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jueves, 29 de septiembre de 2011

The girl II

The girl II

Not knowing, still ignoring
With two or three unexpected words
The girl punches my heart
And in my eyes she analyzes the dimension of her life.

Air doesn’t cease, it’s scarce
When she is away
Making her absence a stone
Which weight can only be endured by the promise of her return.

That with her everything serious
That to the foundation is demanded culmination
And to each arrow a precise target
Because to me it was given in answer and blessing
Like perfect light is given to an unskilled painter.

In the middle of my throat, which many times was blamed
She knots a band that only tears can loosen
And, each moment, tightens so much taking each fiber to its limit
And life becomes like sea and sky fused in a mountain.

Fragile, like someone who feels that other knows more
- And walking between mirages of respect
Returns smiles because it’s not included what he keeps inside –
And strong as someone who perceives that what he knows
It isn’t enough to impose directions, but just suggest them.

Taking the risk to perceive in this timelessness
Thanks to a couple of sighs thinking of her name
Making them spin once and again in my thoughts
The painful joy of the reality of her existence
To see if I can attain what I intend,

Time without moments
Happiness without adjectives
The verb without sentence
The depth without shape.

And then, I will sit down
To see how the girl follows
In her own spiral
And also, her unique and enraged carrousel.

Finally she chases me
And she subdues me without delicacy
With just a glance she broadens my heart
Pressuring me to be what I will be
She lets me know that she already perceives distance.

Andrea

martes, 27 de septiembre de 2011

Your question

Your question
You were already gone
You already thought it was lost
Under the dome of the temple
In whom you never though to believe

When from the impossible it arose timely
A configuration dressed of appointment
An example that can not be silenced
The voice of a man was heard in the middle of the air.

You knew that it wouldn’t be a shelter
That the verse comes and goes
Like seasons, days and nights
On time and in their own tide

And then the madness of asphyxia
A game dominated by danger
Heights becoming higher
And the depths that become deeper.

Intensity beats in the face
Making cracks in what was attained
Indicating clearly the limits
Between what is accepted and what is proposed.

Like one who thinks, not seeking perfection in his creations
But in the similarity, far from dedication
As a father who doesn’t defend his son in what he differs from him
But what joins him to his descendant for which he crossed the clouds

In the range of the predictable
Like a lord talking with the stones
The sense in front of its origin
Denial and affirms before acceptance.

The blood dripping on the points of the hated steel
To capture the ephemeral that ends appointing the eternal
Like a son who looks at his mother evadingly
While she silently observes, absorbing the time.

The implicit crossroads
And the leaps of sacrifice
For an explanation that stinks
For a person that even with his hands conveys questions.

Smarc

sábado, 24 de septiembre de 2011

Antonio Gómez Rufo - La leyenda del falso traidor

 
Título: La Leyenda del Falso Traidor
Autor: Antono Gómez Rufo
Editorial: EDICIONES B, S.A.
ISBN: 84-413-1412-8
Nro. Páginas: 355
------------------------------
La leyenda del falso traidor
por Silvio Manuel Rodríguez Carrillo

Apoyado en la corrupción política de la que se ha servido, Julio César encamina a Roma hacia una monarquía aparentemente inevitable. Marco Junio Bruto, acaso el hombre más querido por los romanos, tiene en sus manos el poder de revertirlo todo, para lo cual no queda otra opción que la de cegar la vida del propio Julio César. Entre una intensa admiración sin falsedades hacia el hombre que fuera su padre ilegítimo, y los ideales de libertad y justicia a los que avocó su vida, el muy ilustrado Bruto vive en el tormento de tener que actuar en una dirección en la que corazón y mente no están enteramente de acuerdo.

En su última noche de vida, y permitiendo tan sólo la compañía de su amado Cino, Bruto inicia el relato de lo que fue su vida, con retazos de su infancia, adolescencia y madurez, en un tono que sin escapar al análisis objetivo, no deja de transmitir las emociones de un hombre que desde temprana edad supo fijarse objetivos y normas de conducta acorde con ellos. Amante del estudio, y como tal, más afecto a las letras que a las armas, Bruto también se delata riguroso, disciplinado y decidido a la hora de ejecutar cuanto fuese necesario en el cumplimiento de sus convicciones personales, más aún cuando estas implican a Roma.

En el escenario del relato, es el último amanecer que habrá de vivir, y Bruto se debate en su memoria tratando de encontrar, o acaso rescatar aquellos valores que distintos, sin ser opuestos no logró conciliar. Y es en esta íntima y última lucha interna en donde mayor riqueza obtenemos de este libro, pues presenciamos los cuestionamientos de un hombre que habiendo sido reconocido por todos sus contemporáneos en cuanto a su altura moral, sin embargo, acaba sus días perseguido por quienes pretendió liberar; traicionado, paradójicamente, por aquellos por quienes se encontró obligado a traicionar; mas, como pocos, llegando a su propio final sin temor al futuro, vencido, pero no derrotado.

