Blesok no. 42, May-June, 2005
Poetry


The Ever Changing
Translated by: V. Miranda

Luis Benítez



Conversations


The history of the constellations
engraved in the brilliance of a leaf:
I would like to read the leaf
to remember that pattern
from where the living and the things
came forth.

And before the Great Night would devour us
hear its name,
just to cloud the proud darkness
with the ardent sound of the shattering light.




The Ever Changing


The man in love wants to be the woman he loves,
He says: with me to the kingdom, and who knows where
although he has lost one by one the powers of the children.
The stranger has reminded him the land of the mirror,
the intruder has spellbound him
only you see it; this is my shape for you.
Accept it now, no one else can kill you, but me;
and the great callers already forgotten
returned to his days like ancient ministers,
lords from another time.
How violent appeared what once was his!
Why in this manner Peter Pan?
Now the beauty's sings scare him
invulnerable and alone in the forest of the world.
With me to the kingdom
, his hope says
he still repeats, with me,
but she has changed her shape again,
and she is what she won't be tomorrow:
a stone among nerves
a brutal push coming forth from the memory
something rolling faraway in a road.
Only needs to stay what doesn't remain forever.




The Lost One


Nine times I saw you. Nine times I lost you.
Like Dante's circles
the crimes were the penance
in each one I am the spendthrift,
and the thief, and the miser recounting
those minutes that could have been another's
and the punishment a recurrent face
a remark a gesture done

nine times your gifts that happened and returned

A love as weighty as eternity.




The Foreigner


Into the life of others like a nomad face
we enter with violence, with caution
or aware of being the field where others pass by.
But we are always the foreigner:
Gestures and voices jumping to the road
and in every direction the moved forest
by the everlasting whisper of the invisible stories,
that go through us, and leave: to the fleeting touch
we call years, weeks, months.
We can't retain anything nor anybody;
each glance is pavement of the road.
When everything remains, He will say that He was arrived.




A Fruit in the Grass


Afar, the large polite world of language
here, the wide serenity of things
in the ocean's bottom where it lives
how could it be considered otherwise?
In this art in which it exalts
if the first to pick up the chisel
united in words the brilliance of the humble color
the trace of what was seen the wide serenity of things
one half is night the other half is deception
feeling it, is to see the world go around
thin like an abysm between the edges of time
and it is not enough reading nor looking
it is so beautiful that its body thinks
there, the poet is an earthworm;
he makes of the the orchard
because in the plum ha sees
the shadow of its tree




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