1
POEMA DE ANIVERSARIO
Os poemas de aniversario son como as froitas que quedan dunha tempada a outra persistentes no fío da árbore, incrustadas na xiada, elípticas no seu xesto. Teñen unha intención, que é ser primeiras e últimas e abordarche a fame se é que chega. Se cadra son ínfimas e non dan sombra nin serven para a sede pero marcan a codia no teu dente cun crix de escarcha. Déixaas que sexan. Que lles veña a folla do seguinte ano e as invada o preconceito, saberán desprenderse nun segundo exacto e desaparecerse. Pero non molestar.
Se sabes da cireixa tamén saberás da pera corva que ten afán de ser cortada en dúas nunha postura moi difícil dos labios. Ou das mazás que se criaron moi cerca 1da ribeira e teñen pel de pera, carne reineta e profundidade de piña. Saberás de amorodo entre o seixo e o fungo e que as amoras marchan cando os figos chegan e que decembro é mineral e navega riadas ou secas, un vén ou vaite, un decaer.
Igual igual, os poemas de aniversario son o xeito absurdo de non ter fruto que ofrecer, nin tarxeta, a inutilidade de non saber tecer unha bufanda ou non prender o lume ou rebordar unha torta con petardos, deixar a bicicleta na taghea e seguir correndo o camiño que faga falla.
Choutarche na cama, estralarche o teléfono, descascarche a tona da casa, enterrarche o esquelete dos cocheciños vellos, soprarche nas pupas. O tirón de orellas non é cousa de poetas. As poetas non escriben mails nin entoan ben. As poetas sempre esquecen botarlle royal aos biscoitos ou queiman as filloas e acaban por chorar cando derrotan ou son derrotadas polo lume e polo arroz.
As poetas non saben pasarlle o ferro ás camisas pero contabilizan as manchas da boca e póñenlle nomes rematados en eira e a punta da lingua aí, a medias entre bicar e sandar. Fan poemas de aniversario que saben a mapa e non souberon recoller as froitas que viviron para este día facerche un baile de tonas, marmeladas, xarope. A festa toda. O silencio. As poetas inútiles escriben poemas coma este. E non pasa absolutamente nada porque o poema de verdade, que é como o aire, é unha periferia máis e non se pronuncia.
2
Irmá/n xemelgx, estás pendurando da lapela da tristura. Eu píntome de xiz e ti confundes os pés ao tratar de poñer as catiuscas dez números menos do que precisas. Xa non sabemos a quen pagarlle a entrada para choutar nas pozas porque hai tanto diso que somos como 2 anciá(n)s gordxs atrapadxs nos seus vestidos de comuñón. A sede é xa un morcego branco e reseco colgándonos na úvula. Como unha campaíña xorda. Como a pupa dun beixo morto, unha lagaña da boca.
3
AUGHA
(FACELO POR TODA A CASA)
Da túa boca á miña, o regho.
O tubular que ten o movemento de furar buscando –magnéticxs- esa luz.
Dá igual que sexa con lingua, mans ou pauciños zaorís.
Esquilmamos a terra, adiamos a sede por perforar,
por permitirlle á lingua esa cambra mineral da puntiña
no fondiño. Algo tan delicado como o que fan as miñocas.
Por saber, amor, a que sabe o primeiro poro da auga ante o primeiro da sede.
4.
Furar furan as mans. Acadamos un cheiro de patacas balocas por baixo do chan da cociña porque tiñas unha sede intensa de río e botácheste ás lousas uliscando e as uñas son xa outra cousa cando arrincan as táboas e dan coa terra entre ósos de rata e alicerces.
Mira, dis, aquí soterrou alguén os seus tesouros. E abres a caixa de lata enferruxada e sácaslle as tripas ao tempo. Pintas os labios coas moedas e comes unha presiña de flores secas prendidas con alfinetes.
Ofréceste, sacrificial, á sede. Non sabes doutro ritual para invocar/embocar a chuvia.
Queres que o líquido che morda.
5.
Non volvimos acender o lume porque non había auga coa que detelo. Nin destripar avelaíñas para facer confitura. Tampouco afondamos no dano con tesouras e con agullas e limpamos todo con saliva: os nosos corpos, os dentes tristes, trenzamos os cabelos como restras de cebolas e allos e os novos nacementos saudámolos fervendo a tona da placenta. Sabes que nos morreron as ras e que todo volveu ao ordeño, á bágoa e ao seme, a decantar en redomas de xisto o eco da alba, a tundir as froitas secas, a beixarnos agremente como encurtidos. A auga xa non. Golpean burbullas de poeira os canos e teñen tose de can as torneiras. A menciña envolvémola en pel de xarda ou trevo para tragala. Pintamos a mariola ou luxamos con sangue o colchón e queda aí a mancha porque non volve pasar a tormenta.