Esquemáticamente “La leyenda del falso traidor” es una novela que a pinceladas nos ofrece un recuento que abarca desde los tiempos de Mario y Sila, hasta el desenlace de la batalla en los Campos de Filipos, en donde los ejércitos de Marco Antonio y Octavio vencieron a los de Casio y Bruto. Como centro de esta historia se ubica la conspiración de los Idus de Marzo, de cuyas circunstancias y antecedentes nos da cuenta Bruto, a la manera de un testigo crucial, que habiendo sido parte de los hechos, bien por ello puede brindar su propia interpretación y su propio juicio de valor de cuanto le cupo entonces tener que ejecutar.

Gómez Rufo logra una novela en la que recrea a un personaje que fue trascendental en la coyuntura de la antigua Roma, fijándose por sobre todo en los aspectos emocionales del mismo. Es así como consigue un libro que disfrutarán tanto los lectores que se deleitan con la historia de Roma, como aquellos que no tienen por costumbre leer sobre historia o política, pues el fondo de este relato va más allá de ciertas situaciones ocurridas en el calendario de la humanidad, ya que trata del siempre vigente drama de tener que actuar obedeciendo a lo que dictan los propios principios generales, o a lo que los sentimientos personales quieren imponer.

Your sabotages

Your sabotages

I feel that you wouldn’t want my accomplishment
And not for the consequence but for the act
Of doing something that perhaps you can do
That you don’t do it, for the reason you choose.

You are able to console but not to encourage
Your own sabotages impede you from it
As the hedonist acts impede him
Who wants to speak to the most intense ascetic.

The night visitors, the radicals
Each one of them grasping a dagger
And with a veil covering their intensities
They demonstrate the intangibles, trying intensities.

Of the others for nothing, of those who look at you
Of the lonely ways of a rusty train
Of twilight time and an old attempt
As a bridge in the air, that is deprived of direction.

Without mind or body
The same smoke drawn on postcards
The complete image of torment
That converges with misery and vulgarity.

The blows of things that you don’t understand
The darkness, the light and the plastic
To refer to reality without any fear of punishment
That’s the appropriated field for final dishonor.

Tightening ropes on the bow of the soul
Measuring emptiness that remains to unknown
While you attends your own desperation
That is dominated by constant impulse and a frustrating effort.

Thus, the eyes on your shoulders
That reached for the release of sadness
But not for the outburst of the honest laughter
Where tremor is destroyed, as it is destroyed an obstacle in a mine.

In the edge of your finger of fragile precision
The keys that weave the possibility of your name
In a time that you glimpse what you could do
Had it not been for too much present charged with a past not absorbed

Andrea

jueves, 22 de septiembre de 2011

The first

The first

Taking a risk for being young
Because fears, perhaps many
Are brief with a kind of clumsiness
As the grip or the word can be enough
To obtain the embrace and the bridge that generates it.

Without talking, about the power or history
In the car or on the porch of a cathedral
The fate of being real or that someone exists
And which occurs while life goes by
Between premonitions and known certainties.

From what we have, and since then what we await
From what we want and since then what we do
The cloth somebody makes and someone else wears
The size imagined but ignoring who will wear
And the art, achieved or not, to capture an extreme linked to the other.

There is nothing to say when every name sounds
Conveying a message that dwells in the entrails
And that you want to answer following your own desire
Going through whatever was imposed to cross
Until it reaches an extreme point where isn’t worthwhile going

But you continue going, appointing a far distance
Between the act and its continuity, the verb and its subject
Like branches that knowing they are but they didn’t choose to be
And being able to brandish a protest they refrain
Because they want, they are carried by the passion burning them.

The new return to simple things, without noise this time
The impulse of a breath that flaps for an expression
The eyes focused in the lack of necessity for explanations
The pupils set on what they pretend to disesteem
As a sterile woman, disesteems the sex of promised son.



In some street, at the end of a dark night or nap
During or after a desire daring to blossom
Deep inside a being who with his hands expresses what he is
- A suspicious intent under a more human appearance
Knowing that those who knows will have a brief stay -
Which doesn’t burst in a scream but it is perceived as the first order

Smarc

martes, 20 de septiembre de 2011

When I turn and I come back

When I turn and I come back

When summer returns
Full of the smell of storms
Strong and wild
Just like the heart of a continent

And comes to my dark terrace
To bring me a message from the sun
The din of the cicadas
And the heat that tries to consume the air

I will remember the last one
And I will play to envision the following
And I will think on their names
And the measure in which they were or weren’t.

I will add and subtract to find the truth
I won’t consider the results
I will support the chosen as if it were winter
As if only incomplete searches complement.

But, it’s at the front, it is literature
Here, where the finger touches furniture
Where the name of the addressee is decided
The windows are still closed

The game is short, the work is long
The promises make them to stretch
It was learned the push
And the sense hurts in its light and shade.

