FERROL-GIJON

estoy a bordo de un tren Ferrol-Gijón, 

voy a ver a un amigo enfermo que vive en Burelas. 

Gaviotas, cuervos que emergen 

de una niebla perfumada de eucaliptus

 disputándose unos cotos de claridad o azul. 

Un anciano de Ferrol me comenta:

 "cerca de aquí lincharon al marqués de Sargadelos 

durante la invasión napoleónica, por afrancesado".

 Pensé en mi amigo enfermo-también francófilo-

que me esperaba para leerle algunos fragmentos de

 Proust. Foz. Viveiro. Ortigueira... 

 El tren bordeando un mar que guarda 

en los cofres de la lluvia memorias de exilios, 

leyendas de pescadores que han visto la Atlántida,

 la cola del leviatán. veo acantilados oscuros 

que presagian el Finesterre. veo ninfas desnudas bajo la lluvia 

jugando con la verga de los caballos salvajes 

 gaviotas que limpian sus picos ensangrentados 

en la grasa de una ballena muerta.

MATSUO BASHO, EDO, 1694

The sound of water,

the whisper of water trickling

over the conical hat of Matsuo Basho,

over the glossy plantain leaves

under the moon.

He falls asleep. Even the incessant

blue pheasant wingbeats

cannot wake him up,

nor the lovestruck choir

of the frogs in the pond

"Furuike ya 

Kawazu tobikomu

Mizu no oto"

While kipping under the stars

He caresses in dream the purple eggplant

-first of the season-

a present from a Shinto temple's priest

to honour his most beautiful haiku...

While he sleeps al fresco his words 

turn into golden fireflies 

outshining the Mount Fuji.

The sound of water,

the buzz of a lovelorn wasp

embracing a triple-peony 

foreboding the springtime.

White peonies of gilded edges,

sometimes pink like the kimono

of some geisha massaging 

his aching back his virile member, 

numb.

The whisper of the water 

over the green-porcelain leaves,

over the massive straw hat...

He's dead asleep like a log.

Even the high-pitched call

from a crane hatching in the willows

cannot wake him up,

nor the nigh sob of a maiden

turned into amber of millenary pines

for being deflowered by a Yizo in the road.

The poet glimpses himself in reveries 

as a samurai lost in the mist,

in the nude, with his sword erected,

gleaming at sunrise.

"Mizu no oto"

The sound of water 

so smooth

like the hands of a youth

rubbing his painful feet

at sunset.

"And in the last minute of the journey 

he clearly glimpsed his soul

in the shape of a deer running away

into an emerald woods,

the eternal silence of Buddha"

    

ELEVEN VARIATIONS ON A HEADSTONE IN HIGHGATE

 

I

Teetering on the brink

of a blue poppy, a bee.

Melancholy over a mossy

headstone, a white cat.

II

One, two, three crows

space out on a headstone

like undertakers having a laugh

in a sun-kissed bench.

III

A madman sings " Vesti

la giubba" at a headstone.

The pouring rain on the grass

sings along  as well

the wind sighing through

the ash trees leaves.

IV

A lizzard slithered across

the tall grass in blue dew,

the yellow star thistles.

Then climbed upon a headstone

and stayed put for flies.

V

A Red Admiral has landed

suavely on a headstone...

or rather slipped into

the colourful dreams

of a fox sleeping by?

VI

In shade of mother-of-pearl

shimmers the sky.

A goblet of daffodils

yellowing up a headstone

rain-stained and green.

In an oval portrait in sepia

a Victorian girl smiles.

VII

From nearby a din

of chainsaw and rooks.

A red squirrel upon a headstone

plays with conkers.

The morning fog

with a will-o'-the-wisp.

VIII

Spoken for to the moonlight

an owl broods over a headstone.

Her lilting hoot hardly starts 

a mouse that nibbles on dead bones.

IX

From golden to ashen the moon

glosses a brushwood glade.

A couple of smoochy foxes read

the name of a poet who died young

chiselled into a headstone.

X

The pattering of hail

against a headstone

not even perturbed

the reveries of a ghost

illumined by lightnings.

XI

Overrun with greenery,

bluebirds and white buttercups,

a headstone is no longer

the hallmark of worms.

A BALMY DAY...

 

A balmy day     there is no match 

not a single soul   

I come to the football stadium

 to wind down

on the top side of the bleachers 

near the soothing sun:

it's definitely comforting to see

 the vacant pitch the stands

not a player not a single

football-chanter

not a dicky bird.

Only the bright and trimmed lawn 

where some pigeons coo and preen 

each other in the sunshine  a few tabby cats

taking a breather in the shade.

No match no loud insults

like thunderous tannoys

Only some pigeons 

some cats 

and meself nibbling

a sandwich of twilight 

and daydreams.

             ©Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, 1930

WILD HORSES IN THE PYRENEES

 

I would like to spend my last eternity 

 with the wild horses.

Up in the high mountains where

 the sea is only a dream of clouds.

I'd like to stay there to speak no more 

like a monk in a blue grotto

and water drops slumbering

 on fern leaves.

Wild horses that run away

from the horizon to heaven.

from heaven to my shadow

grazing in the wind-kissed grass.

(1996)

WEAVING ESPARTO GRASS

 

As if solitary people weaving 

esparto grass by the moon

I weave this words by my self. 

Weave and weave into a basket

with no other aim but the beauty

 of words themselves

crafted together like the ropes

 in demijohns of wine.

I weave this words on and on.

 I am a basket case of wine

 the same wine sipped by Sappho

 when just on the verge to embrace Phaon

just on the verge...

 jumped to the void

near the Leucadian cliffs.

MY HORSE

 I had a horse who fed on jasmine sprigs.

A horse indeed: arabian, handsome, brisk.

When galloping golden rills of sweat

gave off a perfume dizzying up

the whole moors under a fickle sun.

He munched on any jasmine shrubs

this flowers for him were as delicious

as apples or sugar lumps.

The kids used to make fun of my horse

droppings that smell so good...

the mayor issued an order of never 

to sweep them up.

All was running perfect until one day

when my girlfriend took a shine to my stallion. 

They fell in love. They ran away. 

They eloped.

Six months after I received a postcard

from Glasgow. She appeared in the picture

dressed up as a famous jokey riding my horse. 

She smiled.

I wept rivers for him so elated eating

 jasmine petals out of her hands.