6
Baixo aquela destragheira de pólas secas está morto o noso coche. Se sopra nordés, vémoslle os retrovisores. Se sopra do sul abanea as portas e semella o último dos dragóns por morrer.
7
Desvístete de lingua, os zócolos saben a tabaco e chocolate rancio. Nas caravillas aínda me queda o rastro dun xabón que fixo pompas e na axila un rato branco. Apartar cada lámpara co convexo da uña da deda, coser as cortinas para que a veciñanza non vexa na nosa fame un algo de esperanza. A pel desfeita caendo como lascas de sal pola madeira seca do piso. Xira ante o pequeniño vento que erguemos ao arrebolarnos. O fío xa non nos tapa. O frío xa non nos pode. A sede fainos gatillazos na boca e un crac crac de poliñas rotas en cada óso. As formigas van marchando chamadas pola febre e o mercurio e nós seguimos a refregarnos porque facer suor é como a pólvora e, se cadra, a través do regueiro de baba e bico, a chuvia poida prender igual que na mecha estoupou un lume.
8
As sabas poden lavarse de sol.
Así ardan.
Limpas ti tamén a túa pel a suor e fume.
Os escorpións e as serpes mudárona en dermatite lenta.
Eu comía cada escama como as pugas negras do xirasol.
Podemos vivir ata que xa non haxa nada que nos limpe.
9
E se choro?
Se choras teremos un día máis, de vantaxe.
10
A CIDADE SEN PEL
I
Decidimos que sería aquí - e así- o noso ritual
por ese valor tan indestrutible que teñen a sombra e as pedras
e porque aquí non somos nada para ninguén; os únicos
son os nomes tallados a cicel por quen xa non existe.
Aquí sería todo algo sacrificial, os nosos corpos fríos
unha alta copa de peles construída baixo a prata da lúa,
dúas bocas novas feitas alberca na que desabar o escuro torrente da cidade.
Arremetidas badaladas, quero que me marques con trece
e ampliarlle as gadoupas á noite
pero antes
terás que cazarme.
II
De Belvís a San Pedro ripando as lousas meto poemas táctiles de carriza
arrempuxando cos dedos entre as fendas de cada grau da pedra.
Igual o meu dedo entre o teu peito e o sobrazo procura acenderche a luz,
esa que non brilla pero queima,
como o roce áspero e rápido da fuxida contra o xisto prende un lume pequeno.
Vén buscarme.
III
Ás toas, na Algalia catas ese perfume de séculos.
Mesturouse cos restos e a pesar de non facer relevo pegada aos muros
poderías saberme, como o aroma impregnado no vello.
Ás cegas, se revisas coas mans o cromado das contornas da Santa Salomé
poderás diferenciar o ardido do que queima
e prender un facho co que se desatou do meu vestido en arrebol.
Xa non estou aí, sábelo polo frío e un casto silencio no que che estrondan os poros
e eu piso unha a unha as tampas brancas das mortiñas almas de Bonaval.
Vanse trenqueleando os pasos cada tres lousas por darche un trazado
por se non sabes que das doce portas da cidade antiga
só pola miña non darás saído
se entras.
IV
En Mazarelos axeonllo a beber do lique áspero como se fose unha vaca negra.
Coa grupa baixa as santas compañas aproveitan para deixarme na caluga o sinal da cruz.
Pecadora. Bruxa. Non te arrepintes?
No alto do meu cu brilla toda unha lúa chea e fago a figa e un redondel coa lingua
e pasan os espíritos cara a capela das Ánimas. Ningunha arde como eu ardo.
Ningunha deixa tras de si este rastro
de pedra en po
para que me recompoñas.
V
Tránsito dos gramáticos. O que me abroia na lingua é un zunido de balea,
non palabras que chamen por ti. Nesa ruela que non ten nome gárdanse pasos
ou latexa algo de látego e besta que restala. Algo que vai vindo. Tremen as pozas.
Mesmo a que me desauga no de dentro.
VI
Se asomas o rosto á Fonte de Cervantes podes verlle
os pés e tamén a curvatura exacta na que lavo os brazos e o peito
e vanme aparecendo as escamas de mica por fóra da boca, o frío
e o teu perfil vibrátil na superficie da auga.
