Poesia kaiera
Aurkibidea
Aurkibidea
Kantu-eskola
(zatiak)
Agente baten bisita
Bizikleta leiho-hegiaren kontra zegoen,
Gurpil azalaren kautxu bilgarria
Aurreko lohi-babesak estalirik,
Eskuleku lodi eta beltzak
Eguzkipean berotzen, dinamoaren “patata”
Dirdaitsu eta oker,
Pedala zintzilik
Legearen botapetik aske.
Kapela azpikoz gora zegoen
Lurrean, eserlekuaren ondoan.
Kapelaren marra arrakala bat bezala
Nabari zitzaion ile izerditu berrian.
Askatu egin zuen
Kontaduriako liburukotea, eta aitak
Laborantzako kontuak erakutsi zizkion
Akreetan, lakarietan eta anegetan.
Aritmetika eta beldurra.
Pistola-zorro distiratsuari begira jesarri nintzen,
Botoidun hegala zuen eta soka txirikordatua
Errebolberraren kulatari lotua.
“Labore gehiago?
Bazka-erremolatxarik? Kuiatxorik? Besterik?”
“Ez”. Baina ez al zegoen ba arbi ildo bat
Haziak agortzean patata sailean
Aldatutakoa? Bekatu txikiak zirela
Ulertu nuen eta jesarri egin nintzen
Kasernako zulo beltza irudikatuz.
Jaiki egin zen, borraren zorroa zuzenduz
Gerrikoaren jira bueltan,
Erregistroen liburua itxi zuen,
Bi eskuekin kapela atondu,
Eta begiratu egin zidan agurtzeaz batera.
Itzal bat agertu zen leihoan.
Parrilako goma elastikoa estutu zuen
Liburukotearen gainean. Botekin bultza
Eta bizikleta tirriki, tirriki, tirriki.
Danbor orangistak, Tyrone, 1966
Maskuri-puxika sabel gainean, pisuak bizkarra
Harrotzen dio, harrabotsa trakets gordez
Hor, kokotsaren eta belaunen artean.
Behean lotuta daraman horrek zutitzen du.
Zur oneko atabal banatan luzaturik besoak,
Desfilean doa atzetik. Eta nahiz eta danbor-joleek
Agur egiten dien jendetzaren artetik bidea zabalik izango duten,
Danborrak dira aurretik doazenak, tumore erraldoiak legez.
Gutizia izan eta adi entzuten duen edozein belarrirentzat,
Bere idazpuru mailatuak “Aita Santurik Ez” berresten du.
Tarteka odolez orbantzen zaio ahuntz larrua.
Inguruko giroak erritmikoki jotzen du estetoskopio batek bezala.
1969ko uda
Poliziak jendetza jagoten zuen bitartean
Fallsera tiro eginez, nik
Madrilgo eguzki errea besterik ez neukan pairatu beharrik.
Arratsaldero, pisuko eltzearen berotan,
Joyceren bizitzaren gorabeherek
Izerditan nindukaten bitartean, arrain postuen sunda
Lihozko ezponda bateko kiratsa bezala igotzen zen.
Gauak balkoietan, ardoa edanez,
Umeak ezkutalekuetan ote dabiltzan,
Atsoak leihoan xal beltzekin,
Airea, arroila bat espainieraz mintzo.
Berriketan itzultzen ginen etxera izar azpiko lautadan,
Non Guardia Zibilaren txarolak
Diz-diz egiten baitzuen lihoak pozoituriko uretan arrainen sabelek bezala.
“Itzul hadi,” esan zuen batek, “saiatu jendearekin harremanetan egoten”.
Beste batek bere muinotik Lorca ekarri zuen gogora.
Heriotzen zenbaketak eta zezenketen kronikak ikusten genituen
Telebistan, ospetsuak
Artean gauzak benetan jazotzen ziren tokitik zetozen.
Pradoko freskurara jo nuen.
