No centenario de Miguel Hernández

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Audios radio, In memoriam, Poemas alleos, Vídeos | Posted on 30-10-2010

“Decálogo do obreiro”: Juan José Morato

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in In memoriam | Posted on 29-10-2010

 

A Marcelino Camacho, in memoriam.

  1. Instruírse e combater a ignorancia.
  2. Acurtar as horas de traballo.
  3. Elevar os salarios.
  4. Ser independente e loitar contra a vileza.
  5. Ser afoutado e eliminar a tiranía.
  6. Establecer a fraternidade e rexeitar o egoísmo.
  7. Conquistar dereitos e abolir inxustizas.
  8. Humanizar o traballo.
  9. Levar agarimo e ledicia ó fogar.
  10. Fundar un mundo mellor.

 

Publicado no Calendario do Obreiro por Juan José Morato no 1909…

 

Viaxe, un caligrama de Apollinaire

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Traducións | Posted on 26-10-2010

NOTA: Lamento que arestora non poda facelo en galego (compoñer isto levoume cinco horas!), mais prometo ir sacando máis poemas de Apollinaire na nosa lingua.

Muller rica, muller pobre

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Comentarios fóra de lugar | Posted on 26-10-2010

X. é una señora, amiga miña do Monte Alto, que leva choiando, literalmente, coma unha pobre mula dende que era unha nena. Agora, ós seus case sesenta anos, non chega nin sequera a mileurista, e con ises poucos cartos que vai gañando acó e aló traballando arreo, viven ela, o seu marido (enfermo e a quen o Estado se nega a darlle a xubilación anticipada), e dous fillos en paro (un diles, seropositivo). E, inda por riba, non sei cómo é quen de axudar á súa filla e mercar algo prós seus netos…

Ben, pois, tendo en conta que a señora Cospedal gaña case que 243.ooo euros anuais, a conta é doada. X e maila súa familia poderían vivir VINTE E UN ANOS CO QUE ELA GAÑA NUN. E unha persoa realmente de clase media… pois… poñamos que a metade: dez anos. E xan digamos os pobres máis pobres dos países pobres da Terra.

Daquela, a cuestión é: POR QUE CONTINUAMOS A PERMITIR TALES ABUSOS? Por qué seguimos a alimentar, a votar a esta xente que, coma o Rei e o seu fillo, se atreven amais a pedirlle á xente coma X que non perdan o seu “espírito de sacrificio”? A iles/elas que levan TODA a vida sacrificándose e sendo sacrificados/as! En aras de que, de quen?

À Aurora

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Poemas propios | Posted on 26-10-2010

 

Por Nayem el Gareh

 

Madre!

Laiou o vento do Norte,

 

Madre!

Carpíu o vento do Oeste,

 

Madre!

Xemeu o vento do Leste,

 

Madre!

Ecoou o vento do Sur

 

Namentres catro pragas

De insectos executantes

De todos os desertos

De todas as direccións

Comezaban a roer

No ar o seu cativo.

 

NOTA: Nayem el Gareh foi un adolescente saharauí que morreu a causa dun disparo da policía marroquí. O título, secasí, entraña un xogo de palabras, pois Aurora, Eos, era a madre de Memnón…

Ted Hughes, “Last Letter”: A derradeira carta

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Poemas alleos | Posted on 24-10-2010

 

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
                                                 My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

                                       That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

 

NOTA: Prometo tradución.

Oh sister

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Cancións sublimes | Posted on 23-10-2010

 

Oh sister when I come to lie in your arms
You should not treat me like a stranger
Our father would not like the way that you act
and you must realize the danger

Oh sister am I not a brother to you
An one deserving of afection
And is our purpose not the same on this earth
To love and follow his direction

We grow up together from the cradle to the grave
We died and rebornthen mysteriously saved

Oh sister when I come to knock on your door
Dont turn away you create sorrow
Time is a ocean but it ends at the shore
You may not see me tomorow

 

Oh irmá, cando veña xacer nos teus brazos

Non me trates igual cá un estraño…

 

O Tempo é un océano mais remata na beira.

Talvez non volvas verme mañá…

@s amantes (homenaxe a Giacometti)

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Fotografías de meu | Posted on 22-10-2010

Copyrights Xoán Abeleira

Pracer

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Fotos alleas, Poemas propios | Posted on 22-10-2010

 

Vougo,

 

Terreo chan e descuberto

No interior ou na contorna dunha vila,

 

Ou

 

Areal onde a corrente das augas

Depositou partículas de ouro

 

Nunha vida?

 

Pracer 1, 2,

3, do catalán placel:

 

Acto de apañar

 

Perlas a costa, nas costas

De América ou de algures,

 

Auga nunha peneira, ou

 

Banco de area, de pedra

No fondo do noso 

 

Mar, plano de falla

 

E de extensión

Abonda…

 

NOTA: Poema incluído, polo de agora, en Pan de Ánimas. Ignoro de quen é a fotografía.

Poema de Ramiro Torres sobre “A serie de María” de Manuel Suárez

Posted by Xoán Abeleira | Posted in Poemas alleos | Posted on 18-10-2010

BRANCO

 

Para Dores Tembrás e Manuel Suárez, magos do diálogo.

E para o Xoán Abeleira, na descoberta de estrelas.

 

Branca música a gerar animais

inaudíveis na esquina do mistério,

convulsa vertigem aberta,

desenhada floração de um campo

minado para o olhar inerte

com o tempo desprendendo

as suas artérias exultantes.

 

A alvura ferve,

penetra o silêncio,

sobrevive nos traços que

atrapam o diálogo das mãos

com a sua difuminação na

densidade comocionada

das paisagens encantadas:

apresamos a certeza de haver

uma ordem ígnea na disposição

desta maquinária onírica da luz

na sua cadência de chuva lentíssima,

a erguer jardins estalando na sua

precisa linguagem sem sombra.

 

Neste enigma regressamos a uma

antiga configuração de férteis

arquitecturas indizíveis,

irisando o presente articulado

como premonição de uma

indefinível paz a abrir

horizontes na medula da cor.

 

Outubro de 2010.