Printfriendly

sábado, 30 de junio de 2012

On the corner


On the corner

Under the brilliance of an eternal traffic light
Waiting in the heat or cold
The metallic arrival - amidst great noise -
Of those that I pierce with harsh sight

Nothing stops me from going beyond time
And thus, slowly, I start the journey
Without the desire of old messages
Piercing through my little understanding.

Something tears beyond intense suffering
Focusing the yearning on truth
That for being it possible, it resists what’s already stiff

As a very well protected child
Who in his dreams has no understand of death
And while smiling conveys radiance.

Carlos Valverde - ¡Maten a Rozsa!

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------------
Título: ¡Maten a Roza!
Autor: Carlos Federico Valverde Bravo
Editorial: El País
ISBN: 978-99954-55-65-1
Nro. Páginas: 286
-------------------------------------
¡Maten a Rozsa!
por Silvio M. Rodríguez C.

         Esa mañana de abril el 29 (la línea) tuvo que hacer un desvío siguiendo las indicaciones de los policías, y en ese momento lo que me llamó la atención era lo temprano del tema, sin duda algo había pasado. Ya por la noche, viendo algo en los noticieros, y al día siguiente mirando por arriba el periódico, me entero de que abatieron a unos tíos que supuestamente eran terroristas y que claro, una vez más los cruceños estaban detrás del asunto. De todo, me quedó claro que a los tíos los ejecutaron y que llevaría su tiempo saber el por qué.

         De la búsqueda del por qué de tal ejecución, básicamente, trata la presente investigación de Carlos Valverde. El desarrollo de esta búsqueda parte del análisis de la personalidad de Eduardo Rozsa, para lo cual el autor recurre a una diversidad de fuentes, desde publicaciones realizadas por el mismo personaje, hasta entrevistas que hubo concedido a diferentes medios locales e internacionales, y pasando por alguna película autobiográfica que el propio Rozsa protagonizó. Esto, con la clara finalidad de sopesar si lo conductual del mencionado individuo tuvo o no coherencia con su histórico mediato, y tener ahí un basamento para emitir un juicio.

         Una vez comenzado a dibujar el perfil de Rozsa, el autor va exponiendo la dinámica del contexto sociopolítico desde el año 2007 hasta abril de 2009, delineando un mapa en el que los territorios van siendo tanto delimitados como también enlazados. Aquí, el autor se apoya en entrevistas que él mismo realizó a diferentes personas involucradas en el caso, como en informaciones de las que se evidencia con certeza que le vienen de primera mano, de manera que el lector se encuentra ante un trabajo sólido sin lugar a la especulación, o a ese tantas veces recurrido posible yerro de interpretación.

         Sin embargo, aún cuando la cantidad y la calidad de datos contenidos de por sí vale el libro, la verdadera riqueza está en los razonamientos que Valverde no se priva de compartir. El autor jamás toma como cierta y definitiva ninguna sentencia, ni ninguna declaración de nadie, sino que justamente, tiene como constante el contrastar tanto la continuidad de los discursos, como la convergencia de estos con los hechos, marcándole al lector cuándo hay una ruptura, o cuándo hay una no coincidencia entre palabras y acciones, con tal claridad, dicho sea, que el sacar conclusiones puede hasta parecer algo demasiado sencillo.

        “¡Maten a Rozsa!” constituye un espléndido esfuerzo tanto de investigación como de análisis en el que el autor ha volcado todo su oficio de periodista de primera línea, además de su carácter y personalidad provistos de inteligencia como de perseverancia. Más allá de que, como menciona el propio Valverde, “muy difícilmente sabremos la verdad histórica completa”, lo cierto, lo indubitable y lo innegable es el gesto, el intento, la búsqueda en sí de la verdad, que trasciende de uno mismo porque es esencia de nuestra especie, cualquiera sea nuestra radicación temporal y ubicación espacial por encima de cualquier tipo de banderías. 

       

jueves, 28 de junio de 2012

No matter the cost


No matter the cost

It couldn’t dry up
The fountain that never existed
And although all form has a limit
Perhaps in this end
It isn’t yours the one that survives the others.

Because here I am inhaling your difficult concept
My gills are filling with salt
And each stretch of the race
Roars its existence furiously
Making of its way a mirror of the horizon

As if we didn’t think so much
Season by season
When the previous moment had already arrived
After which, with the eyes wide opened
Each one of us would end closing the doors

Accepting the twilight and the dawns
As one who accepts the hours of his life
Without ever considering their origin or end
In this way avoiding wandering about the other
Preventing the growth of all roots of empathy.

So then, beyond any regret
Of all determination or predetermination
Crossing hurdles without perceptible effort
Constricting the heart not to express
Controlling the mind not to rebel

A plan is designed for the possibility of breathing
For one or two more minutes, for a day, for centuries
Braking from inside the dimension of height
Twisting the course to the vision never lost
That tired of thinking on others it imagines itself.

