On Poetry and Culture Shock

This can be a one-liner:

Calvin could always carry Hell on his pocket.

It can be an unrhyming couplet:

Calvin could always carry
Hell on his pocket.

And it can be twisted out of shape into a three-line poem. The problem with thinking that this is a haiku is not that it lacks a few syllables, it's the run-on line effect.

Calvin could always
carry Hell
on his pocket.

Still I think that it sounds a lot better in Spanish.

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Misterios de la métrica. Esto puede ser una simple frase directa:

Calvino siempre llevaba el infierno en el bolsillo.

Casi sola, te lleva hacia un pareado octosílabo sin rima:

Calvino siempre llevaba
El Infierno en el bolsillo.

Y con alguna sílaba de más se le puede dar forma de haiku, aunque el problema no son las sílabas sino el encabalgamiento:

Calvino siempre
llevaba algún Infierno
en el bolsillo.

The night lies ahead.
Cup of tea full to the brim.
The poem doesn’t come.

Toda la noche por delante.
Una taza de té llena hasta el borde.
El poema no llega.

I wrote this as a microstory for a contest. Much later on, I realised it adapted well to free verse. 

In my nightmare,
the plane landed without me.
I flew on my seat,
inside the plane,
and out,
out,
Floating on the cold air.

That was how I got fear of flying.

So silly of me.
I was losing you, my love, 
I was alone.
Holding on to the cold air,
with you so distant.

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 Esto era un microcuento que escribí hace un par de años. Hace algunos meses me parió que quedaba bastante mejor en forma de verso libre. 

En mi pesadilla,
El avión aterrizaba sin mí.
Volaba en mi asiento,
Dentro del avión,
Y salía,
Salía,
Atravesaba la pared,
Flotando en el aire frío.

Fue así como cogí miedo a volar.

Qué tonta.
Te estaba perdiendo, mi amor,
Me quedé sola.
Agarrada al aire frío,
y tú tan lejos.

Células enloquecidas.
Al dermatólogo
Voy por la sombra.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Solar duo.

Suntanned skin.
Vanilla, honey, coffee, chocolate.
I'll eat you whole.
*
Cells gone mad.
I walk to the dermatologist
On my wide-brimmed hat.

Ni mar ni río
La piscina del vecino
Nos arrulla.

Neither sea or river
The neighbour's swimming-pool
is our lullaby.

Written for One Deep Breath, whose prompt this week was calm and stillness.

No es Zen
Si crees que ya has llegado
no era Zen.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It's not Zen
If you thought you had grasped it
It wasn't Zen.

One Deep Breath prompt of the week: Dirt.  Haiku about getting clean, or getting muddy. In this part of the world,  getting dirty means getting sweaty, and that made me think of the beach.

So very sweaty
Lying on the sticky sand
Wrapped in sun.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

One Deep Breath sugiere que escribamos haiku sobre el barro, la tierra, la suciedad. Eso me hizo pensar en sudor, y por extensión en la playa. Un haiku playero:

Tan sudorosa
Tumbada en la arena
envuelta en sol.

Hush, it's a concert:
The blackbird will sing
For those who don't know his name!

Sshh, es un concierto:
¡El mirlo va a cantar
para quienes no saben su nombre!

Poetry Thursday asks to talk about something beautiful without mentioning it. Haikus are mostly about talking about a feeling without mentioning it, just describing the thing or situation that causes the feeling, so the haiku form is perfect for what Poetry Thursday intended. I hope my attempt is successful, it's easy enough to know what/who I'm talking about.

Under the blanket
There's nothing you can see
There's only feeling.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Poetry Thursday nos pide esta semana que hablemos de algo hermoso sin nombrarlo. El haike describe un sentimiento sin nombrarlo, mencionando sólo la situación que lo provoca, así que es, en teoría, la estrofa perfecta para el reto de la semana. Espero que os guste. Lo que no nombro queda bastante claro, ¿no?

Bajo la manta
No se puede ver nada
Sólo sentir.

Este es mi primer "fib", un poema con una secuencia silábica 1-1-2-3-5-8. En español es más difícil que en inglés, pero como "pimienta verde" son cinco sílabas, escribí el fib alrededor de esa línea. Y luego pensé que si son cinco sílabas podía hace un haiku gemelo. 

Sí,

Ya,

Esto

Sabe bien

Pimienta verde

Sal, laurel, y muchos besos.  

Pero también:

Pimienta verde.
Me besas en la cocina.

Esto sabe bien.  

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The example above, in Spanish is my first attempt at a fib. Fibs in Spanish are hard because Spanish has very few one-syllable words, but I wanted to try because "green pepper", the spice not the vegetable, is "pimienta verde", in Spanish, five syllables. I tried to write a fib around that line, with a twin haiku. This would be the translation:

Yes,

now 

this dish

is tasty

lovely green pepper

with salt, laurel, and your kisses.  