Goyaren Maiatzaren Hiruko Fusilatzeak-ek
Horma bat estaltzen zuen — errebeldearen
Beso goratuak eta espasmoa, militarrak
Kasko eta motxilekin, fusilen
Eskuare eraginkorra. Aldameneko aretoan,
Haren amesgaiztoak, jauregiko horman txertaturik —
Zikloi ilunak, altxatzen, lehertzen; Saturno
Seme-alaben odolaz egindako bitxiekin apainduta,
Anabasa Erraldoia aldaka basatiak jiratuz
Munduaren gainetik. Baita ere, duelu hori
Non bi eroek ohoreagatik hiltzeraino makilaz elkar jipoitzen duten
Lupetzan sartuta, eta hondoratzen.
Ukabilez eta ukondoez marrazten zuen,
Odolez tindatutako bere bihotzaren azala erakutsiz historiak eraso egiten zuen bitartean.
Singing School
A Constable Calls
His bicycle stood at the window-sill, / The rubber cowl of a mud-splasher / Skirting the front mudguard, / Its fat black handlegrips // Heating in sunlight, the ‘spud’ / Of the dynamo gleaming and cocked back, / The pedal treads hanging relieved / Of the boot of the law. // His cap was upside down / On the floor, next his chair. / The line of its pressure ran like a bevel / In his slightly sweating hair. // He had unstrapped / The heavy ledger, and my father / Was making tillage returns / In acres, roods, and perches. // Arithmetic and fear. / I sat staring at the polished holster / With its buttoned flap, the braid cord / Looped into the revolver butt. // ‘Any other root crops? / Mangolds? Marrowstems? Anything like that?’ / ‘No.’ But was there not a line / Of turnips where the seed ran out // In the potato field? I assumed / Small guilts and sat / Imagining the black hole in the barracks. / He stood up, shifted the baton-case // Farther round on his belt, / Closed the domesday book, / Fitted his cap back with two hands, / And looked at me as he said goodbye. // A shadow bobbed in the window. / He was snapping the carrier spring / Over the ledger. His boot pushed off / And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked.
Orange Drums, Tyrone, 1966
The lambeg balloons at his belly, weighs / Him back on his haunches, lodging thunder / Grossly there between his chin and his knees. / He is raised up by what he buckles under. // Each arm extended by a seasoned rod, / He parades behind it. And though the drummers / Are granted passage through the nodding crowd, / It is the drums preside, like giant tumours. // To every cocked ear, expert in its greed, / His battered signature subscribes ‘No Pope’. / The goatskin’s sometimes plastered with his blood. / The air is pounding like a stethoscope.
Summer 1969
While the Constabulary covered the mob / Firing into the Falls, I was suffering / Only the bullying sun of Madrid. / Each afternoon, in the casserole heat / Of the flat, as I sweated my way through / The life of Joyce, stinks from the fishmarket / Rose like the reek off a flax-dam. / At night on the balcony, gules of wine, / A sense of children in their dark corners, / Old women in black shawls near open windows, / The air a canyon rivering in Spanish. / We talked our way home over starlit plains / Where patent leather of the Guardia Civil / Gleamed like fish-bellies in flax-poisoned waters. // ‘Go back,’ one said, ‘try to touch the people.’ / Another conjured Lorca from his hill. / We sat through death-counts and bullfight reports / On the television, celebrities / Arrived from where the real thing still happened. // I retreated to the cool of the Prado. / Goya’s ‘Shootings of the Third of May’ / Covered a wall—the thrown-up arms / And spasm of the rebel, the helmeted / And knapsacked military, the efficient / Rake of the fusillade. In the next room, / His nightmares, grafted to the palace wall— / Dark cyclones, hosting, breaking; Saturn / Jewelled in the blood of his own children, / Gigantic Chaos turning his brute hips / Over the world. Also, that holmgang / Where two berserks club each other to death / For honour’s sake, greaved in a bog, and sinking. / He painted with his fists and elbows, flourished / The stained cape of his heart as history charged.