More than conflict and much more than innocence
In a mountainous and snowy situation
Of those who for fearing to its consequences
With a gash opened by their own hand
They let run the internal river of affection

That otherwise they could be transformed
Before reaching the sea that all rivers search for
And this time extends the necessary delay
That implies its sliding in an almost inconceivable limbo
From which it will separate when it understands the laws.

Although the pressure is only until a point
Of that infinite vitality that seeks to access
To the impressive and protective cloak of force
With which the order covers to those who discover it
If in the attempt, if in the stubbornness of the intent

They don’t stop compelling themselves to not fall in obsession
Demanding time to time to go accompanying
Those steps that perhaps are still less firm
But that involve the feasibility of a skill
That for definite assessment they already shine their unity

And in that way they can arrive at night
Carrying without dragging the true weight of the day
That finds its measure in its dimension
In the expansion of happiness
And the depth of sadness

These are born in the same instant
In which the feeling is confirmed
Then having to admit for a reason
The supreme calculation where everything have been foreseen
From whence the first clear condition of sincerity came.

And to tell what exists
An old man with a blackened soul
Who among ashes also searches
By means of easy and complicated actions
To be freed of the torment of his days

As the victim of circumstances exists
And the innate winner of the laws
Each one complying with the visionary role
One with the walls in front of him
The other with the bricks turning to dust in the air,

That brothers and sisters
Out of the possibility of the environment of their unions
Recreate in their way the idea of the smoke
According to their skin and stomach
And their condition of legal heirs

Or of their legitimate children that for one reason or another
Learned from their ancestors the costly art of despising
All that doesn’t coincide in content and form
With which they have engraved as a sign in the depth
Of each one of their exaltations for each one of them foreseen

That in the repeated images always ends
For not finding any return
Because the secret doesn’t dwell in the act
Or in the continuous repetition of them
But in what stays and in what is created later

So that the same word
The same prayer and the same book
In the face of the recipient can omit variety
As if they didn’t stand for what was expressed
But in the final intentions of the one who receives it

And complying then with simplicity
The purpose of the clay
Realizing the hidden power
Of something fixed that can change
Without contradictions but with all the possible inclusions.

And then the arduous
Will become a celebration
And in the middle of the night
Over the guests a look will pass
Making looking back possible but not necessary

Because what is occurring is enough
Because for what is coming there is no fear
Because although the possibility of pain
Didn’t yet totally vanished?
Its full conception is already justified completely

To give the measure of impermanence
Of which although dying of desires
Couldn’t escape
Because there is no escape for precision of the present
Where water, earth and air are without murmuring

They give convergence to the fire
Like a feather gives space to another
Until it forms a wing that is conscious of the other
It deploys versatility and is maintained by the pressure
With the absolute as destiny no matter the costs.

miércoles, 27 de junio de 2012

We either know it or not


We either know it or not

After they have remained fatigued
The dialogues, the words they want to explain
And for the uncompleted years you could sail
Facing difficult battles during the day
So that once the night comes you surrender to rest

Where you learned to imagine free
In the space where if what isn’t wanted occurs
It was nothing more that awake suddenly
And in recognizing familiar objects
Recall again, stealthily the fleeing sleep

Some sounds could have returned
That having been manifested in a convergence
They couldn’t even silence in a given time
Or linger in the tiny space of earth
And they remained there, at the mercy of the air that knows them.

It’s known that traces…
But also new signs
A precision that although can be glimpsed
Still didn’t reach the dimension to be taken
Deepening the marks of each step in which it expressed.

Having understood some displacements,
The dramatic art for which in a resolute development
A certainty accepted includes the freedom of a doubt
In a spiral playing at mathematical limits
In which only once deprivation is understood

Starting to reflect a state acquired
Not so much for passing from one extreme to another
Or weakening forces for whatever reason
But to meditate stroke by stroke
The last intention of each proposed or accepted struggle

The describable, beyond its fair or unfair expression
Fits according to the possibilities in the fatal puzzle
That started imposing an almost absolute denial
Letting only the imagination as a purpose in a groove
For which it would have accepted to understand

Crumbling the way for life
In small but intense segments
In such a way that the simple becomes confused
And the confusion is complied of simplicity
When finally to isolate isn’t the same as to separate.

The drop sweating the glass
The one who washes the eyes in the morning
The one starting the sweet run of the rain
The one who alone becomes the first daring to plunge in the sea
And the one who searches for its mate to become wider.

Details as small crystal pieces
So that the grace of someone bearing them
Isn’t based in a proud exhibition
But in the capacity of humility
To shine still more effortlessly radiating translucence.

Behead the intention of recognition
Dismissing the exhalation of such an intention
At the same side of a round table – allowing the center-
And not from the other extreme as generally occurs
When somebody commanded, ignoring how to guide.