No pequeno recanto de Sampaio, ese que fai torcedura triangular e escura,
a túa man no meu cóbado.
Na sétima escaleira da Quintana a zurda no meu van.
En Platerías a auga fixo percorridos insólitos cos catro cabalos, o teu
e o meu colo, o sorriso de Daniel ficou outro.
Pola Porta do Paraíso
percutimos nove ondas para entrar.
VII
Agora levas nos dedos o po dos canteiros,
ese mesmo sangue de quen abriu de primeiras a pedra.
E eu, cruzada polo sinal das miñas dobras,
na boca, toda a túa cidade sen pel.
--------------------------------------------
Textos en galego por xentileza de Enma Pedreira
--------------------------------------------
Ilustración:
Self-Portrait. XIII. Giacometti [detalle]
Roberto González Fernández
[Ficha en Atalaia]
1
BIRTHDAY POEM
Birthday poems are like fruit that’s left over from one season to another, lying beside the tree, embedded in the frost, elliptically. They have a goal, to be the first and the last, and to cure your hunger if that should occur. They might be small and don’t provide shade or slake your thirst, but they leave the mark of their rind on your tooth with the crunnchh of ice. Let them.
Let them send up shoots the second year and prejudice take over, they’ll know how to shake themselves loose in a single second and disappear. But they’re no bother.
If you know about the cherry you must also know about the black pear that likes to be cut in two, its shape hard to get lips around it. Or about the apples that grew very close to the bank of the river and have skin like a pear, the flesh of reinettes, and the deep pineapple. You probably know about the strawberry among the pebbles and fungus and that blackberries are done when the figs appear and December is mineral and navigates floods or droughts, a coming and going, a decaying.
It’s the same, exactly the same, birthday poems are an absurd way of not having any fruit to give, no card, clumsy at knitting a scarf, lighting candles, decorating a cake with firecrackers, leaving the bicycle in the ditch and continuing to run in the right direction.
Jump on your bed, smash your phone, peel the skin off your house, bury the skeletons of your old toy cars, blow on where you’ve been hurt. Female poets don’t pull on ears. Poets don’t write emails or sing in key. Poets always forget to add baking soda to the cookies or they burn the crepes and end up in tears when they ruin or are ruined by fire and rice.
Poets don’t know how to iron shirts but they can count stains on your mouth and put words ending in eira and the tip of the tongue there, halfway between a kiss and a cure. They make birthday poems that taste like maps and didn’t know how to pick fruit that lived for this day to make you a dance of whipped cream, jams, syrup. The whole party. Silence. Useless poets write poems like this one. And absolutely nothing happens because a real poem, which is like air, is just another periphery and is unspoken.
2.
Twin sister/brother, you’re hanging from the lapel of sadness. I cover myself with chalk and you mix up your feet when you try to put on rain boots ten sizes smaller than you wear. We don’t know now who needs to pay to jump around in the puddles because it’s been so long we are like two old, fat people trapped in our communion clothes. Now thirst is a dry, white bat hanging from the uvula. Like a tiny, deaf bell. Like the welt of a dead kiss, a bit of sleep in the corner of the mouth.
3
AUGHA
(FACELO POR TODA A CASA)
From your mouth to mine, the stream.
Tube-shaped thing that moves, piercing, seeking - magnetically - that light.
It doesn’t matter if it’s with the tongue, the hands, or little divining rods.
We sack the land, we hold off thirst so we can drill,
allowing the tongue that mineral contraction at the point
in the back. Something as delicate, like what worms do.
To savor, my love, the taste of the first pore of the water versus the first one of thirst.
4.
Hands stab, they stab. We found the smell of old potatoes under the kitchen floor because you were as thirsty as a river and you laid on the stone slabs, sniffing, and nails are something else when they tear the boards off and find dirt with rat bones and cement.
Look, you say, somebody buried their treasures here. And you open the rusty tin box and pull out its innards. You paint your lips with coins and nibble on a bouquet of dry flowers held together with pins.
You offer yourself up to thirst. You know of no other ritual to call/swallow the rain.
You want the liquid to bite.
5.
We didn’t turn the light on again because there was no water to put it out. We didn’t peel hazel moths to make jam. We also didn’t make it worse by stabbing with scissors and needles and we cleaned it all off with saliva: our bodies, our sad teeth, we braided our hair like plaited onions and garlic and we greeted new births, boiling the skin of the placenta. You know our frogs died and it all went back to milking, tears, and semen, to decanting dawn's echo into beakers of shale, mowing dried fruit, to bitterly kissing, as if we were pickles. No water now. Bubbles of dust beat on the pipes and the faucets cough like dogs. We wrapped dawn in mackerel skin or clover so we could swallow it. We painted a hopscotch court or we smeared blood on the blanket and the stain is still there because no storm is coming.
