Recursive pledge…

•febrero 25, 2009 • 2 comentarios

Alone, alone in my mind. Trapped by walls of doubt and fear. Alone I hear the velvet tolling of the Requiem bell and the strident cawing of the midnight-feathered ravens.

Alone I try to compose verses to appease my soul, fumbling with unknown words, unable to describe these strange feelings that, knocking at my door disturb the sad peace of my present, singing strange memories that entice me to write in blood rhythms I thought did not exist.

And as my mind commands my hand to further explore the inkwell of endless words, I watch at the empty picture of my love, a face I cannot remember. A face, perhaps yet to be portrayed…

Alone, alone in my mind I see the walls trapping me crumbling at your laugh, clear as spring, vibrant as the colours of autumn; and I feel your lips upon mine, a ghostly kiss that last the eternity of a heartbeat.

The Requiem bell no longer tolls, the ravens stood still, ashamed of their discordant song. My inkwell is upturned… upturned, spilling words I do not recognize, filling the page with a black mirror that shows nothing. Gone, you are gone, leaving me with silent ravens and a cracked bell, But the memory persist, I still see you with my eyes closed, I still hear your voice beside me, I still feel the taste of your lips…

And like a madman dancing to a tune only he can hear I gather these new words that fill my heart. Words clear as spring, vibrant with the colour of autumn. Like a madman I write, sing and dance, shaping my feelings around you and through you… Like a madman wishing upon a star I try to remember something that has always been here; I try to remember your ghostly kiss, the sweet smell of your skin, your beautiful smile and eyes so dark that seem sprinkled with stars.

Like a conjuror attempting the impossible, like a madman trying to pull the moon to its room I try to summon you to my heart, hoping my words were enough to hold you in my arms. Like a blind man who fervently wishes to see again, I slowly open my eyes, terrified to see only the black mirror of the spilled inkwell.

My heart skips, tears run down my cheeks . You have come; or, perhaps, you had never left, waiting with me until I had the courage to see… I try to speak, feelings clutching at my throat, burning desires I want to share with you alone; but you hush me with a kiss, saying “I know”…

I have found you… now I pray like a madman never to forget you.

Passione

•febrero 8, 2009 • 1 comentario

La vida deberia ser como una composicion musical… Acordes, notas, staccatos, piano… Un vals o un concierto de percusion. La vida en el blanco y negro de las corcheas, enteras y blancas. Negro sobre blanco, sin mentiras, sin confusiones. Lo que ves es lo que hay. Mismas notas en diferentes tempos, y sin embargo la misma historia. Passione.

Estoy más que harto. He perdido el norte, estoy sin brujula y las estrellas no lucen.

“Pintare tu Requiem con mi sangre…” Me encanta esta frase…

He dicho que estoy más que harto?

Love

•febrero 8, 2009 • Dejar un comentario

En estas negras horas en las que hasta las oscuras sombras parecen cobrar vida para mirar por encima de mi hombro, espiando mis versos a la luz de las velas, surge ante mi la eterna pregunta, ¿Qué es el amor? Como describir este sentimiento que tan turbado ha mantenido a grandes escritores y pensadores…
Y yo simple aprendiz de poeta, oso proclamar haber encontrado respuesta.
Y es gracias a ti que los cielos se abrieron, iluminándome con su saber; es por ti, y para ti, que hoy escribo estas líneas.

Amor es para mi dulce y calmado sueño en el que poder observar tu faz angelical a la luz de la Luna, amor es poder rodear tu cintura con mi mano, sintiendo el calor de tu cuerpo y el latir de tu corazón tan cerca del mío.
Y calmar tus sueños inquietos estrechándote entre mis brazos, jugar con tu cabellera, enredando mis dedos en tus mechas, besarte en la oscuridad, tímida y fugazmente, como la brisa de otoño, como ladrón que teme ser descubierto, para no despertarte de tu apacible sueño.
Y como un ciego en la noche más oscura, que no puede ver mas que con la luz de nuestro amor, recorro tu cuerpo con mis manos, ajeno a la sonrisa que dibujan tus labios, pues sin querer de tu sueño te desperté

Pero este sueño no tiene fin, pues esta, como todas las demás noches, nos pertenece

Y a la tímida luz de tus ojos nos enlazamos en tierno abrazo, esperando la llegada del alba, que con los primeros rayos me saquen de esta oscuridad para poder, una vez mas, contemplar tu sonrisa y tu mirar

Esto es para mi, amigos míos, lo que es el amor: el sueño de cada noche, un sueño, que se torna realidad, cada amanecer.