Farther and with more effort
With more victims and more results
With more sacrifices and more rewards
With more time and more space
For courage of a life that pretends to be great.

As he can and knows
Squeezing sorrows in the heart
Forming smiles with sights
Forgetting without wanting some maps
That refers to climbs and leaps to give

It’s also given the pulse
The scream still present
Of distant crimes
Where the body has been
For having being faithful.

A known time for sigh
Where somebody wanted to include
Much more than it can be done
Because also goes for forgive yourself
To be able to compel yourself something more

Until you reach expectations but not the foreseen
That day isn’t opposed to the night
In a shape in which consciousness rests
Of one who is laboring with a hidden smile
Because behind the eyes there is more visualized than seen

No plans exist that aren’t secret
Since nothing subsist without implicating the absolute
As nothing that has its place stops existing
In the quiet clamor of one who inclines his head
To receive the love that will be rewarded.

Here or there
We either know it or not
Where those who don’t need evidence laugh
When to lose a lot was necessary
To gain the probability of an instant

In which everything is all right
In the future that will really be another day
In which finally an end will not exist
Nor the trace of having persisted
Only the air on the edge of the mystery of fire.

sábado, 23 de junio de 2012

Paraguay lo hace en horas


Siempre, pero siempre, el tema era que para promulgar una ley tenía que ser aprobada por “diputados” y “senadores”. El problema, entonces, era que como nunca había mayoría del partido de gobierno, había que transar. Colorados, liberales y “los otros” dialogaban (digámoslo así) hasta que al final la ley se aprobaba o se iba a la mierda. Ahora, tanto diputados, como senadores, “por amplia mayoría” he’i la tipo, votaron por la misma cosa. Y los de afuera, que en la puta vida vieron esto, se enojan.
Yo leo dos cosas:
1- En adentro: Si todos se pusieron de acuerdo (y por la plata baila el mono), ya todos habrán de imaginarse quién soltó las monedas. “Cartesianas” deducciones, Watson. Santas consecuencias, Batman!

2- En afuera: “esto lo vengo investigando, y lo vengo viviendo”, como diría Edgardo Beltran, no hay nada peor que el más chico te de ejemplos. Esto hay que entenderlo, los diputados y senadores fueron elegidos, ergo, representan al pueblo. Y ellos, mayoritariamente tomaron tal decisión. Ya si ellos fueron puestos donde están en elecciones fraudulentas, era en el atrás del tiempo (he’í Smarc), donde tenían que llorar, no ahora. Y si el pueblo que representan no está conforme, que se manfieste. Pero recordemos Iraq, Panamá, y demás. Yo no me meto con tu familia, vos no te metás con la mía.

En el histórico, el Paraguay logró su independencia en horas. La dictadura militar se  derrocó en horas. Y la destitución de un presidente, tal cual, en horas.

Si a otros países les implicó ganar su independencia un costo de semanas, meses, años, es cuestión de ellos. Ese es su histórico, no el nuestro. Las cosas no tienen que ser como los del norte, los del sur, este u oeste entienden – desde fuera – que deben ser. NO.

Pena, vergüenza y risa me dio CNN cuando rompió las bolas con que los militares esto o aquello. Masiaoooo co querían que salgan los tanques, “parece”. Al pedo, le van a tener que pagar 500 dólares al día a su reportero que no va a tener nada que reportar, salvo que no tiene idea de lo que pasa.

Y respecto de los que sacaron a sus embajadores, hay que ser boludo. Hermano, y si tu compatriota tiene problemas en suelo extranjero, a dónde va a ir, si vos le sacás de ahí tu representante? Te parece eso democrático? No te das cuenta que te cagás en el tipo que puede tener problemas y que va a necesitarte?

Chicos, todo es plata. Despierten. El candidato que tenía 42 propuestas de locura para grecia JAMÁS SALIÓ EN LOS MEDIOS. Los políticos son una mierda, y gracias a los dioses (o sea al heavy), hay excepciones, como en Islandia.

The reason


The reason

False magic
Simple waste
But not pure
Premeditated pain.

A rose grows
Until it reaches the sky
That knows infection
That is razed of regret.

Then the grease in the set o dishes
The fatigue in the wrinkles
The children born and forgotten
For a memorized definition,

The slow steps of disgust
The tragic insult of art
And the poor human being
Tired of being a poor human being.

It is doubt what you exude – it seems to be -
A breath of lead
Naming Hermes
Clean hands for ignoring
The mortal weigh to hold.

And the criticism comes
From a prudent expression
Now in the distant past
That implied a break
That smile not foreseen.

But one who remembers
Goes observing what comes.

The day in numbers
And in names
In gestures
And inactions
In the possible, if it was accomplished or not.

And the end of the day
Where what counts
Could be what happened
Or what could happen tomorrow.

Congruent styles
Crabs looking for skin
Gangrene in the soul
And expresses thanks for everything.