Lovely green pepper.

You kiss me in the kitchen.

Yes, this is tasty.  

Mi cuerpo sabe
De dónde sale esta pena.
Haz que se calle. 

My body knows
the reason for all this sorrow.
Make it be quiet.

From this week's Poetry Thursday prompt.  

Pasó mucho tiempo.
El corazón descansado
Sale a correr.

Do you want the gossipy bit? Read on.

I wanted to play with the idea of "heartstrings" and I thought, what if the heartstrings were shoelaces? This haiku is from the time when my Spanish versions were straight translations with no care for rhythm or sound, or anything but meaning. The second version Spanish version, the one you can see here, still with an unorthodox 6-8-5 syllable count, was adapted about two years later.

And this is dedicated to certain little person who will not read me, and whose heart is beginning to enjoy itself.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Si quieres cotilleo, sigue leyendo....

Yo quería jugar con una idea que no se puede traducir al español, que es la palabra "heartstrings", "cuerdas del corazón", como una metáfora muy común para referirse a los sentimientos. ¿Y si esas cuerdas fueran cordones de atarse los zapatos? Este haiku es de la época en la que yo componía principalmente en inglés y las versiones españolas eran traducciones literales. La segunda versión española que veis aquí, menos literal pero con una cuenta silábica nada ortodoxa de 6-8-5, es de dos años más tarde.

Y está dedicada a cierta personita que no me va a leer, y que tiene un corazón que empieza a pasárselo bien justo ahora.

Si escribiera
Un poema por cada nube,
¿Sería más feliz?

Desde que dije hace un mes que tenía demasiadas tareas diferentes que hacer, he acabado tres y media. Me quedan cuatro cosas de las que se pueden empezar y acabar, además de recuperar mis dos trabajos normales cuando todo esto me deje un respiro.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

If I wrote
a poem for every cloud
would I be happier?

Since I said that I had to work on too many different tasks,  I've finished three and a half. There's four left or the sort that can be started and finished, leaving aside my two regular jobs, which I hope to restart as soon as the other stuff gives me a break. Everything is under control. Yeah, right. 

Mi bar favorito, de momento, es uno modelno que tiene enormes pufs en vez de sillas y música variada que tiende a quedarse en el lado triste y oscuro de las cosas. Se supone que es un bar para lesbianas. Hay exhibiciones de arte de vez en cuando (ayer tenían cuadros abstractos y en un año no he visto allí ni uno solo que me guste). A veces tienen tartas por la tarde y las camareras de los piercings (una con rastas, la otra rapada) no te miran raro si pides un poleomenta en mitad de la noche.

"Llevo así un mes".
La niña de los piercings
Es toda ojeras.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

My currently favourite bar is a trendy place with huge cushions as the only place to sit and really varied music which tends to be on the dark sad side of things. It's supposed to be a lesbian bar. There are periodical art exhibitions (yesterday they had abstract paintings and in the year I've know the place, I haven't seen one paint I really liked). Sometimes they have cakes in the afternoon and a waitress with dreadlocks with and six or seven face piercings won't look down on you if you order mint tea at midnight. This is an ellaboration on something I overheard yesterday.

"I've been like this for a month"
The multipierced waitress
has grey bags under her eyes.

Cabalgata de Reyes.
Madre con hiyab,
niño riendo.

Seis de Enero.
No veo por las calles
Ni una bicicleta.

Siete de Enero.
El barrendero maldice
los caramelos.

***************************** 

These haikus don't translate into English at all because they are too culturally bound. In Spain, Christmas gifts are brough on January 6th by the Three Magi. There are parades on the evening of January 5th and the morning of the 6th (depends on the town) and the participants throw candy to the watchers. The significance of the first haiku in the cycle is that the parade is a Catholic tradition and my city has been ethnically, culturally and religiously homogeneous until very recently. 

The Magi's parade
Mother on hiyab,
Laughing son.

January 6th.
Not a bicycle in sight.  

January 7th.
The streetsweeper curses
All this candy.

Piel imperfecta,
Estrías y arrugas.
Pero qué suave.

Me he apuntado a los retos semanales de One Deep Breath. Espero que me ayude a componer más porque últimamente estaba seca (huy, qué miedo da eso). La sugerencia que dan esta semana es "cosas envejecidas o estropeadas". He preferido que el original sea en español; mi último poema original en inglés tiene ya casi un año, y se me hace raro pero supongo que es inevitable. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Imperfect skin,
stretchmarks and wrinkles.
Still, so soft. 

I'm reading the weekly "challenges" in  One Deep Breath. I hope it will help me to compose more because I'm very slow lately (that's so scary ). This week's suggestion is "weathering and aging". I've preferred to compose it in Spanish; my last original in English is about a year old, and that feels odd but inevitable. 

Navideño. 

Sin el abuelo.
Con mi cuñada.
Aún somos quince.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Grandfather's gone.
A new sister-in-law.
Still fifteen guests for dinner.