6.
Underneath that tattered mass of dry branches lies our dead car. If there's a northeasterly wind, we can see its rear view mirror. If it's southerly, the doors flap and it looks like the last dying dragon.
7.
Take off your tongue, the souks taste like tobacco and rancid chocolate. In the caravans there's still a trail of soap bubbles and there's a white mouse in my armpit. Move all the lamps out of the way with the curve of a fingernail, sew the curtains together so the neighbors won't see any hope in our hunger. Ruined skin falling like flakes of salt on the dry wooden floor. It swirls in the tiny breeze we create when we put on rouge. The thread no longer covers us. The cold can no longer defeat us. Thirst makes in the mouth and a crik-crak of tiny broken branches in every bone. Ants march along, led on by fever and mercury, and we will keep rubbing because working up a sweat is like gunpowder and, just maybe, through the stream of spit and kiss, the rain might catch fire like a flame burst from the wick.
8.
Sheets can be washed with sun.
Even if they burn.
You wash your skin of sweat and smoke too.
Scorpions and serpents became slow dermatitis.
I ate each scale like black sunflower seeds.
We can live until there's nothing to make us clean
9.
And what if I cry?
If you cry, we’ll have one extra day.
10.
CITY WITHOUT SKIN
I
We decided our ritual would take place here - and like this -
drawn by the indestructible nature of shadow and stones
and because here we mean nothing to anyone; the only thing
the names chiseled by one no longer here.
Everything here would be an act of sacrifice, our cold bodies
a tall glass of skin created beneath a silvered moon,
two young mouths turned into pools to quiet the city’s dark torrent.
Thrusting toll, strike thirteen for me
and open your talons to the evening
but first
you must catch me.
II
From Belvís to San Pedro skipping over stones I set out soft, mossy poems
pushing my fingers between the cracks of every gran of stone.
Like my finger between your chest and armpit tries to turn on your light,
the one that doesn’t shine yet burns,
like the quick, rough brush of flint over schist lights a tiny flame.
Come find me.
III
Drifting along Agalia Street you sense the perfume of centuries.
It mingled with the remains and despite not stopping to rest against the walls
you could taste me, like the scent filling the hair on my body.
If you run your hands over the painted surface of Saint Salomé
you can tell better what has burned than what is burning
and light a torch with what flew from my skirt as I whirled.
I am no longer there, you can tell by the cold and the chaste silence where your pores burst
and one by one I walk over the white slabs of the dead souls of Bonaval.
My steps hopping on every three slabs to lead the way
in case you don’t know that of the twelve gates to the old city
you’ll never leave by mine
if you enter.
IV
In Mazarelos I kneel to drink from the rough lichens as if I were a black cow.
Haunches lowered, santas compañas decide to make the sign of the cross on my neck.
Sinner. Witch.Won't you repent?
At the top of my back end a true full moon glows and I make a figa and a circle with my tongue
and the souls go on toward the capela das Ánimas. None burns lie I burn.
None has this trail of powdered stone
trailing behind
so you can put me together again.
V
Tránsito dos gramáticos. The song of a whale shivers on my tongue,
it's not words calling to you. That alley without a name holds steps
or the crack of a whip and creaking beast. Something is coming. Puddles tremble.
Even the one draining from inside me.
VI
If you face the Fonte de Cervantes you can see
feet and the exact curve where I wash my arms and breast
and scales of mica start to appear around my mouth, the cold
and your silhouette shimmering on the water's surface.
In the intimate angle by Sampaio, the one that twists in a dark triangle,
your hand on my elbow.
On the seventh step of the Quintana your left hand on my waist.
In Platerías water is running oddly over the four horses, your lap
and mine, Daniel's smile has changed.
At the Porta do Paraíso, the door to paradise,
we strike nine waves and enter.
VII
Now your fingers are covered with quarry dust,
that same blood of the one who first split the stone open.
And I, crossed by the sign of my crevices,
on my mouth, your entire city without skin.
Let me explain
at the tip of my love there's a hole of fear and
right in its very center, savage me. Voracious, I devour it all
and all the spaces it occupies.
I strip the air clean and now
you cannot reach me.
I am not a victim of anything
I am danger.