Something personal

•febrero 8, 2009 • Dejar un comentario

I distinctly remember my first kiss… it was not what I expected; it didn’t happen as the so many books I read told. It was hard, a teeth to teeth contact, born from inexperienced lovers, those who had yet to master the boundaries of lips and the softness of skin. Time didn’t stop, the Earth kept on moving and yet… yet for those two figures standing there it did, an everlasting moment, preserved in memory.
It was our first date and we spent it walking around the city, talking, laughing and holding hands shyly. We weren’t pressed, we weren’t in a hurry, so we allowed the night to came upon us on a recently built bridge. The scene was magnificent, glass and steel, light everywhere and upon us a starry night with a full moon.
So, we were on the bridge, my arms around her waist to keep her warm from the winter wind and I, stupid me, was babbling about the beauty of the light of the stars and the dew on the grass when, while still clutching her, she turned, looked me in the eyes and kissed me. She was smaller than me and had to stand on tiptoe. The whole situation was classic, a cliché, and it was beautiful. Her lips burned, a brief contact in a cold night that kept me warm just my thinking of it ; then she rested her head on my chest and after a moment said in a soft voice: “your heart beats really fast, I like it”.
We kissed many times after that, and I have kissed other women too after her, but that first kiss was really special indeed. It was not only my first kiss, but hers too. It was, too, the night of St. Valentine’s Day. How more special could it be? The very first kiss of two young lovers on St Valentine’s Day… sometimes, even now, after so many years, the mere thought of it makes me shiver. But it all seems old now, like I’ve lived a hundred lives. And I’ve changed, but I’m happy with the thought that somewhere, deep inside me, there’s still a place unchanged, untainted, still naïve.

I believe the world could be a better place if every men, every women could remember his first kiss…

De la lluvia y los paraguas 2/2

•febrero 8, 2009 • Dejar un comentario

“Siempre te quedará Paris”, ¿notáis el singular? Es por que en realidad te has quedado tú solo en Paris, aunque siempre te queda la ilusión de ver la Cité des Lumières. Que pena que hace tiempo ya que estas ciego, sino te hubieses dado cuenta hace tiempo de los faroles que te mete la vida.

Ilusión, que bonita palabra, que junto con Esperanza forman un dúo de lo más singular. Sin embargo no puedo sino oír “espejismo” en vez de ilusión y ya faltos de aire esperanza se torna simplemente en “espera”. Ni Lawrence de Arabia hubiese conseguido cruzar este desierto.
Repaso general chicos, ¿cuantas llevamos? Siete, al igual que los pecados capitales, en orden inverso: Ilusión, Vergüenza, Miedo, Sueños, Timidez, Paciencia y Perseverancia. ¿Están todos? No, ni mucho menos. Y si no os gustaron los anteriores estos todavía menos. ¿Preparados? ¿no? Demasiado tarde: Frustración… “dios, por que está tan ciega, por que no ve que estoy ahí, que siempre lo he estado”. Lo que no pareces ver es que ambos jugáis a cartas con baraja marcada y los ojos cerrados. “Porqué no le he dicho nada, porqué habré esperado tanto”. Porqué, por qué, por que… da igual como se escriba, el resultado es el mismo…

Envidia, envidia sana “me alegro que tengas novio de nuevo” –atención al gran espectáculo de Pinocho-, envidia malsana “como cojones lo hace, otra vez emparejada”.

