Sunday, July 17, 2011

Innumerable corazón del viento, latiendo sobre nuestro silencio enamorado..

I realise I run the risk of putting my own poetry to shame in adding that of Neruda to my blog.. but sometimes there exists a sentiment that I struggle to express, and often I'll find it captured with an almost painful beauty in Neruda's words.. So, here, a couple - perhaps not even his most beautiful, but that speak to my travels in this place.

Too Many Names

Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays
and the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
with your weary scissors,
and all the names of the day
are washed out by the waters of night.

No one can claim the name of Pedro,
nobody is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain under rain.
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and of Paraguays;
I have no idea what they are saying.
I know only the skin of the earth
and I know it is without a name.

When I lived amongst the roots
they pleased me more than flowers did,
and when I spoke to a stone
it rang like a bell.

It is so long, the spring
which goes on all winter.
Time lost its shoes.
A year is four centuries.

When I sleep every night,
what am I called or not called?
And when I wake, who am I
if I was not while I slept?

This means to say that scarcely
have we landed into life
than we come as if new-born;
let us not fill our mouths
with so many faltering names,
with so many sad formallities,
with so many pompous letters,
with so much of yours and mine,
with so much of signing of papers.

I have a mind to confuse things,
unite them, bring them to birth,
mix them up, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the oneness of the ocean,
a generous, vast wholeness,
a crepitant fragrance.

Pablo Neruda

Y fue a esa edad . . . Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de inverno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

Yo no qué decir, mi boca
no sabía
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
aquella quemadura,
y escribí la primera línea vaga,
vaga sin cuerpo, pura
pura sabiduría,
del que no sabe nada,
y vi de pronto
el cielo
y abierto,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.

Y yo, minimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacío
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento.


And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

in this fleeting moment..

free but not adrift.
could i venture to say this is exactly what i wanted?

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

four months to the day and the soles of my feet are still intact..

Sueños en el bosque..

Friday, July 8, 2011

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Cirque d'San Miguel..

Fiesta en la ex-hacienda.. And the necessary photo of a Mexican burro:

Sunday, July 3, 2011


we build towers to deities in the sky, trampling what lies quietly at our feet.
the collective weight of a hideous wealth rests on a back crippled and stooped, amphibian skeletal ridges betraying a thousand year burden. poison has seeped into the cracks of these bones, so deep the marrow is seizing. every attempt at movement is petrified by the touch of a diamond-laden hand.
day after day we rig up suspension cables to support the bones of this rotting frame, pinning them to clouds we insist are solid, plying arthritic joints with crude oil, nodding our heads in self-appraisal, thrusting our chins, our chests, our groins to the heavens. until the insatiable beast rears it head and screams for more.

those on whose shoulders we stand throw hope to the wind, only to have it bottled, disguised as a prophet, and sold back to them at a profit. we then hitch our moral skirts and step over the debree, ignoring the telling pains in our chests.

we ply the light sources, the sun, the small fires, the stars, with bandages and patches, lest they expose what lies waiting in the shadows; lest our palid blue skin get scorched by truth.

but all that is material is finite. one day, all this will come unstuck.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta que camina! ¡La Marcha de las Putas por America Latina!

 El apoyo de los viejos.. que bueno..
 La hermandad y la diversidad

Friday, July 1, 2011

El D.F... Otra vez.

La vigilancia eterna..

More waiting to be written here. It'll happen, it'll happen..