The stubborn sulky silence of the phone
When I’m waiting for a call.
The endless(less) engaged tone(tone) again
When I’m calling.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

El silencio enfurruñado del teléfono
Cuando espero una llamada.
Otra(tra) vez(ez) comunica
cuando llamo yo.

The original version is the Spanish one. I realised yesterday that for the last six months or more, I only make English versions of my poems when I post them in this blog. The rest of the time they stay monolingual. I don't know if I'm sad because I'm losing ambivalence, or happy in case it means I'm more confident of my control of Spanish.

After many months
The back of the mouth
Still keeps plenty of memories. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

La versión original de este haiku es la española. Ayer me di cuenta de que hace unos seis meses que sólo traduzco poemas al inglés cuando los pongo aquí; el resto del iempo se quedan en español. No sé si eso me da pena porque estoy perdiendo la capacidad de componer en inglés, o me alegra si es que significa que ahora tengo más control de mi propio idioma. 

Aún queda
Al fondo de  la boca
Recuerdo.

A haiku on global warming that I composed (in Spanish) as I was driving home one evening last week. That afternoon, I smelled orange blossom that I could not see. This is, of course, dedicated to Crafty Green Poet, who is behind all of my poems with an environmental concern. ç

November. 

You can't see the orange blossoms

As you drive. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Un haiku acerca del efecto invernadero que compuse mientras conducía camino de mi casa. Esa tarde me preocupé al oler azahares. Y por supuesto, está dedicado a Craft GReen Poet, que es la inspiración de todos mis poemas sobre temas ecológicos.

Noviembre.

Desde tu coche no ves

Los azahares.

Primeras lluvias.
Turrón en el supermercado.
Mitad de Octubre.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

In my corner of the world, October rain is early rain because the heavy rains are expected in November. I don't mean rain in the early morning.

Under early rains,
Christmas sweets in supermarkets.
October nineteenth.

At first my prose was erotic, and my poetry wasn't. Of course I wrote about love, desire, longing, but even when I was writing about lust, it didn't mean my poems were erotic. I didn't keep the two things separated on purpose: it was a question of the limitations of haikus. What can you tell in two or three lines? You can describe a body, or desire, or a climax, or afterglow, but you need to choose one. And while conciseness is a very good thing, the poem is over before you have time to feel anything! That's why the first poem of mine that I considered erotic entirely, from intention to result, was free verse. And that's maybe why I keep telling different love stories rearranging the same haikus in different orders: because I cannot write erotic prose anymore, and I miss it.

These wee ones here are not a cycle. They are some of the isolated haikus that either in intention, result, or allusion have some eroticism in them. Enjoy.

I like your blond skin
I want your blond smile.
I'm looking for some blonde fun.

I chew the brightness of pain with pleasure.
My body is full of you now.

Brunette and blonde hide.
No longer children.
Forbidden games are always best.

The senses tanka. after e. e. cummings.

In your slow caress,
your heartbeat makes my music.
Not just my eyes love
Your scent of salt, blood and sweat,
your pretty red chilli lips.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Al principio mi prosa era erótica, y mi poesía no. Por supuesto que escribía sobre el amor y el deseo, pero incluso en el estado de ánimo más lujurioso esto no significaba que los poemas fueran eróticos. Yo no conservaba las dos cosas separadas intencionadamente; era sólo una cuestión de las limitaciones propias del haiku. ¿qué se puede decir en dos o tres líneas? Puedes decribir un cuerpo, o un deseo, o un momento sexual, pero necesitas escoger sólo uno. Y a pesar de que la concisión puede ser una cosa estupenda, ¡el poema se ha acabado antes de que tengas tiempo de sentir nada! por eso el primer poema que escribí que me pareció erótico de principio a fin, desde su inspiración hasta el resultado, es verso libre. Y también puede que sea por eso que cuento diferentes historias reordenando los mismos haikus de forma diferente: porque ya nome sale escribir prosa erótica, y lo echo de menos. 

Estos chiquitines de aquí no son un ciclo. Sólo son algunos de los haikus aislados que en intención, alusión o resultado tienen algún rastro de erotismo. Espero que os gusten.

Antiguo amigo, redescubierto:
De repente, su sudor huele bien.

Me gusta tu rubia piel
Me atrae tu rubia sonrisa
Quiero divertirme rubiamente.

Mastico la luminosidad del dolor con placer.
Ahora mi cuerpo está lleno de ti.

Una morena y una rubia.
Ya no son niñas.
Los juegos prohibidos siempre son los mejores.

 En tu lenta caricia,
Los latidos de tu corazón son mi música.
No sólo mis ojos aman
Tu olor a sangre, sudor y sal,
tus labios de chile rojo.

Next best thing to a death haiku (in which the poet foresees his / her own death with resignation), a hospital haiku. Real events from last night.