It remains to be seen what is left
To see how far the muscles extend
And how far the mind understands
In one, two or three pages

What will they say of Antioquia and Ispahan?
As one says about the door
Referring to what happens after passing through it
Crossing the air with the vision.

And each thing, in detail or not
In a wheel that wants to be of fire
And that in its slope finds the reason of persistence
Perceiving more than fire, the warmth during summer.

Andrea

domingo, 18 de septiembre de 2011

Steel blade

Steel blade

She smiles behind the make up
She lowers her eyes and in her expression
She seems to know something more
One story of wolves and another of tigers.

For being capable to awake others
She will also be able to digress
Steel blade without a grip or direction
That you take with your heart letting it pass through.

During the afternoon without changes
Where it rains while the sun shines
Weather isn’t perceived
Desires are launched by themselves.

Air passes between her legs
Recognizing her without kissing and follows on
Charging now with her perfume
And filling the dimness of the room.

And although she ignores that she knows
Everybody knows what she ignores:
The step that breaks the dried logs
The light sleep of those who remain alert.

She isn’t peacefulness for anybody
But she goes on without stress
Lacking of any solutions
And it isn’t in her being to create conflicts.

She doesn’t prepare her games
- She doesn’t have with what
As she doesn’t wait too long
And accepting everything doesn’t end imposing.

White sand and clear water
Going on without enjoying any miracle
And it stops but not attending any tragedy
Because it just what exists and nothing more.

And the silence where simplicity gains
Because, though there is no balance where there are no forces
Even then conserving a difficult direction
Of the possible things, of the truth between the hands.

Smarc

jueves, 15 de septiembre de 2011

Not as it is

Not as it is

Your lies don’t deceive any more
Because your story doesn’t fit here any more
The space is brief, such as is life
And nobody has time for mistakes.

I suppose it was different, and then
You presumed permanence to uncertainty
Intending innocence where suspicion existed
As you have already prepared, the request of forgiveness.

After all, it really doesn’t matter
It’s only your case and you should be happy for it
Then you were right “the others” don’t exist
And nonexistent things can only disturb a scholar.

So, as things are, it wouldn’t be worthwhile to review everything
Not because is too late but because soon you couldn’t endure
Although ten people would be enough to turn it around
You would need a hundred to accept what you cannot see.

It can occur, it isn’t even noticeable
It isn’t the object or the attitude in your eyes
But the simple way for which everyday
It is about expansion until you reach aptitude.

Words that you didn’t want to hear
And now then you couldn’t say
Moments when you turned your face completely
And now you couldn’t see who sentences you.

However, you will also become a guide
Both if it hurts or serves you as solace
You will also indicate the way to follow
And a final dignified by the steps you took.

Now that you are with us, with the others
Take final advantage of the few effects left
Things that we touch, things that we want
Without any other possibility but the unknown outcome.

We are fine because others are worse
We are bad because others are better
We agree just like others agree
Because discarding became in dependency.

jueves, 1 de septiembre de 2011

Cinco - Para Silvio

Deberías poder entregarte de pleno al placer del dolor extremo, y sentir con sencillez el inmenso y absurdo vacío que genera la ausencia de ese alguien que con su cuerpo y su mente te hizo integrar de tal modo la realidad que llegaste a comprender la intensidad del azul por sobre los demás colores del día y de la noche.

Deberías ser capaz de susurrar su nombre a una misma hora de la noche, por el resto de lo que te quede de fuerzas y esperanzas, y así traerle de vuelta un poco a tu lado sin que nadie nunca ni lo imagine, ni lo sospeche, generando un ritual íntimo y preciso, donde símbolo y significado se fundan con claridad en el fondo de tu voz callada.

Deberías diseñar laberintos nuevos, recomenzar y continuar, uniendo lo nuevo a lo antiguo, haciendo de la búsqueda algo más que una alternativa, religión plena que en un extremo tiene tus palpitaciones y en el otro una idea que aún confusa sea capaz de sostenerte en las horas del presente, este presente de hierros oxidados y trincheras arrasadas de olvido reciente, impuesto, como la imposición del desierto sobre la ciudad.

Deberías beberte a Auden y a Storni en un solo cóctel demencial que presione tu corazón hasta la desesperación más silenciosa y te vuelva los ojos angustiosamente sinceros, para desde ahí recordar y volver a proyectar cada minuto de gloria que lograste merced a su compañía, erigiendo la dimensión verdadera del muro que desde hoy y hasta un nuevo verano imposible te separe de todo, y de todos.

Deberás volver a tu cifra, recorrer cada curva del cinco, vivir y revivir la distancia de todo cambio de trayectoria, de todo ir y venir para estar siempre de ida, y entonces, como hace tantos, tantos atrás, volver a respirar con la tranquilidad de los solos llenos, y no con la efervescencia de los acompañados de engaño; volver al espacio de una hoja de papel impresa y desestimar el abismo de un corazón bordado.