Ira, incandescente, volcánica, una ira primitiva, difícil de controlar… “es muy guapo, me gusta y….” y la bestia se debate dentro de ti, grita, se retuerce, “It will kill werewolves with his bare hands”. Pero está sujeta, con gruesas cadenas de timidez, de paciencia y perseverancia. Si después de esto eres capaz de mirarte al espejo y decir “algún día cambiará mi suerte”, enhorabuena, yo hace tiempo que no me atrevo a mirar. Si no te conozco no he vivido, y si muero sin conocerte, no muero, por que no he vivido / de otro, será de otro, como antes de mis besos, su voz, su cuerpo claro, sus ojos infinitos… Luis Cernuda y Pablo Neruda, unos de los más hermosos versos que jamás se han escrito. Si al leerlo algo en tu alma no ha llorado, vuélvelos a leer.

Os quiero, te quiero, ¿me voy o me quedo? Ella, él, todos vosotros decidís. En fin, en dos palabras, te quiero. Ya sabéis lo que os queda, seguid jugando si os atrevéis, estamos como al principio, salvo que ahora, espero, hayáis aprendido que los dados y las cartas están marcados.

De la lluvia y los paraguas 1/2

•febrero 8, 2009 • 2 comentarios

¿Por que las cosas siempre tienen que salir como uno no quiere? ¿Por que cuando tenemos todas nuestras ilusiones puestas en algo al final siempre resulta que hubiese sido mejor guardárnoslas para nosotros?

Hay preguntas que pueden matar a alguien, otras que pueden revivirle. Desafortunadamente siempre nos solemos encontrar con mas de las primeras que con las segundas, y francamente es una autentica jodienda, por que por lo visto siempre, siempre, tenemos que tragarnos nuestras propias opiniones, callarnos y aguantar el chaparrón por mucho que nos llueva, por que, y eso es lo importante, nunca se encuentra un paraguas a mano cuando uno lo necesita, o un taxi que te lleve de vuelta a la case départ.

No, lo que siempre pasa es que tenemos que dar toda la vuelta al tablero para volver a empezar, y para cuando llegamos muchas veces ya no tenemos ganas de echar otra partida. Así son las cosas, la vida es un juego de azar, y la fortuna juega con los dados trucados y las cartas marcadas. ¿Injusto? Quizás, aunque afortunadamente hay gente que tarde o temprano acaba por ganar. A mí siempre se me ha dado mal el juego, con eso os lo he dicho todo. Siempre me trago los faroles y nunca me doy cuenta de cuando retirarme a tiempo de una partida que no puedo ganar.

Perseverancia, que bonita virtud, que bonita palabra, aunque para algunos resulta una cruz. Andar los pies descalzos sobre cristales para luego tirarse en plancha a la piscina de la vida… y no contento con ello volvemos a tirarnos, mientras otros miran desde el borde, divertidos, como aquel gilipollas se ahostia una y otra vez.

Paciencia, madre de la ciencia. Peor que el cianuro, diría yo, al menos el cianuro te mata más deprisa. Ser paciente es ser capaz de soportar las penas de los demás mientras tu gritas en tu interior con la esperanza de que se den cuenta y al final te pregunten “Oye, estas bien? Te pasa algo?” Por supuesto que si, no nací con esta cara de amargado.

Timidez, compañera de todas las demás, cuando no dices nada por miedo a molestar, o simplemente cuando piensas que no merece la pena molestar a nadie con tus neuras, por que en definitiva y en el fondo a nadie le va a importar realmente. Timidez, cuando durante años te callas lo que sientes por alguien, mientras ves a esa persona saliendo de una relación para entrar en otra, y tu pensado “al final se dará cuanta que soy buen tipo, y que los otros son unos soplagaitas que no la/le merecen”.
Sueños, cuando te despiertas cada mañana con el sabor de sus labios sobre los tuyos, cuando piensas “seguro que sería más feliz conmigo”, cuando repasas una y otra vez lo que le vas a decir para al final no encontrar el guión de tus pensamientos, cuando la palabra “amigo” se convierte en “amor”.

En definitiva, sueños. Miedo, eterno compañero. Miedo al eterno “no”, miedo al si, miedo al qué dirán, a estar solo y ver en sus ojos el rechazo, o peor aun, a ver la risa en sus labios. Miedo que paraliza, que te hace pensar si debes o no debes, y si al final como el gilipollas del trampolín te lanzas en plancha a la piscina te das cuenta que la piscina esta vacía, y cayendo piensas “no puede doler más de lo que duele ahora”.