In the hospital's lobby,
the scent of flowers.
I'm breathing deeply. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

En el hospital,
el olor de las flores. 
Respiro hondo.

I've had a lovely evening with Idgie W. McGregor, Fanshawe, and two people from the real world. It's awkward to meet for the first time people whose writings and lives I've read and admired/enjoyed. At some point I said something that almost fits haiku form, and it's going to count as a haiku. 

I didn't choose poetry.
Prose abandoned me.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^` 

He pasado  un rato estupendo con Idgie W. McGregor, Fanshawe, y dos personas más que son del mundo real :P Es raro ver en persona por primera vez a gente que escribe cosas que me gustan. Habré dichomuchas tonterías, y en algún momento solté una frase lapidaria que tiene casi forma de haiku. Así que así queda.

No escogí la poesía.
La prosa me abandonó.

As I have said before, Spain is the second country in the world in international adoptions, which is amazing because we are not a very multiethnic country yet, so the adopters always look very different from their parents and we don't seem to mind. No, actually, we love it. 

At the restaurant
I'm watched by the Chinese baby
with blond parents.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

España es el segundo país del mundo en adopciones internacionales, lo que es sorprendente porque todavía no somos un país muy multiétnico que digamos, así que los padres adoptivos suelen tener un aspecto muy distinto del de sus hijos y no parece que nos importe. No, mentira: no es que no nos importe, es que nos encanta.

En el bar
Me mira la niña china
De padres rubios.

This is part of a cycle now, but I don't want to post the whole thing. I composed it about a month after Martyn Bennett 's death.

I think that the definition of cancer as cells which have forgotten how to die was made by a Spanish researcher, but I had it from my mother, a doctor. This means that my bleakest line is stolen from a scientist.

Worse than loneliness,
There’s frailty and fear
When cells forget how to die.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Ahora esto es parte de un ciclo, pero no lo quiero poner entero. Lo compuse más o menos un mes después de la muerte de Martyn Bennett. Creo que la definición del cáncer como células que no saben morirse la hizo un investigador español, pero yo la conozco a través de mi madre, que es médico. En cualquier caso, eso significa que el verso más deprimente que tengo se lo he robado a un científico.

Peor que la soledad,
La fragilidad y el miedo.
Células que se olvidan de morir.

I know, I know , I’m obsessed and I’ve already exhausted the topic. But still.

The poet’s natural tendency is to edit once and again. My natural tendency is to edit the cycles and the poems' order rather than their words (they have too few words: change one word and you have a different poem!). Most of my haiku cycles are the result of recycling individual poems. The Hands Cycle used to be called “Four Lovers, Four Hands” and I thought of it as four completely separate vignettes. Now that I have one sad poem about hands, I have added it to the cycle and changed the order so that it tells a story.

I’ve said that initially this was about four lovers; for those of you that want a bit of gossip, the inspiration for the first and fourth poems were fantasies on strangers; the second is how I think someone used to feel about me (the hands are mine); the third and fifth are autobiographical, on different people. 

1

Cream on my coffee.
Silver on his hands.
Who could give him all those rings?

2

I look at your wrist.
Pink veins through transparent skin.
A road map to love.

3
Old feeling made new,
Hands firm on my back.
They show anything’s possible.

4
Five rays of light shine,
Your fingers on my cream skin.
Too much of them stings.

5
Our tangled hands are dry
but they hold a slippery love,
Too fragile to last. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Ya lo sé, ya lo sé, he agotado el tema, pero me da igual. Más poemas sobre manos.

La tendencia natural del poeta es reescribir, reeditar. My tendencia es editar los ciclos y el orden de los poemás más que sus palabras: ¡los haikus andan bastante cortos de palabras, y cambiar una palabra es cambiar el poema entero! Casi todos mis ciclos de haikus son resultado de reciclar y agrupar poemas que en principio eran independientes, y eso es lo que pasa con éste. Antes se llamaba "Cuatro Amantes, Cuatro Manos" y eran cuatro viñetitas totalmente independientes. Pero más adelante, escribí (no: la vida escribió para mí) un haiku triste en el que salían manos, así que lo añadí al ciclo y cambié el orden para que los cinco contaran una historia.

Para los que quieran cotilleo, la inspiración de las estrofas primera y cuarta fueron perfectos desconocidos. La segunda es cómo creo que se sentía alguien por mí (las manos son mías). La tercera y la quinta son autobiográficas. 

Nata en mi café
Plata en sus manos.
¿Quién le habrá regalado todos esos anillos?

Miro tu muñeca.
Venas rosas, piel transparente.
Un mapa de carreteras del  amor.

Un sentimiento antiguo, renovado.
Manos firmes sobre mi espalda.
Todo es posible.

Cinco rayos de luz brillan,
Tus dedos sobre mi piel de nata.
En exceso, queman.

Nuestras manos secas
sostienen un amor resbaladizo,
demasiado frágil para durar.

