Originalmente escribí este poemario como un ejercicio contra la ansiedad, mientras lo escribí las imágenes transcurrían en mi memoria, las imágenes contaban mi historia y yo me reconocía en ella. Creo que toda mi poesía es esencialmente sincera incluso en los temas fantásticos que parecen no tener conexión con la realidad. El proceso cambió y obtuvo la condición de catarsis, aquí maduro de forma más seria el tiempo que pasa y dejó registro de pensamientos recurrentes que lo acompañan a uno a través de la vida.
Recuerdo que una vez hablaba con Cristina en un café saltando de un tema al otro sin meditar demasiado, en eso hablamos de la poesía y ella citó cierta frase de la cual solo recuerdo su esencia que era la verdadera biografía de un poeta son sus libros. Así es como llegó aquí a decir que este poemario con todos sus males y defectos es mi compromiso con mi historia que aún está sucediendo.
The introduction in English is slightly different from the one that appears in Spanish, the reason is that poetry is difficult to translate, and even if I try hard there are things that are expressed in a different way, these poems are originally written in Spanish, and at the same time Just as the photographs are my own, I hope you understand if there is a fault, however I have made every effort to make sure everything goes well. From now on the two versions are identical:
Originally I wrote this collection of poems as an exercise against anxiety, while I wrote it the images passed in my memory, the images told my story and I recognized myself in it. I believe that all my poetry is essentially sincere even in the fantastic themes that seem to have no connection with reality. The process changed and obtained the condition of catharsis, here the time that passes matures in a more serious way and left a record of recurring thoughts that accompany one through life.
I remember that once I was talking to Cristina in a cafe, jumping from one topic to another without meditating too much, in that we talked about poetry and she quoted a certain phrase of which I only remember its essence, which was the true biography of a poet in his books. This is how she came here to say that this collection of poems with all its evils and defects is my commitment to my story that is still happening.
Los Apamate
Hace poco aprendí a reconocer los apamates,
sus flores de un rosa pálido que caen silenciosas
transgrediendo el dorado intenso de la atmósfera coriana,
aprendí también que las maraquitas se llaman barbas de ancianos
y que un grupo de inadaptados los llaman del diablo,
tras dos partidas de ajedrez la melancolía se me hizo dulce
y supe que no era yo solo el que tenia la amistad de los niños,
tras los 39.8° de ayer en claro caso de delirio alguien invocó a los tolstianos
como si aquellos seres pudiesen volver a ser, después de la nada,
me queda una sonrisa, una grieta en mi esférica desesperanza,
¿Acaso va siendo hora de romper las tinieblas en mil pedazos?
I recently learned to recognize apamates,
its pale pink flowers that fall silently
transgressing the intense gold of the Corian atmosphere,
I also learned that maraquitas are called old people's beards
and that a group of misfits call them the devil,
after two games of chess, melancholy became sweet
and I knew that I was not the only one who had the friendship of children,
after yesterday's 39.8 °, in a clear case of delirium, someone invoked the Tolstians
as if those beings could return to being, after nothing,
I have a smile left, a crack in my spherical hopelessness,
Is it time to break the darkness into a thousand pieces?
La partida del Sol
A mi viejo, el viejo de mi viejo, nunca le chocho la cabeza, recordaba con exactitud el día de la muerte de su viejo, el viejo del viejo de mi viejo, decía que estiró la pata un mes de febrero de los años 20, algo de militares y el benemérito, a mi viejo, el viejo de mi viejo, nunca le faltaron palabras ni recursos, calculo con exactitud todas las lluvias de la semana, las palabras necesarias para la partida, rió a carcajadas de su primer acv diciendo “Ah, buena vaina, después de viejo me vino la regla” en referencia a la sangre que botó por el pene, pero después de viejo solo viene la muerte y tristemente a mi viejo nunca le chocho la cabeza, observo cada instante, cada segundo, en que al retirarse se llevaba consigo todos los colores de la tierra.
My old man, the old man from my old man, I never hit his head, he remembered exactly the day his old man died, the old man from the old man from my old man, he said that he kicked the bucket one February of the 20s, Some military and the worthy one, my old man, my old man's old man, never lacked words or resources, I accurately calculate all the rains of the week, the words necessary for the departure, he laughed out loud at his first acv saying “ Ah, good shit, after I was old my period came to me "in reference to the blood that dropped from my penis, but after old age only death comes and sadly my old man I never hit his head, I observe every moment, every second, in that when he retired he took with him all the colors of the earth.
Lady blue
A María
A quien desconozco.
Las alas arriba como las ramas de los árboles,
el pájaro azul
es una señorita inglesa en una canción de Bumbury,
la señorita es amada por la humildad del aire,
ella es quien captura luz de las cosas sin poseerlas
y transmuta su alma en un suspiro del tiempo,
cuando el pájaro azul abre sus alas
envuelve con sus ojos el cielo que se abre,
ve las nubes avanzar lentamente bajo la azulidad
y se deshace en silencios que postergan la noche,
la he visto observar presurosa las manos bestiales de los hombres
y en aquellas manos leer lo que no dice las almas
cuyas ventanas se han cerrado,
sé que escribe palabras en la pureza de un papel
con la misma esperanza con que ha plantado ya mil almas en la tierra,
ansio reconocer en sus ojos el último silencio:
decidido a alzar vuelo más allá del umbral del tiempo.
To Maria
Who I do not know.
The wings up like the branches of the trees,
the blue bird
She's an English lady in a Bumbury song
the lady is loved by the humility of the air,
she is the one who captures the light of things without possessing them
and she transmutes her soul in a sigh of time,
when the blue bird opens its wings
wraps his eyes the sky that opens,
she sees the clouds creeping under the blue
and she melts into silences that postpone the night,
I have seen her hastily observe the bestial hands of men
and in those hands read what souls do not say
whose windows have been closed,
I know that she writes words on the purity of a paper
with the same hope with which she has already planted a thousand souls on earth,
I long to recognize the last silence in her eyes:
determined to take flight beyond the threshold of time.
Esto representa una pequeña fracción del poemario Memorias sobre el color, un trabajo que me ha tomado tiempo hacer y llevar a cabo, espero les sea de agrado, siendo así me animaría compartir el resto del libro. Me siento al expectativa, y con ganas de leer sus impresiones, con mucho cariño quedo de ustedes.
This represents a small fraction of the poetry book Memorias sobre el color, a work that has taken me time to do and carry out, I hope you like it, being so I would be encouraged to share the rest of the book. I am waiting, and wanting to read your impressions, with much affection I remain from you.
Joan Manuel Garcia
Este post fue elaborado con ayuda de traductores.
This post was prepared with the help of translators.
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