sábado, 11 de octubre de 2014

jueves, 9 de octubre de 2014

Autumn en inglés

Leaves flying far away
covering my eyes
with dust
the sun shines
through the branches
black bag wandering
the click clack of my bike
the sound of the leaves
under my boots
orange, brown and blue
the wind in my face
the heat under my sweater
I run, I run away
my scarf ondeando like a cape
my scarf full of fall

miércoles, 8 de octubre de 2014

Spirits of the Dead

Spirits of the Dead


Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.


Be silent in that solitude,
   Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
   In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.


The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.


Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass.


The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

miércoles, 13 de agosto de 2014

Frágil (idad)

Revisar las notas de mi diario
es como visitar el cementerio,
darle tres golpecitos a la lápida
y saludar,
como si la otra persona
(o las cenizas, o los huesos o los gusanos)
escucharan y entendieran

Hoy me encontré una tortuga (viva)
en el pasto
quería cruzar la calle
yo se lo impedía con mis pies

Crucé Beverly a toda velocidad
con una tortuga
en mi canasta

Qué absurdo suena todo

Lo escribo otra vez

Crucé dos avenidas y
quince cuadras 
en mi bicicleta azul pastel
con una tortuga en
mi canasta de mimbre.

Qué volátil es todo

Cinco minutos después
de no querer despertar
y la tortuga habría acabado
debajo de un carro.

Qué frágil es todo

Qué frágil es escribirle esto
a alguien que ya no lee
a alguien que ya no es más que
huesos, cenizas y gusanos.

domingo, 10 de agosto de 2014




Mother died last night,

Mother who never dies.

Winter was in the air,

many months away

but in the air nevertheless.

It was the tenth of May.

Hyacinth and apple blossom
bloomed in the back garden.

We could hear
Maria singing songs from Czechoslovakia —

How alone I am —

songs of that kind.

How alone I am,
no mother, no father —

my brain seems so empty without them.

Aromas drifted out of the earth;

the dishes were in the sink,

rinsed but not stacked.

Under the full moon

Maria was folding the washing;

the stiff  sheets became

dry white rectangles of  moonlight.

How alone I am, but in music

my desolation is my rejoicing.

It was the tenth of May

as it had been the ninth, the eighth.

Mother slept in her bed,

her arms outstretched, her head

balanced between them.



"The sort of scattered, dapple light effect that happens when sunlight shines in through trees"