And not being happy.

And keeping it as a secret
And hiding it as a wound
And concealing it as a fault
And chewing on it every day.

For not saying it
For not listening it
For not understanding it
For pretending not to have lived

While the heart’s pulp
Continues being corroded
As the bones find their fatigue
And the hairs don’t find their owner.

Even in anger
Even in rebellion
Even in the heels
Discovering they are sick.

And the nibble of hope
For the body that you bear
When the glowworms commit suicide
For the word that you can say
And you hush because it hurts your love.

Premonitions not moving you
Teeth and fears
Hands and weapons
The embrace and the escape
The time you learned to endure everything

Because it was not about you
But of your possibility
Because another was in it
Another who you guessed as unimaginable
But tangible like your affections.

A part of the street
And the entire night
The coming of the days
And the patient sighs of the seas

So that you slowly see
The sign that without emotion
Suggests wakefulness
One more step even as if it were only
For being unconditionally faithful.






Juan Valdez Cárdenas - Miss Narco

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------------
Título: Miss Narco
Autor: Javier Valdez Cárdenas
Editorial: Aguilar
ISBN: 978-607-11-0301-7
Nro. Páginas: 272
-------------------------------------
Miss Narco
por Silvio M. Rodríguez c.

La ciudad es un panteón. Todos los rincones son zonas de ejecuciones. En el 2009, en menos de 140 días hubo casi 400 asesinatos. De entre ellos, 25 cometidos en contra de mujeres”, leemos apenas comienza el libro, y así nos ubicamos en el contexto en el que transcurren y del cual provienen los testimonios que el autor ha recopilado. Un contexto por demás complicado a la hora de visualizarlo en sus más íntimas conexiones, aunque lamentablemente sencillo a la hora de entender el origen de una violencia que va exponiendo en igual medida tanto al poder como a la impotencia.

Versiones de académicos refieren que durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, al final de la primera mitad del siglo, autoridades de México y Estados Unidos pactaron la siembra de amapola en la zona montañosa de los estados de Chihuahua, Durango y Sinaloa, por su clima propicio para éste y otros cultivos, para obtener goma de opio y elaborar morfina, y surtir de este poderoso analgésico los soldados estadunidenses que estaban en combate”, leemos un poco más adelante, ya confirmando de que lo que tenemos en nuestras manos no se trata tan sólo de un conjunto de cifras, sino que va con intención.

Paralelamente al riesgo que implica para cada una de las que colaboraron en este trabajo el hacerlo, está el del propio Javier Valdez Cárdenas, cosa que se evidencia cuando al terminar el libro encontramos la mención de un correo electrónico en el que da cuenta de una granada de fragmentación arrojada en el periódico en donde trabaja. Arriesgar la vida por hablar, por contar, por dar a conocer no los secretos de la farándula de Hollywood, sino aquello que ocurre en las calles, en el día a día, implica la intención de que las cosas cambien, el hacer algo al respecto.


En el desarrollo de los testimonios cabe destacar el profesionalismo con el que cada una de las historias es encarada. Ninguna es tratada como por arriba, sino que todas son ofrecidas con los pormenores que hacen tanto a la temporalidad como a la espacialidad inmediata y mediata. Uno sabe qué pasó, cuándo, por qué, y cómo ha sido el histórico anterior que desembocó en tal situación, de manera que todos los cabos quedan atados y es posible aprehender la realidad de cada una de las protagonistas aún cuando se traten de situaciones tan extremas que resultaría difícil imaginarlas, pero que existen.

Sin llegar a perder en ningún momento la objetividad, sin abandonar la vista de pájaro, el autor, sin embargo, logra transmitir toda la emocionalidad de los sujetos implicados en los hechos, sosteniendo el desarrollo de cada caso con el aporte de cifras, fechas y nombres, y volviéndolo ameno (si esto es posible) con un lenguaje claro, periodístico, que en ocasiones tampoco se priva de aportarle cierto color a toda la línea del trazado. Miss Narco es un trabajo entre testimonial y de denuncia, con el que el lector tendrá acceso a una muy rica fuente de información obtenida de primera mano.

jueves, 21 de junio de 2012

For a leap


For a leap

After three centuries
He couldn’t reduce the hurry
That always marked his steps
And the speed of his eyes
When he examined the spaces.

With blows he had been forged
Like one who endures waiting
Completely devoid of patience
But quietly for the understanding of rhythm
That makes him see the advance both in the turtle and the cheetah.

One hour is little
Because the preceding ones
Breathed among perfumes
Of those who didn’t know the essence
That implied the sacrifice of petals.

Even though since dawning he was attracted
With fire he was denied to talk
Perhaps to shape him still more
To the form of weapon with which he lives
He is waiting without letting himself to show his teeth.

The calm is becoming more profound
The tension prepares its roar
Under the neat tiles
Behind closed windows
Above scarce clouds.