Mentira, duele, pero quizás no tanto como la Vergüenza, vergüenza de preguntar, y ganas de esconderse bajo una roca para no tener que decir nada, y a la vez ganas de salir gritando, pletórico, romperse la voz diciendo “QUIERO ESTAR CONTIGO!!!” para luego morir de nuevo. Vergüenza de haber pensado que podría funcionar y no ser así, de preguntar “¿quieres salir conmigo?” cuando ya sabes cual es la respuesta, pero aun así tú, en tu vena masoquista vas y preguntas. Y dentro de ti, más cerca de lo que piensas una voz que te dice “eres tonto de remate” y al darte la vuelta no ves a nadie, y caes en la cuenta que esa voz era la tuya. Serás gilipollas.

The Day I Met The Devil

•febrero 8, 2009 • Dejar un comentario

… Was a rather pleasant afternoon, a cloudy and rainy day of November, the kind of day I’m used to spend on the mountain near my home.

And so I was, protected under my heavy mackintosh, retracing one more time my favourite routes when, at a sharp turn of the path that should have brought me to a vantage point, I found myself utterly lost.

What was before me was a small clearing, a zigzagging path leading to its centre, where a small wooden cottage was erected. “Absurd” I thought, “There’s on one living on this mountain. There’s no place to build such house!” my mind went on. Intrigued as to how this was possible and angered not to have discovered this sooner, I walked briskly towards the cottage and its light-up porch. Had I known what was about to happen, I might have turned my back to the cottage and ran like hell… well, run anyways.

A balding man was sitting on an old-fashioned rocking chair on the porch, his face light-up by a dozen or so dripping candles, some taller, other nothing more than a stub, all placed on a table near him. His face, half-hidden by the smoke of the pipe he was smoking, was like a piece of leather left to dry to the sun, dark, tanned and cracked; the embers of the pipe glowed a deep ruby red, casting strange shadows over his face.

“What’s up, sonny”, he said, “didja lost your way? The deep rumbling of his voice made my skin crawl.

“So it seems. I thought I knew this mountain, guess I’m wrong”

“Oh, few can find my special place on their own, though from time to time I let them find it. Here, have a seat”, he said, while motioning me to a chair near the candles.

“And a nice place you’ve f… -wait, what to you mean *you* let them find it?

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? Now sit” He said, a pinch of impatience in his voice

Something was definitely wrong here, I thought. “Look, I have to go” sounding more concerned than what I expected “they’re waiting me home”, I apologized. A lame excuse, but one I hoped would drag me off of this weird situation.

“Oh! I don’t think you’re in a hurry to leave, now that you won’t find the way back” said the man, pointing with his pipe behind me

“What do you mean… I said, turning “What the hell!?”

The path had disappeared. The clearing showed no evident way in or out. Turning sharply to face the man, I found him staring at me, a big broad smile on his face. “Now sit” he said, pointing once more to the vacant chair. “It’s not often I invite someone to chat”. Half-intrigued and half-scared, I sat, looking straight ahead, clutching tightly the arms of the chair, scanning the forest, looking for the way I entered. The man was still looking at me, puffing humorously at his pipe.

“My name is Pôl Gornek”, he said

“Strange name” I conceded, “not English, I bet”

“Indeed no. It’s old Gaelic. Means ‘The little horned’”

“Sounds devilish”. The man chortled, then laughed loudly. His gaze then glazed for a moment, and the pipe still in his mouth, he asked, quietly

“Do you believe in God?”

“I’m more inclined to believe in the Devil right now” I answered, still scanning the boundaries of the forest.

“Damn right! He bursted, “the bugger is so lost on his clouds that he’ll need a magnifying glass to see you now, paddling waist-deep in shit. A loving and merciful god? Ah! My ass… A lazy and arrogant jerk I’d say.

