sábado, 28 de marzo de 2009

Oh, My Best Beloved...

"Ask her to show what she has not got"


Oh, my best beloved, I will never ask you
to sing for me,
nor to dance,
nor to follow the rhythm
of the instruments with your hands,
nor to talk for a long time,
nor to demonstrate in public
how cutlery is handled at the host's table, no,
I will never ask you to play the guitar,
nor to walk along a track
where other fine, slim ladies
show off with certain grace and elegance
the latest rags
for the next season,
no, I will never ask you to undress
for me with the lights on,
nor will I tell a joke
to make you laugh and show your teeth.
No. I will always do what you tell me.
That's why this poem will always remain
unpublished, so that
you won't be embarrassed if I write
that you have many other virtues
that I jealously keep in secret.


My mother was first courted
by a butcher
who manipulated knives
most masterfully.
One day he woke up as a tiny grain of sand
the wind blew
and he disappeared.
The second time my mother was courted
it was by a well-intentioned gentleman
who was seeking in my mother
the diligent and tidy
young lady
who would iron his shirts
look after the children
do the shopping
cook continental,
wash the dishes
and bite the dust
before exiting.

Double Click

I double click
on the bar of your heart,
as if there were
any record of you
and no little pig
dancing to the tune of a flute.
I press "delete" where
there is nothing left now
no photos or socks,
the hard disk
is free.
Yet if wanted to print
your image on
a round mirror,
this page would come out
transparent white
as if the MGB
of your memory
had been swallowed up by a virus.

Creation of the Universe

My teachers would say:
"there he goes, the hopeless case",
"here he comes, asking one foot
for permission to move the other"

then they taught us
how the creation of the universe
came about,
(the pigheaded one
always forgot),
about the separation
of light from darkness,
and how you moved
over the face of things

to make me understand
that in everything I saw
from leaf to root
you were with us

and that's how we got to understand,
on the kings' throne
we put ordinary citizens,
now we hold elections
and everything turns out OK,
simply by way of contrast,
you are still up on high
and in this deep, deep valley
the pigheaded one
never seeing
your face, still
doesn't understand anything

How Lucky I was

First the monks'
pen and their books
not very often enlightened

Few people could read them,
not many had them on their
private shelves, they were
very big heavy books.

If there was any privileged person
who could read them,
he would tell the others
the gothic letters said.

The manuscripts,
page by page,
went quietly over into the fast casts
without any violence,
and the elites from on high ordered them
"become democratic"
so the big ones and the little ones
got to the cloth salesman
and the banker.

The manufacture of a book
was like a party
the discovery of new lands,
when nobody was talking of the Magellan Straits,
and the Cape of Good Hope
was still unknown.

How lucky I was
to get to know books
when it was already possible
to carry them in your pocket.

Right out in the Sunshine

In a city that allows
no staring people in the eye,
this crafty devil
is beginning to climb up legs
and was climbing with the changing form
of a flower that it has lost
its chronometry.

I came ‑ he said gallantly -
so that this instant
would register as a dream,
as a forgotten perfume,
as an unknown fire,
(my face drains of colour)
he hands me a note-
(it says that in other countries
people can look each other in the eye,
move their eyebrows,
and that with a look, they fall in love at first sight
with a passer-by).


Science and technology will be able
-with the aid of one hair from your head-
to go maybe as far as a person's
most secret origin

including in the mesh
colour of eyes and stature,
grandparents and great-grandparents
travelling with wooden suitcases,
backwards from here,
through dark constellations,
until reaching
the tiny sign
that perhaps originated
the whole species
of your kindred,

but neither science nor technology,
even with a grain of mustard
can know
- unless you tell them, my love -
where you live and with whom.

Talking in Percentages of Daily Life

Sometimes I remember only 10%
of what you say or what we have
done together,
and another 10%, if you just reinforce it
with photo exhibitions and videos.

Ours is no exception.
The same thing happens in others' daily lives,
unless someone brings up the point
the memory is not cleared
or it takes time to bring what is forgotten
back to the present
(almost as if it hadn't happened)

Then one can make excuses,
saying it is normal
for people to forget things unintentionally.

Of one thing i am quite certain,
- without the help of photos,
video, or anything-
80 per cent of what I
find out about you
I never forget.

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