Before his imprecise shadow
The others crackle escaping
The time extending backwards
Launching interior emptiness
To those who perceive their next decline.

From deep he tries to smile
But his skin is not for innocence any more
Destroyed the illusions, the human piety
Only steel seems to be able to reach him
He becomes a faithful dog, dagger companion.

It will be attempted to disturb him
But it will be a poor effort
Such as one who tries
And as one who sees
The distorted vanity of his acts

The word obsesses him
As wolves do to young shepherd
Opening the danger of ephemeral
Where for a simple gesture at an improper moment
Even a pigeon would be drained.

With the faces of those who have been there
Although not active but present
Loading the necks with irons
Listens attentively the excuses of others
Trying to see something more of what he reaches.

It’s painful for him to be there
Without anything ending to finish
Because it is known of fixed air
And knows that being little what he wants
It will be everything if he dies that night

But there are no certainties
Not of his life or death
And between one and another he attends from inside
To the stage of forgetfulness
For the likely continuous outcome
For which with a leap it is accessed to the senses.

martes, 19 de junio de 2012

The queries


The queries

What are you going to say to her?
When after forcing her
They have snatched without shame
What she wanted most
Because, does it make her feel more important?

How are you going to heal her with explanations?
The wounds that hurt each piece of skin
When she knows she was born without marks
And the ones she has now aren’t for what she was
But, are they for those who saw her grow?

What words are you going to say?
When in her most hidden sincerity
You find yourself in a deserted street
At the end of which the moon can not be seen
Reflecting the last attempt at heat

With what hands would you touch her?
After knowing where, her body has rested
The night when she believed in something that was not
And nobody had the force to stop her
Or make her change of refuge.

Of what book will you speak?
When she finally rests her eyes on your sight
And what you see isn’t an unbelievable sadness
But a pure intense joy, intense and faithful
Ready to be smothered in her still lusting skin.

When everybody arrives and they are all present
What would you do to distinguish and separate her?
When you have never been in the court
Where they are going to wait for the sentence of the stars
Those people, did they ever enjoy an undeserved gift?

And when among mindless trembling
Manifesting the intensity of her fears
What protection could you offer her?
After so many years recognizing warmth
And you didn’t even write a verse to bitterness.

And when you are informed of her intentions
And necessarily compare them with yours
What are you going to do to feel the ground again?
As in that time where the rain was only water
When the air over there or here didn’t imply her name

I ask you what I shouldn’t have to
That with respect to your being nobody would wonder
So that somebody contradicts me
And make my eyes shine showing that I am mistaken.

I bet to the musical notes
To have been there
To see what happens
When the music stops
And what could be no more than can be seen.

domingo, 17 de junio de 2012

Charles Bukowski - Mujeres


Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------------
Título: Mujeres
Autor: Charles Bukowski
Editorial: Anagrama
ISBN: 9788433920997
Nro. Páginas: 358
Traducción: Jorge Berlanga
-------------------------------------
Mujeres
por Silvio M. Rodríguez C.

         Enfrentarse a una novela biográfica tiene ya su cosa, porque uno como lector permanece en un estado de alerta extra respecto de las posibles omisiones y de las posibles exageraciones acerca del protagonista, además de que resulta inevitable el ir contrastando la información ya recibida anteriormente. Si la novela es autobiográfica el lector eleva los niveles de alerta, porque va sopesando la coherencia histórica de la emocionalidad del autor con su conducta, esto es, uno constantemente se pregunta sobre lo veraz de la intensidad  con que tales y cuales hechos afectaron, como dice que le afectaron, al sujeto y también emisor. 

          Con “Mujeres”, yo directamente apagué todos los sistemas de alertas y me entregué de lleno al relato, como si Henry Chinaski no tuviese nada que ver con Charles Bukowski y el aviso de “basado en hechos reales” apareciese recién al final. Es así como accedí sin trabas a la piel y huesos del escritor, a su manera particular de concebir diferentes aspectos de la realidad y al por qué, a veces casi mecánico y a veces imprevisible, de su modo de actuar como también de su manera de no hacer absolutamente nada respecto de algunas cosas que pudieran exigirle su participación.

          La historia está marcada por las relaciones que Chinaski sostiene y quiebra con diferentes mujeres, todas ellas (mujeres y relaciones) muy por fuera de los rangos de lo usual, en una maraña de invasiones y evasiones donde los abusos son provocados, generados y permitidos, como si marcadas carencias sólo pudiesen ser compensadas con excesos mayúsculos. El panorama, así, es un tobogán por el que uno se deja caer, subir y girar, desde lo tórrido del deseo sexual fijado a lo puramente carnal, hasta la idealidad amorosa proyectada en la esencia íntima del besar, sin la posibilidad de pausa en el recorrido.

