidario
aparece el instinto proletario.

Pero ebrio de orégano y de anís,
y mártir de los tórridos paisajes
hay un hombre de pie en los engranajes.
Desterrado en su tierra. y un país,
en el mundo,
fragrante,
colocado
en el mismo trayecto de la guerra.
Traficante de tierras y sin tierra.
Material. Matinal. Y desterrado.
.......
Quiero ver su amargura necesaria
donde el hombre y la res y el surco duermen
y adelgazan los sueños en el germen
de quietud que eterniza la plegaria.

Donde un ángel respira.
donde arde
una súplica pálida y secreta
y siguiendo el carril de la carrera
un boyero se extingue con la tarde.

Después
no quiero más que paz.
Un nido
de constructiva paz en cada palma.
Y quizás a propósito del alma
el enjambre de besos
y el olvido.
-Pedro Mir

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Last edited: 30 January 2010 02:34:17