“Well, we can’t do anything about that” I said nervously “Things are how they are…” I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the conversation; I didn’t like the ring “paddling waist-deep in shit” had…

“What? What? Of course *you* can’t do nothing, but I do! I’m the Devil! I can lie, corrupt and deface humankind!

“Errr… what?”

“Oh, sorry, that might have been a bit rude, I just got carried over” he said, regaining some composure. “You see, John, I’m the Devil”

“How do you know my nam- what?? You’re what???” I said

“Are you deaf or dumb, sonny? I’m the Devil, it’s just that sometimes, you know, I need some rest from the all torturing and corrupting business, so I made this place just for me and my visits, a “home away from home”, you could say.” He sounded old and fatigued

“Then prove it” I said

“What? Prove what?” he answered, startled.

“Prove you’re the Devil, insofar you’re just a crazy hermit, sitting out in the forest” The glare he shot me could have melted iron

“You’re asking the Devil to prove he is the source of all evil” he growled “you’re fun, John, but I’m warning you, you *really* don’t want to do this”

“No, go ahead, do whatever you want” I challenged

“Very well” he said. “Have you heard that saying “it’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness? Have you ever thought about it?”

“No, not really”

“Well, it’s because what can be found in darkness… all our fears, all the monsters, all the pain comes from that darkness… but even the strongest of them melt away to the light of a single candle”. And with that, suddenly, the candles went out.

“Pôl?” I called. I could see almost nothing. It was a moonless night and the stars barely shone but to cast a gloomy light around the clearing. Slowly, as my night vision improved, I began to distinguish some details.

And then my heart jumped. Straight ahead, near the dark mass of trees I could see someone. Pôl seemed to have vanished, and I didn’t want to linger more, so I jumped out the seat to meet that figure and ask directions.

The figure seemed a good great deal away. I was running and running but I was nowhere near him. I stopped, breathless and then I noticed something strange. The whole landscape was glowing with a pale blue, as if millions of fireflies were camping on the grass. But they were not fireflies, but more like a dense, coloured mist, swirling around me. “Ok Pôl, I know it’s you, you can stop now, you’ve made your point” I said, sitting on the ground, “I’m scared shit you know”. Then out of the mist they came, thousand, hundreds of sad looking figures, pale, translucent, almost like ghosts, but they had some substance, for they were trying to touch and speak to me. It was both beautiful and terrific…

They were grouping around me, their ghostly hands passing through mine. Their offered no more resistance than the wind and left nothing but a prickly sensation. But something had changed; they were less ghostly, more… real. Suddenly, out of nowhere one of them grabbed me. I managed to shake him out, but then another gripped my leg. I kicked hard and the arm dissolved like mist.

I was beginning to feel alarmed. I ran back to the cottage, the misty horde following around, fighting to grasp me. When I finally got to the porch the ghosts stopped, like flung to a wall. They began to wail, a low, meaningless primal sound.

“Oh no, you stop that right now” said someone, coming from the cottage “Shoo, shoo you lot, let the boy alone, he has a good soul” It was Pôl, now in the middle of the ghosts, shooing them away, but it was unnecessary for they were fleeing him. He light his pipe and some of the nearest ghost screamed and vanished. “Just the light of a match” he said, now lighting each candle “with this alight, you have nothing to fear”. All the candles were light-up now. The ghosts had vanished.

“What were they?” I asked, shaken

“Man, you should see you face”, said Pôl laughing “They were souls” he went on “some of the souls of the damned. They always follow me at distance; light is the only way I can get some rest”

“Have you come for my soul?” I said totally terrified

“Me? Gosh no… You could say I’m on vacations” he said “besides, the way you’re living your life, there’s no way you could be on my list”.

“Then why lead me here?”

“Oh, I already said, I enjoy a little chat from time to time, but it’s getting late, you should go now” Pôl said. “Here, take this, so you’ll always remember me” he said, picking up a candle stub from the table “Small as it seems, this candle will always burn, this way, you’ll remember the importance of light. Now go!”

I woke up on me bed, startled and all sweated. “Oh thank God, it was only a nightmare” I thought. But I was fully clothed and, on my bed table, a small candle-stub was lighting the whole room.

I never went back to that mountain.