          Pero, aunque son las mujeres de Chinaski las que se ganan la mayoría de las cámaras, también hay lentes enfocados hacia los otros lados del prisma. El cómo interactúa el escritor con sus amigos o allegados, la tensión o distensión que siente cuando le toca poner el cuerpo en una reunión social, lo que opina de sus colegas (exitosos o no), y toda la previa, el durante y el después de las sesiones de lectura, son ángulos expuestos como en un segundo plano, y que, sin embargo, constituyen el marco fundamental con el cual la imagen logra ir más allá de sí.

          Pasando de Chinaski a Bukowski, ya cayendo en la cuenta de que son uno, tiene alguna cuota innegable de belleza la autenticidad y la sinceridad. Es decir, uno lee que la rudeza de los hechos se condice con la sencillez del discurso, y sabe que así lo quiso el autor, como expuso que lo hizo. Uno siente que las construcciones fueron escritas de golpe, que tuvieron alguna corrección después, y que entre duda y confianza venció esta última como se debe, por puntos, aguantando todos los asaltos uno por uno, con el rival enfrente y el público a los costados, mirando.


jueves, 14 de junio de 2012

Some day



Some day
I also believed
That in the morning
The flowers never lie

I wanted to be, some day
And to attain permanence
At least in one heart
That can predict the impossible.

It was my habit
To ask for a lot
And still give more
So that I can dream with just a little.

But at the end I hit the wall
And from the wine I learned its renounce
And from the friendly hand the betrayal
And from what I am what I could have been.

And I continued losing
Fears and tinted glasses
The accuracy of the dates
And the loyalty of misfortune.

I opened myself to another way
And I forgot about myself
Misleading my memory
There, in the clouds of the past.

I started to go
Without permitting evidence
Drilling my mind
Until I let myself behind.

Once in the center
I wanted to return
And although what I saw was the same
I was not the same observing it.

Without anymore steps
Than those I would give
Without anymore coins
From those that I would gain
I smiled slowly saying your name.

martes, 12 de junio de 2012

The possibility


The possibility

Permission to change
To generate and transform
To raise a protest
High above a deep hole.

Brief land, offended
By the complaining of its birds
For its weary breath
Of those who don’t feel it.

One lie after another
The fragility of preaching
In the tortuous rooms
Where only one woman
Supplies pleasure to hundreds

Eyes well opened
But for everyday things
And the mouth ready
Only so it can repeat.

Thus in the subways
From which we emerge each morning
With our double breasted suits
And our shoes that seems to look shinny.

Talking about money
Generating more money
Like adjusted pieces
Of a barely comprehensible machine,

For lamentation its time
For discovering its moment
The order of events
For someone who fears scandals

Promises for shortages
An ongoing party for the uncontrollable
While the dishonor of the race
It’s sprinkling the stones with decay.

And that it matters little or nothing
Except for some type of miracle
A smile can be more, this
And the whole world can fit in a man.

domingo, 10 de junio de 2012

Suzanne Bernard - Mala vida

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------------
Título: Mala vida
Autor: Suzanne Bernard
Editorial: Plural
ISBN: 84-413-1414-4
Nro. Páginas: 302
Traducción: Teresa Clavel
-------------------------------------
Mala vida
por Silvio M. Rodríguez c.

Apenas vas entrando en la novela, ahí por la tercera o cuarta página, te das cuenta de que algo “raro” está sucediendo. Un par de páginas después te das cuenta de que el ritmo es sencillamente espectacular, que conlleva eso que vulgarmente podría llamarse “musicalidad”. Como se ve, no hablo del ritmo en cuanto a esa vertiginosidad de las historias de suspenso o acción, sino de ese ritmo que se maneja en poética. Es decir, las construcciones están dispuestas de tal modo que uno se siente en el tobogán, como cuando lee unos endecasílabos o unos alejandrinos correctamente estructurados en forma.

           Otro aspecto con el que Bernard se despunta es el enfoque del tono y el lenguaje. La utilización de palabras antiguas (se incluye un glosario de las mismas) y la expresividad sostenida tanto en el relato como en la interactuación de los personajes, hacen que el lector pueda llegar a pensar que está frente a un libro que trata no sólo de hechos que ocurrieron siglos atrás, sino que fue escrito siglos atrás. Cabría marcar también que en ningún momento se percibe tensión alguna, esto es, el discurso fluye como si el autor transmitiese sin esfuerzo alguno, con una notable naturalidad.

         Ya en el lío, se destaca la figura de Jérémie Bardus, ex monje que se une la banda de delincuentes que sostiene el relato, y que también nos echa un poco de luz sobre lo mencionado respecto del ritmo. Retratado como poeta mediocre hasta el ridículo, y en momentos como idealista hasta la candidez, representa una caracterización en la que Bernard deja ver el oficio tanto en el entendimiento como en el tratamiento del personaje. En Bardus, la ruptura de la coherencia absoluta entre pensamiento y acción se produce de una manera amable, como si no pudiese ser de otro modo.