Creo que este microcuento en verso libre sería mejor si tuviera menos sílabas, si pudiera encajarlo en la estructura del tanka. Pero así se va a quedar. 

Bares. Ginebra.
Alguien comparte conmigo
un poco de tiempo y saliva.
A la vuelta,
Lo mejor de la noche:
Un búho blanco,
Posado sobre un ceda el paso.

 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

This microstory in free verse would probably improve if I managed to twist it into Tanka shape. But this is the way it's going to stay.  

Bars. Gin.
Someone to share with me
A little time and saliva.
On the way back home,
the highlight of the evening:
a white owl,
perched on a traffic sign.

Esa sonrisa.
Esa sonrisa tuya.
Esa sonrisa.

Alan Spence tiene un haiku que dice:

Cae la lluvia
Cae la lluvia
Cae la lluvia.

Yo quería hacer algo así de obsesivo y repetitivo desde que leí el de Spence, y de eso hace tres años. Por fin salió. A lo mejor es que tenía que encontrar la sonrisa adecuada.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

That smile.
That smile of yours.
That smile.

Alan Spence has a haiku that goes:

The sound of the rain
The sound of the rain
The sound of the rain

And I wanted to write something as repetitive and obsessive as it since I read it, three years ago. It came out of my head at last. Maybe I had to meet the right smile.

Pure living skin
Zuel is shimmying
The desert longs for him.

Zuel is an oriental dancer based here in Sevilla, and occasionally, my teacher.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pura piel viva.
Zuel está vibrando.
El desierto lo añora.

Zuel es bailarín de danza oriental aquí en Sevilla, y a veces, mi profesor. 

I once told you about list poems ; they're easy to write but it's hard to make a good one. Sei Shonagon, queen of the list poem, had a list of things that improve on a painting; this is a little homage to her.

Things that look good on a photograph.

Other people on the act of taking a photograph.
Babies.
Tattoos.
Flowers, especially if their colours are bright.
The ground through shallow water.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Una vez puse un post sobre poemas en forma de lista; esa clase de poema es fácil de escribir, pero es difícil que queden muy bien. Sei Shonagon, la reina del poema-lista, escribió entre otras la lista de cosas que mejoran cuando se pintan (en un cuadro). Y este es un pequeñísimo homenaje a esta autora, más un boceto que un verdadero poema.

Cosas que quedan muy bien en foto.

Otras personas en el momento en que hacen una foto.
Bebés.
Tatuajes.
Flores, sobre todo si son de colores brillantes.
El fondo, bajo la superficie de agua poco profunda.

This was inspired by an actual woman I am not attracted to (at least, not sexually). My dance teacher does have the tattoo I describe, and she brought some peaches to class the other day. I doubt she'll find her way here, and I'd be kind of embarrassed if she knew about this poem. 

The softest peach,
my love, and her tattoo
of spiky, thorny branches.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Este poema lo inspiró una mujer de verdad, pero por la que no me siento atraída (al menos, no sexualmente). Mi profesora de baile tiene ese tatuaje que describo, y el otro día nos trajo unos melocotones a la clase. Dudo que ella llegue hasta aquí, y la verdad es que si lo hiciera me daría un pelín de corte. 

Suave melocotón:
Mi amor, tatuada
de ramas espinosas.

Compuse un haiku para regalárselo a Fanshawe y en vez de ponerlo aquí se lo mandé en una postal, porque él sacó el tema. Ahora que la postal ya le ha llegado puedo poner el haiku aquí sin estropear la sorpresa. Fue el último de un ataque de inspiración en el que salieron casi solos diez haikus en cinco días, más o menos. 

Lo que se pide.
Lo que se desea en silencio.
Lo que se obtiene.

I composed a haiku for Fanshawe and instead of posting it here I sent it to him in real-world mail because his post on postcards inspired me. Now that I'm sure the letter reached him I can post it here. It's the last of a ten-haikus-in-five days frenzy I had earlier this month.

What we ask for.
What we silently desire.
What we're given.  

Mis palabras te tocan,
hablo,
hablamos,
y mis palabras se enredan entre tus dedos.
No sé qué tienes que me hace hablar.
No sé qué haces que me tiene presa.
Es algo rojo y suave,
frágil,
es algo que cambia cuando lo describo
(si hablarte es tocarte,
si mis dedos te tocan, te cuentan un cuento)

My words touch you,
I talk,
we’re talking,
and my words get tangled between your fingers.
I don’t know what you have that makes me talk.
I don’t know what you make that has me enthralled.
It’s something red and soft,
fragile,
it’s something that changes as I describe it.
(if talking to you is touching you,
when my fingers touch you they tell you a story).

This poem should be in the archives but it has vanished for some reason. It's probably the densest collection of allusions I've ever managed. Most of them are too small or obscure to be noticeable.

Maruja, this is the poem I told you about yesterday. The one that steals from you the word "ajedrez". It was a question of syllable count, nothing personal (and I know your living room does have books).

