BLUE NOTES

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LACRIMAE RERUM

 

"Sunt Lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt" 

(Virgil, Aeneid, Book I)

Tears of things are gleaming

in the darkness of memories.

Camellia, cherry blossoms

fill up the ground of my mind.

Tears of things like dew drops

on the bones of springtime

picked clean by the moon.

(the memory 

that the moon lost

is mine)

Tears of things 

sparkling like stars,

the stars are tears

of the unknown

forever forever.

BESOS DE HIERBABUENA

“El mundo
-hoy levemente bélico-
Sin embargo huele
A besos de hierbabuena.
No conozco a esos labios
Que prodigan esos besos
Brujos(como diría un tango)
Sólo sé que rompen
En todos los vencidos
En todos los melancólicos
Como un oleaje lento y musical
Como un masaje que cura
Todo el dolor de vivir
O mentir.
Sólo sé que esos labios existen
Como uno tiene la certeza
De que hay agua en Marte
O nenúfares en la luna.
Dicen que Helena
Sólo era una sombra,
Que la verdadera Helena
Estaba en Egipto riéndose
de los verdaderos aqueos…
De ahí que mintiera el Bardo.
Yo no mentiré.
Yo no diré que besé a esos labios
Ni siquiera que existen.
Sólo sé que el mundo
-hoy levemente bélico-
Huele a sus besos de hierbabuena.
Y no a humareda de batallas o ambiciones.
Besos que curan cual esponja de vinagre
Todas las heridas visibles o invisibles.
Besos cuyo aroma adormece a las hienas
O enternece a los usureros.
Besos que uno puede contemplar
Como a un vuelo de golondrinas
O a un dibujo de Matisse…
Besos de hierbabuena,
Besos de hierba mojada por esa lluvia
Que ahora cae en Herculano
Poco antes de la erupción del Vesubio…
Poco antes de yo despertar…

BEES

 

When I was a child a dense swarm of bees

Poured into my mouth pure forest honey.

So it happened with Isidore of Seville

when he was just a nipper, legend says.

Everyone expected of me the eloquence 

Of a saint in Damask, a rethorician in Athens.

But nobody, not even my mother knew 

About those bees having already sipped 

into the white asphodels down in Hades  ,

into the delusive oleanders in Arcadia.

Nobody expected of me to be a poet,

a secret polisher of words, the amanuensis 

of the invisible...

I still can listen their humming on my lips.

(2006)

SUNDAY, 4/05/2025

 

I cried the louder at birth

so loud that all the hollow deep

of Hell resounded...

but I was not orphan like Oliver Twist

in Pentonville, London. 

Just brought into this world

sired by the sullen glare

of tropical sunsets.

I cry now -even louder- 

at my mother's ascent

into the unknown as a skylark

from a garden of blue roses

by the sea.

I saw her soaring embracing the sun.

METAPHYSICS OF THE SHADOW

    

  

Pindar said

a man is just a dream 

of his shadow

I am the nightmare

of my walking shadow

 not even sure

it's mine.

*

Plotino refused to be

portraited because his self

was only the shadow

of his platonic prototype.

The shadow of a shadow

of a shadow of a shadow...

And the last shadow just

a seagreen twinkle

 in my cat's gaze.

*

Sat upon a rock in Montségur 

stronghold of the hapless 

Cathars and songful birds

the poet aligned his heart

to the sun in summer solstice

The poet became one of the Perfecti:

his shadow rushed back to his lofty

mansarde in the old Paris.

FLASHES

 

Wild geese

where are you going now?

Sweet day not to alight

where the clan of hyenas

drink at sunset.

*

the past is not a foreign country

the past is already my country

for good. A country with no flag

other than laughter and the erect

phallus of an African god.

*

 (Venus Anadyomede)

She sprung like a goddess

from the whirling froth

of dream-seascapes

He stepped into her glance

with the randomness

of a fallen card

following the saline fragance

of her vellus hair

She embraced him with a touch

of a dolphin playing around

dissolving him

in the sunblind waves.

*

I was in a cafe

of the station concourse

etiolated like a daffodil

trodden upon by footfall and rain

but the last glance

 she gave me at leaving

became a robin redbreast

 in the garden

staring at me with hope. 

*

I am a mortal who made love

with a goddess

and must die

and will never know

the goddess'name.

*

Don't bite again

the wrong side of the apple

-said the Sphinx squatted

in the middle of a vast desert

among the italianate ruins

of my mind

A sandstorm coating

her lion-wise head

*

The dogs scenting me.

I am already a wolf.

Maybe the moon.

*

like Anaxagoras I point to the stars

as my native home

even beyond the dark matter

*

All day long 

I've been smelling deep

the moonshiny aroma

 of jasmine trellises.

All night long

I've been smelling deep

the jasmined aroma

of the moonlight.

*

Odd times

I write to God

and she replies to me

in form of dancing cranes.

*

Whatever the wolves

      Think of rain

           So do I.