          A la hora de los detalles, la descripción suele ser un elemento de peso cuando repasamos lo histórico, y Bernard lo sabe bien. Más allá de las líneas de facciones que necesariamente habrán de dibujarse, considerando que la trama va de forajidos, meretrices y nobles, hay un especial cuidado en la exposición tanto del vestuario como de las comidas, un tema que no pasa desapercibido para el que gusta de analizar este tipo de detalles. Lo espacial tampoco queda atrás; los ámbitos se visualizan merced a trazos sencillos pero precisos, de tal suerte que el cuadro resulta completo y sin agobios.

         Marcada por el signo del humor, Mala vida no se deja leer sin una lente actual. Un ambiente en el que predomina la sensación del fin del mundo y la postura respecto de su posibilidad, en donde algunos dilapidan vida y dinero por placeres pasajeros en tanto que otros arriesgan el cuerpo por unas monedas, son algunas de las variables que recuerdan los “ciclos” del que hablan los economistas y que Suzanne Bernard dibuja entre de lejos y cerca, como sugiriendo sin imponer, desde los ojos de un testigo que se abstiene de juzgar, porque para eso está el lector, seguro.

sábado, 9 de junio de 2012

The entangler


The entangler

He played at the time and webbed
The afternoon when somebody said to him
That the hand that caresses
Must not be the same that strikes.

While his body rests
His mind continues traveling
And up to date what he has perceived
That he can not imagine everything.

Walking around
Where the things are coming to an end
Doing a mystery of the schedule
Because he spends his hours otherwise

But without forgetting other clocks
So that when they converge
It becomes a summer party
A comet without threads refuses to run away.

Going around
On the bay area
And from there
Normally to the border

Where the lines lose clarity
To give space to the essence
That goes beyond the words
When to let itself know

It demands at least to be breathed
Beyond the outbreak
Of laughs or tears
In the hard environment of the tigers.

I already forgot her name
When nobody wanted to ask
It already became more than an image
When its definition was intended

And what is left is a little more
When she finally returns
And nobody would have missed her
Because each one saved a little
Of what she gave them at dawn.

jueves, 7 de junio de 2012

December


December 

It’s already coming, unavoidable,
The smell of coconut flowers
The hysterical song of cicadas
And the truck transporting water melons.

The nearness would scare him
On his neck he will only receive a stroke
The enormous weight of the almanac already old
That during the morning will sing in desperation.

Trying a smile
His old shield
But he must admit the turpitude
The slow expression that was previously fast.

The gifts will hurt him
For those who didn’t know patience
And it will be a little more difficult
Breathing air without stopping.

Unless he abandons
Both departure and arrival
Letting it be done by persistence
Like the clay that gives in before of the potter

Leaving aside all the names
But writing all of them
Like pins on photographs
Like snow on other planets

To cross their mirrors
Naming each meter of way
Reciting on each step of the stairs
Freeing and not subjecting

According to what is narrating
While looking another world
As if the things were outside
And not sunk inside.

But nobody bets on his game
Where there is only one edge
But it seems to be eternal
As the one who created it.

martes, 5 de junio de 2012

One more


One more

For looking always for the edge
Without ever being able to find it
Trying to grasp the opening
Of many mental distances

A few days without silence
They ended broken
Like a bone is broken
When occurs a blow unknown or unexpected.

The wonder that is left by one
The cruel abandoning of ceremonies

And all the emotion that her words expressed
But was silenced by the environment
As if they were the story of a poison
Of a horrible and unmentionable crime

Opening written ways
For the sweet lie of pills
When time addresses the idea
Of its particular end, that is its rest.

The theory of repentance
And a thirst that increases
To confessing sincerely and honestly
Like gunpowder traces on the hands of the assassin.

Facing the stress
With the approval of your heart
That likes to run
Although for this could need rest

Transforming the stones into bones
And in ashes the memory praised in other times
It is like the game of existence pulls
It is the perceived manifestation of remote impulses.

And suddenly the night
And the body feels cold
It is discovered the worn hands
In the eyes, it is suspected fatigue.

For just one more opportunity
For an old attempt
Wanting to be born again.

domingo, 3 de junio de 2012

Resignation or not


Resignation or not

As it wasn’t pain what you looked for
You found an explanatory solution
You allotted some time, a few days in the almanac
You knew that it wouldn’t be enough for the deceit.

Of one you said idealist, of the other opportunist
Living your part in judgment
The hidden minutes when you decided
The consequence previous to your breathing
When finally they let you say what you wanted.

And not as they wanted
And not as you should
And not as you yearned
And not as you would preferred

But from your heart
With a little of anger
And a little of faith
Like those who do as they like

But not as those who love -
Between the game of chance
And the fortune to be able to count on
With a place where you will not fall dawn.