Tankas are a type of poem, historically earlier than the haiku, with a syllable count 5-7-5-7-7. I have composed a handful of those.They're easier than haikus but it's necessary to consider very carefully if you really, trully need the two extra lines. 

Madre moderna:
un colegio bilingüe,
ajedrez, tenis.
En el salón sin libros,
colección de bonsais. 

A modern mother:
Bilingual education,
chess, sports and ballet.
In the book-less living-room,
a collection of bonsais.

I have the feeling that something's connecting a certain Poet and me.

Last night I had to chase a blackbird out of my living-room. The stupid thing wouldn't leave the room: chased towards a door it would perch on top of furniture. This went on for about half an hour, until I could let a piece of cloth fall on it and I left it outside in the garden.

This morning I could hear an extremely loud chirping. Not a song. Eek-eek. It was very obvious that it was a baby blackbird saying it was hungry: that was why last night's bird wouldn't go. She couldn't leave her baby behind. It took a long search to find the wee one hidden behind a pile of books. Two thirds grown, all the adult feathers on the wings but not yet on the body. It was very easy to wrap it on the same cloth and throw it out on the quietest corner in the garden. A very black blackbird (a male, therefore) immediately flew to the center of the garden and sang very fast and very loud. In a matter of seconds, at least three birds had taken the baby with them, helping it into a bush so that it could hide. I didn't know that territorial animals could be so cooperative.

Classical haiku material.

Catorce madres:
Mirlas al rescate
del pollito caído.

Fourteen mothers:
blackbirds come to the rescue
of the fallen chick.

I haven't written a two-line haiku in ages. Ages. I would really appreciate opinions on this one (I don't know if it's too flat and dry, rather than bleak as I want it to be). It is partly inspired in a love poem by Juliet Wilson.

Jamás pudimos compartir musa.
Ni cama tampoco.

We could never have shared a muse.
Or a bed, either.

The autobiographical bit: there is actually a bank in the place where a café used to be. But I have lovely memories attached to the place and I can't translate my sense of loss into a haiku. 

En tu bar favorito
el que yo odiaba
han abierto otro banco.

A new bank has opened
in your favourite bar,
the one I used to hate.

This baby probably is my most classically-themed poem.

Snowdrops on the ground,
White lilies on pots:
Will you live forty-two months?

Azahar en la rama,
camelia en un jarrón:
¿vais a vivir cuarenta y dos meses?

Edited to add Jose Angel 's suggestion. 

Frágil
Vulnerable
Delicado
Endeble
Desvalido
Débil

Qué asco de diccionario

Demasiados sinónimos para mi cobardía.

Vulnerable
Delicate
Weak
Brittle
Fragile
Feeble

Fucking Thesaurus

Too many synonyms for my cowardice.

I was going to call this "fairy tale tanka" because I like my fairy tales bloody. But that doesn't sound right.

Cuando miras
Debajo de la cama
Y no hay un monstruo
Ten muchísimo cuidado
Mira bajo la almohada.

When you look under the bed
And there's no monster
With extreme care
look under the pillow.

I’m repeating a poem I only posted a month ago, I know. This little baby is, against my custom, sincere. It is maybe the first poem I ever write and don’t destroy in which I use the first person to talk about my own feelings. That’s why I didn’t like it at first and also why I thought it was cliché.

I don't like to give so much interpretation of my own poem, but in case anyone is reading me in it, I don't find this feeling a negative one. Not at all.  

Algo me falta;
Me siento como un ritmo
buscando melodía.

There’s something missing.
I feel I’m a rhythm
in search of a melody.

This might be part of a cycle, eventually; I don't know if it captures the mood of something loving and gentle but limited and unresolved.

Dos horas aquí.
Verte en esta burbuja
es viajar a un país exótico.

Here for two hours.
Meeting you in this bubble
Like travelling to distant lands.

Lujuria y gula.

Eres distinto del chocolate
porque ver chocolate no basta
pero no necesito de ti
más que saber que podrías ser mío.

Lust & Gluttony

You're not like chocolate at all
because it is never enough to see chocolate
but I need nothing of you
beyond the certainty you could be mine.

For those of you interested in creative process gossip, this is absolutely autobiographical. The thing is, it is not my body that has been ill. Those of you that know me in the real world probably know what I'm talking about. It's inspired by a classical, Japanese one I'll post soon.

Convalecencia
con el cuerpo casi nuevo
poquito a poco.

Convalescence
With my body nearly new
Baby steps.

This is dedicated to Maruja, even though she doesn't like poetry. Thanks for the tea and everything else.

Bang. Bang. Ipon.
No jewels like beads of sweat.
No music like a body against a mat.

Bang. Bang. Ipon.
Ninguna joya más hermosa que el sudor.
Ninguna música más hermosa que el impacto.

