Torres del Paine from Lake Pehoé, Chile
DIARY OF A POET… - LOLA CRESPO
(To Fermi Crespo)
The morning was disheveled
of all those unfinished colors
that lasted as long as the blink of a memory
written in chalk on the sidewalk of childhood.
We almost got up earlier than the pines
to wear green
and with the dream on our backs we made a nest forever with the white sheets glued to the soul.
"They may not have brought the sea yet,"
she told us, before we reached the shore
and check that the blue
ceased to be a poetic uncertainty
to become the drowning of all ills,
still not knowing the exact name of things.
Hand in hand, with a few words,
we build magenta evenings for migratory birds,
and with shoulders burned with happiness
we ended up sleeping the night,
like water to memory.
"Nearly colorless, the colors
They look like crystals". Right?
Come on Platero...
Look at the lilies that have grown for us
between fluff
Included in Gramática Malva, Ed. Voces de Tinta.
The healthiest evenings
YOU CAN LIVE IN NESTS... - PEDRO SALINAS
It can live in nests,
as the birds would like.
You can live in breasts
as you want
finish the violets
and odd loves.
You can live on fire
when a piece of paper burns
and there are no words left
but shining light.
You can live too
sometimes lives lives,
under the roofs, in houses,
or in weather vanes, like air.
but we live
one day bliss without nests,
no roofs and no weather vanes.
Living the
in a green color,
in a green color on wheels.
Charco de los Clicos or Charco Verde (Lanzarote, Canary Islands)
TAKE THE 'A' TRAIN - BEN CLARK
Let's travel immense until we hurt together,
down and down
where the rocks cry where the echo
of the screams does not return in a lifetime,
to the dark cavern of love,
where creatures devour each other,
where there is moss that shines in the humidity,
where the drops sound, always far away,
where you no longer know the why or the purpose
of the descent, let's travel
with the first eagerness of empires:
there is no more room in the concrete sky;
there is nothing across the ocean,
everything is a city or a ruin.
Then come down with me to us,
to the bottomless bottom that you already sense
Now on this train
while you look at me slowly
deciding if you should reveal your name to me.
From Shackleton's Last Dogs (Sloper Publishing, 2016).
The longest rack railway in Spain is in Girona
JOURNEY WITHOUT ARRIVAL - GLORIA FUERTES
Earth as a caged lion
revolves around the sun
with her chain of men.
Since we were born we travel
at one hundred twelve thousand kilometers per hour.
The Earth doesn't stop
and keep going round,
That's why there's so much wind
That's why there are always waves
That's why we age so fast
That's why we're crazy
because all life making a trip without arrival
it tires the nerves a lot.
Very few cross the waves of Nazaré
FAITH OF LIFE - ANTONIO COLINAS
Wait by this sea (where ideas were born)
without any idea. (And so have them all).
To be just the breeze in the top of the big pine,
the scent of orange blossom, the night of orchids
in the forgotten coves.
Just stay watching the passing bird
and does not return; stay
waiting for the yellow sky
burn and clean lightning
They will arrive jumping from one island to another island.
Or gaze at the white cloud
who, being nothing, seems to be happy.
Stay floating and passing from here to there,
on the passing waves,
like a lost oar.
Or follow, like the dolphins,
the direction of a sentenced time.
To be like the hour of the boats on January nights,
that sleep between daffodils and headlights.
Leave me, not with the light of knowledge
(who was born and rose from this sea),
but simply with the light of this sea.
Or with its many lights:
those of lit gold and those of cold greenery.
or with the light of all the blues.
But above all, leave me with the white light,
which is the one that burns and defeats wounded men,
to tense days, to ideas like knives.
To be like an olive tree or a pond.
Someone hold me in their hand like a handful of salt.
Or of light.
Close your eyes in the silence of the aroma
so that the heart —at last— can see.
Close my eyes so that love grows in me.
Let me share the silence
and the solitude of the porches,
the hospitality of open doors; leave me
with the full moon of the June nightingales,
that keep the trembling of the water in the last fountains.
Leave me with the freedom that is lost
on the lips of a woman.
Berria beach in Santoña (Cantabria)
BOTTLE TO THE SEA - MARIO BENEDETTI
I put these six verses in my bottle to the sea
with the secret design that one day I will reach an almost deserted beach
and a child finds it and uncovers it
and instead of verses extract pebbles
and relief and alerts and snails.
Mario Benedetti with his wife, Luz, on January 1, 1997, in his apartment in Montevideo.
THE INSECT - PABLO NERUDA
From your hips to your feet
I want to take a long trip.
I'm smaller than an insect.
I go through these hills, they are
oat-colored, have
thin footprints
that only I know,
centimeters burned,
dim prospects.
Here is a mountain.
I will never get out of it.
Oh what a giant moss!
And a crater, a rose of moistened fire!
down your legs
spinning a spiral
sleeping on the trip
and I come to your knees
of round hardness
like the hard tops
of a clear continent.
Towards your feet I slip,
at eight openings
of your sharp fingers,
slow, peninsular,
and from them to the void
from the white sheet I fall,
looking blind and hungry
your outline of a burning pot!
The Insect, The Captain's Verses (1952)
Pablo Neruda reads a poem on the radio
FOREST - ANGEL GONZÁLEZ
You cross through the twilight.
The air
you have to separate it almost with your hands
so dense, so impenetrable.
You walk. leave no traces
your feet. hundreds of trees
hold their breath on you
head. a bird does not know
that you are there, and whistles
long across the landscape.
The world changes color: it's like the echo
of the world. distant echo
that you tremble, passing through
the last frontiers of the afternoon.
Casentinesi Forest
WALKING - JUAN RAMÓN JIMÉNEZ
Walking, walking.
I want to hear each grain
of the sand that I am stepping on.
walking.
Leave the horses behind
I want to be late
(walking, walking)
give my soul to every grain
of the land that I touch.
Walking, walking.
What a sweet entry into my field,
immense night that you are going down!
walking.
My heart is already backwater;
I am what is waiting for me
(walking, walking)
and my foot seems, warm,
that my heart is kissing.
Walking, walking.
I want to see the faithful cry
of the path that I am leaving!
Walk, walk, walk...
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