For the revenge, of his intention
For the sunrise that doesn’t belong to him
To whom you want to give as reprimand
To the one who asked and you denied

That day in which he crossed the borders
Not only for doing it
But for performing it
He didn’t have your skin as reason.

So you realize that somebody knows
What is planned and what is hidden
In the arms lifting a child
That refuses writing a letter later on

Where he would say what he wants
Without considering who is the one who wants it
Because what he wants seems to be a little more
Than what the other desires
Like an animated thing among puppets
Whose stings suspects with terrible clarity.

The page opened to things that happens
Electricity that explains the skin
Electrons ignoring the memory
And the air shared with somebody unknown
But it’s, like a dog when its owner has died.

Breaking down of many moments
Created between days and nights
Where nightmare and illusion came together
To converge in the human plexus
That without giving them sense will offer them shelter.

The yellow and the black
As there is no restrained crying
For a handful of true kisses
When all of them already departed
Leaving as a reminder only
The teeth images are biting something more.

That they overturn the appointment of their certainty
That they open from the plastic the hopes to the top
That in its own order admits and enjoys disorder
Of that someone who will end embracing without delicacy
The same pillow on which will not sleep who pretends.

That appears before dawn
That under the belly but above the eyebrows
What he stretches while smiling
Wanting but not happy.

That in a relative pronoun
It is forked without pretending
Leaving signs at the end
As if the beginning were so simple

Just like reading a book
And then telling
To one who wants to know
To be able to say what he knows

And not to pursue
As does the one who converts a lot into a little
For a waiting that he knows is another
But that bears her name
As you feel better when you are just passing.

Alejandro Jodorowsky - El loro de siente lenguas

Ficha del libro:
-----------------------------------
Título: El loro de siete lenguas
Autor: Alejandro Jodorowsky
Editorial: Ediciones Siruela
ISBN: 978-987-566-318-3
Nro. Páginas: 441
-------------------------------------
El loro de siete lenguas
por Silvio M. Rodríguez c.

          
Me enteré de Jodorowsky varios años antes de leer esta novela, viendo una entrevista (dividida entonces en varias partes) en Youtube acerca de Psicomagia. En ese momento me llamaron la atención el timbre de su voz, la dirección y el enfoque de su mirada, como la disposición de sus hombros y sus manos mientras discurría e interactuaba con el entrevistador. Se manifestaba conocedor del tarot y de la poesía, cosa que me atrajo, como también, de ese ambiente “psico” que desde un siempre – finito y explicable – vine rechazando fervientemente. Es decir, accedí a uno de esos calidoscopios que tanto me gustan.

        Con este recuerdo encima, y siendo un despreciador confeso de prólogos, prefacios e introducciones, al comenzar el libro fui directo al inicio. Desde las primeras páginas me encontré con personajes al límite de lo increíble, y con una trama que rozaba el absurdo. Sin embargo, y esta es una de las genialidades, la irrealidad propuesta en ningún momento dejaba de ser de alguna manera posible, y es, de repente, la crucial diferencia con “Cien años de soledad”, que viene a ser la novela con la que la refiero a la hora de marcar un nivel de imaginación superior a la media.

         Ahora, la maravilla del libro consiste en su esplendente y humilde para qué. Mirado de lejos toda la historia es una gran excusa de la que el autor se vale para exponer la lucha individual por alcanzar ese estado que podría llamarse felicidad, paz, equilibrio, o la suma de estas variables. Una lucha inconsciente que los personajes llevan a cabo en parte obligados por circunstancias externas, y en parte como consecuencia de las acciones que deciden realizar, de manera que todo va transcurriendo en la convergencia entre el pasado de cada cual y su propia capacidad de desempeñar el libre albedrío.

         Las diversas conductas descritas acaban siendo explicadas, cada emoción puesta de manifiesto va siendo retratada y sustentada con soltura y hasta con audacia, y esto, por el saber hacer del escritor y por su decisión de arremeter conceptos y preconceptos sin limitación alguna. Las vías y “desviaciones” sexuales, el alcohol y algo que va más allá de su abuso, el “ruido” mental que acompaña a la figura del artista, a la del intelectual, y a la de quien ostenta el poder político, son colores que Jodorowsky utiliza con una intensidad de vértigo y que ajusta a una línea de límpida resolución.

       Andrea diría “carece de errores”. Y es que “El loro de siete lenguas” habla en la principal, la cierta, la humana, la que nos identifica y la que nos proyecta, la que nos hace mirar afuera y adentro, la que nos toca ahí donde no sabíamos (o aprendimos a olvidar) que estaba el nervio. Sin duda, una de las mejores novelas que he leído, de esas que sufrís y gozás, porque conlleva en sí el triunfo de amalgamar proceso y resultado, esa extraña victoria que se produce al destruir la ignorancia y construir panoramas más amplios, y por ello más íntimos.