Saidi is my favourite dance rhythm. It belongs to Egyptian folk music and it is intrinsically happy. I think the rhythm of the Spanish version of this haiku is closer to it than the English one.

The world would be a much better place if more things happened to a Saidi beat.

dum-TAK, dum-dum TAK
A veces la Tierra gira
con ritmo Saidi.

dum TAK dum-dum TAK
sometimes the world can spin
to a Saidi beat.

Today is the first day of spring, and International Poetry Day; this one is something I didn't know until today. The truly approppriate thing would be a poem on the beginning of spring, and there are thousands, my favourite being Alan Spence's

First warmth of spring
I feel as if
I have been asleep.

That one doesn't count because I have posted it loads of times. So I'm giving you one of mine instead, a bit of erotism to wish you happy spring loves.

The senses tanka.
In your slow caress,
your heartbeat makes my music.
Not just my eyes love
Your scent of salt, blood and sweat,
your pretty red chilli lips.

El tanka de los sentidos
En tu lenta caricia,
Los latidos de tu corazón son mi música.
No son sólo mis ojos los que aman
Tu olor a sangre, sudor y sal,
tus bonitos labios de chiles rojos.

Algo me falta;
Me siento como un ritmo
buscando melodía.

There's something missing.
I feel I'm a rhythm
in search of a melody.

The most visible consequence of global warming in this corner of the world is that orange trees are in bloom a month too early.

Such simple beauty,
orange blossom, perfect scent.
Your flavour’s subtle.
What a miracle it would be
to hear you sing!

Belleza simple,
azahar, perfecto aroma.
Tu sabor, sutil.
¡Qué milagro sería
que nos pudieras cantar!

I'm a bit sorry to have said so loud and so recently that all poets are thieves and liars, including me. It screeches next to what I'm going to say next.

I composed this yesterday, because my grandfather, Zifra' s father, and my future, are all in the same place. With all my love to anyone who understands how this feels.

Agua somos.
En la Bahía de Cádiz,
Todas nuestras cenizas.

To water we return.
In the Bay of Cadiz,
Lie all our ashes.

This one is not really supposed to be taken seriously. I think I have a handful of poems that I see as humorous,  or at least ironic, about love or rather erotism.

For those of you interested in the composition proccess, or just the gossipy bit, the whole poem is built around the first line. Someone said it to me in all seriousness, as a part of their seduction strategy. It didn't work, but I stole the line. I already told you that every poet is a thief and a liar and I'm no exception.

Primera impresión.

Con esos labios no puedes ser mala.
Esa cintura dice siempre la verdad.
Tienes caderas de buena persona.
Tus rizos son los más sinceros,
y tienes la piel más simpática.
Andas muy cariñosamente,
y es una lástima que no nos conozcamos.

First impressions

You can't be bad, with such lips.
Your waist always tells the truth.
You have kind, gentle hips.
Your curls are the most sincere,
and your skin, the friendliest I've seen.
It's a pity that we don't know each other.

Yesterday I did that poet thing that looks so terribly pretentious: At the meet of my town’s bloggers, as we were spreading over the sofas of a bar, I asked for a pen because I just needed to write down a poem. Yes, very exhibitionist of me... the poem involved a lot of tweaking and polishing, it wasn’t just a spark of sudden inspiration. Here it is.

Stiffness on my back.
Your warm hand hugs me
Three seconds longer than I expected.

Mi espalda, tensa.
Tu abrazo ha durado
tres segundos de más.

I live in the heat and the dust.
Will you change my endless summer
for your occasional spring?

Los siete puentes
abrazando la ciudad,
a todos nosotros.

Our seven bridges
Hugging the city,
hugging us all.

The mantra goes:
Alamillo, Barqueta, Chapina, Triana, San Telmo, Delicias, Quinto Centenario.
A harp, a leap, a ship, a dance, a park, a road, a tower.
To Gran’s, to bars, to walk, way back, to class, to park, and trucks.

I find it very frustrating that I cannot translate this one into Spanish.

This haiku is dedicated to Zifra , because I think he likes this sort of thing.

A haiku has three lines,
seventeen syllables,
and one idea.

Un haiku: tres versos,
diecisiete sílabas,
una idea.

Wilson Pickett, the singer of soul classics like In The Midnight Hour, has just died. January 30th is the first anniversary of Martyn Bennett 's death. Wilson Pickett was the sort of artist whose work everyone knows, but whose name is only known by his few dedicated fans. Martyn Bennett, on the other hand, was too brilliant and original for his own good and never got the success he deserved.  I knew he was diagnosed with a nasty type of cancer in the year 2000, and I suspected he was depressed, and we had emailed occasionally in the three vyears or so before his death. I'm still mourning him in the same way other people mourn family members or "real" rock stars.

A hospital is not a library.
A needle’s not a pen.
We sit and wait as your blood is replaced by ghosts.
As I think of your inky hair,
Most beautiful when sweaty,
Long wet tendrils falling over us.
Ink.
Ink’s the key.
I used black ink to write poems about you,
As you mocked me (people use computers these days,
You know).
Your body is still waging war on itself,
And not
all
the
hospitals
in
the
world
will
HELP.

So,
I’ll write poems about you
until the future gives up and makes you immortal.

Un hospital no es una biblioteca.
Una aguja no es una pluma.
Nos sentamos a esperar mientras los fantasmas sustituyen tu sangre.
Y pienso en tu pelo entintado,
Precioso cuando sudabas,
Largos tirabuzones húmedos sobre los dos.
Tinta.
La tinta es la clave.
Tinta china para componer poemas sobre ti,
Y te burlabas (eso se puede hacer a ordenador,
Por si no lo sabías)
Tu cuerpo sufre un golpe de estado,
Y
ningún
hospital
del
mundo
entero
va
a
enviar
AYUDA.
Por eso,
voy a escribir poemas sobre ti
hasta que el futuro se rinda y te haga inmortal.

After fooling around for a week with the idea, I'm not sure this catches the sensuality of the situation. The Spanish version comes first because it is the original one.

Los hombros de la violonchelista,
Curvas blancas.
No recuerdo la música.

The chellist's shoulders,
White curves.
I don't remember the music.

Y tu mirá
se me clava en los ojos
como la voz de Lole.

No os preocupéis, no me he vuelto Neosurrealista de repente (al menos eso espero). Este haiku no se puede adaptar de verdad al inglés porque está demasiado relacionado con la cultura española. ¿cómo le explico a un extranjero quién es Lole?

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

And your gaze
pierces my eyes
like Lole’s voice.

Don’t worry, I haven’t suddenly become a Neosurreal poet (I hope and pray). This haiku cannot be properly adapted into English because it is too culturally bound. Lole was a flamenco singer, popular when I was a wee child, and her most famous song said “And your gaze pierces my eyes like a sword”. A normal way of saying “stare” in Spanish is “to stab/pierce with your eyes” so the image is not as absurd and violent as you think.

In Spain, Christmas gifts are traditionally given on January 6th. The Three Wise Men, not Santa Claus, bring them. Some time ago I  spoke about list poems; they are a good way of writing poetry when you think you can’t write, for lack of inspiration or anything else. The previous entry is a list poem I like a lot. This is my Christmas 2005-06 letter to the Three Wise Men.

Secret Wish List

A pink car.
Pink hair, extensions, a beauty salon voucher
including manicure.
Jeff Buckley’s second studio album*
and tickets to a Martyn Bennet concert*.
A plane ticket to Glasgow.
Or maybe New york instead.
No, to Glasgow.
Inspiration to finish everything I’ve started writing.
A Powerbook.
An ipod, with every single audiobook by Neil Gaiman,
and read by Ian McKellen.
A nicer accent when I speak in English.
Lots of rain,
and one thunderstorm.

* That might be hard, as they’re both dead.

I think this melancholic little thing still counts as haiku, even though it has four lines.

So free.
Not a poem in weeks.
Not a lover in months.
So empty.

Qué libre.
Semanas sin componer.
Meses sin un amante.
Qué vacío.

 For those of you who cares about the biographical, gossipy bit, I have many poem beginnings around the idea of how long ago I last wrote something I found satisfying. Those little poem seeds rarely grow into real poems. Everything in this one was written around the second line.

This haiku is dedicated to my friend Suzanne Guthrie. The Spanish version is the original, and the English one the translation.

Café fuerte.
Pies en alto.
Suplemento dominical.

Strong coffee.
Putting feet up.
Sunday papers.

En la pantalla,
tu piel de pixels,
inalcanzable.

On the screen,
Your skin, made of pixels,
out of my reach.

I'm feeling more and more comfortable about composing haiku in Spanish, even though up to a couple years ago I thought that it was impossible to twist my native language into haiku shape.  

I love birds,  especially urban ones.

This entry is dedicated to Luc , for cheering me up.

Birds for all seasons

Spring
Hush, it’s a concert:
The blackbird will sing
For those who don’t know his name!

Summer
Swallows flying high.
Summer trickles down my back.
No one cools me down.

Autumn
Hundreds of sparrows!
Dead ashes floating
in the evening’s burning sky.

Winter
Snow melts in the air.
Under her coat, she shivers.
Seagulls around us.

Pájaros para las cuatro estaciones.

Primavera
Sshh, es un concierto:
¡El mirlo va a cantar
para todos los que no saben su nombre!

Verano
Las golondrinas vuelan alto.
El verano me gotea espalda abajo.
Nadie me relaja.

Otoño
¡Cientos de golondrinas!
Cenizas muertas que flotan
En el cielo en llamas de la tarde.

Invierno
La nieve se funde en el aire.
Bajo su abrigo, ella tirita.
Gaviotas a nuestro alrededor.