martes, 31 de diciembre de 2013



Shortening distances
Of nervous impulses
Following the wave
To fall in ice.

In the submissive order
Before each sliding step
Levitating without realizing
Living with probabilities.

And the air that bears
After the daylight is gone
As if the world were guilty
Of its already empty bag of illusion.

Changing the sounds
Creating concern
The essential bodily movement
That conveys rhythm to the one observing it.

The unfamiliar land
That enchants in stepping it
Like a forbidden place
For the scent of the most feared hunter.

And what you guard from the night
When tomorrow you go out again
To write a little of your history
In the noise of what you do not know how to name.

The smoke is lost without witnesses
With no trace or any purpose
The emptiness then is not reckoned
And is already little what matters.

Two suns face to face
Identical in everything
And a point awaiting for them
Capable of making them explode.

And what will your friends say
When you appeal to them
And they have no more for your heart

Other than empty words.

domingo, 29 de diciembre de 2013

505 palabras - Divagación del sustantivo

"dime cómo te llaman los que te conocen"

A mí no me importa que te llames Juan, Mildred, Presupuesto general de gastos de la nación o Clínica de alto riesgo. Ponte el nombre que quieras y que prefieras, tatúatelo en la frente y grita que es así como te llaman exigiendo que así te llame. Y yo lo haré, pero por supuesto que lo haré; si te llamas y te llaman Juan, yo también pronunciaré Juan cuando te llame. Pero como dice el libro, yo te daré un nombre que si no nuevo, para mí será el verdadero. El que te calza visto el atrás y presente que portas.

Quizás no te guste, quizás incluso lo detestes, y entonces yo no te guste y a mí me detestes, pero no me importa, realmente no me importa qué vayas a pensar, sentir o hacer al respecto, porque sea lo que sea que ocurra será una nueva secuencia y de nuevo será lo mismo, lo que estuvo - en este mismo instante esto ya estuvo - y lo que se está gestando en un ida y vuelta entre lo que tú y yo alcanzamos a definir desde el otro pasando por uno y viceversa buscándole el cuello a la serpiente que ríe.

Si me dices Ceres, te diré Venus. Y si me nombras a las dos yo te nombraré a María, a las dos y a las tres Marías, hasta que puedas ver, entender y sentir el absurdo de nuestros nombres en la mente de los que necesitan, a veces desesperadamente - dado que no tienen esperanzas -, de una tabla o un puñal al cual asirse para seguir el camino que los antiguos aprobaron y que nos dejó en esta encrucijada de quién es más y quién es menos, antes que en la ruta de quién se hace desde lo que es.

O no te contestaré. Como no contesto al gesto que apura una bandera y que en un rebaño - blanco, negro, amarillo, verdelilamoteado -encuentra la razón exacta para no razonar la existencia y veracidad de diez mil rebaños del otro lado de la realidad y los sueños, más adentro que los músculos y más lejos que un prejuicio de otro, dejándome comer por el eczema nervioso que me come el brazo derecho justo antes de poner el pie izquierdo sobre la cabeza del olvido. O te daré la certeza que apoyará todas las tuyas cuando llegue el monzón y te quieras.

A mí me importa cómo me llames, más allá de cómo me llaman y de cómo quiero que me llames, porque aunque me sirve lo que tengo, me sirve más lo que tendré, que de algún y de todos los modos te incluye ni en mayor ni en menor manera, sino en la tuya, propia, distinta y hermana. Me importa que nos iguale la capacidad que tenemos de diferenciar y de separar todas las posibles variables desde la emoción de una ecuación de campo hasta la fecha que palpita en un almanaque vencido, porque así integramos y volvemos a nuestra casa.

Seeds of an infant

Seeds of an infant

And although it was in flesh
The rare conviction of which
One rule acquires the power to break another
Converting the man who possesses it

A witness of difficult decisions
While new things try to break the old
And with a promised pleasure
When is able to reach the expressed goal.

The truth is debated in dimness
For the concepts acquired through great endeavor
With a share of talent, predestination and will
That each one dares to possess during his dark night

While others are already riding on gigantic shoulders
Employing the chain of those looking for truth
Dividing links between those who repeat or multiply
Giving support in battles that tense muscles and in a lesser way the soul.

The compromising word to an infant
Painting the spectacle of humanity
When he accomplishes what normally would be impossible
To build certainty or simply accomplish a goal.

With morality as a passion
And each opposed thing as an exercise
Finding in our own prison
The limits of the cell of others.

The owner that becomes a slave of his slaves
The object that creates dependence on the subject
And the glance that captures the next moment
Looking the eyes of someone who is starting to learn.

Temptations of rage with hands still open
After assuming the extreme ease with unfairness
That opens and closes in each moment of distraction
That nullifies the necessary omission that offers beauty to the deed.

Facing daylight with no answer to the desired support
And with very few scant years
And the same sea for the rest of a life
And the seed of complete understanding within

That will sprinkle with blood each day that is left.

viernes, 27 de diciembre de 2013

The forging

The forging

When you endure every insult
In a certain subdued space
You feel lighter and less tired
Offering a forced smile.

The unending task and loosing patience
Until the pace subtly defends itself
Not allowing to be dampen by the rain
Or letting the eyes confused by any flash.

No one at home not even emptiness
A world open to be scrutinized
While chewing the thorns of entire rosebushes
To prove rigidity in the immensity of will.

The air of the brave
Where passion comes from fear
That is cared for or neglected
Like someone who is in charge of an image.

Looking how tears turn to crystal
Dropping from violet clouds
And they dissipate unbroken
Dedicating their tread to the outrage of complaints.

Along the way of faithful people
Who hear the song of their fellow men?
Trying to accompany them but not listening
Because the price of loneliness over runs company.

And the courtesy you offered me
And the appreciation acquired outside of the world
And part of my lips are sealed
Where silence and word are fused.

Ending and beginning
Ecstasy in the midst of fatigue
The throat hoarse from screaming silently
The convergence of the suns of Giordano.

The skin of the ruminant that will become a scroll
Under the attentive watch of the scribe
The predicted twist in the heart
When comprehension is possible

Like the effort of two different persons
Making possible surrender and acceptance of a situation
Discovering the veil hidden behind a mask
Of two different moments that together creates the future.

And the feeling that all pains is justified
And the temptation in an instant when all is worthwhile
And the wisdom to contain and control the impulse
And the control to remain at the limit knowing it.

The green expression of lust
The green description of hope
The red of nature and normal things
The red of a rule that bleeds instinct and reason.

The seat of the throne
The table without a head
The dream of power
A dream unable to go further.

In the hands which can destroy
In the center that can shatter into ten thousand shards
In the moon smiling at celestial vanity
In the truth of the blind colors of birth.

Because once dead living people pray for them
Because in burning logs is implied home
Because what you set aside creates a task for the meticulous
Because nobody is superfluous in the plot of a perfect script.

For somebody who is nobody
For an objective that is not a goal
Because there are oppositions and solutions
Because there is something more after each word.

The Trinity in the veins
In the channel once created and then generated
In the sample and the copy
In an animated drawing in the soul of the artist.

Here is a slow stream
Of naked concepts
Where things beyond imagination arise
Open space and the point of movement.

With no freedom where chains did not exist
With no joy because sadness did not exist
The simple and impossible pressure

The divine forge that is fed by the whole.

miércoles, 25 de diciembre de 2013

And you change

And you change

And organizing parties when others suffer
But something grieved their hearts at seeing smiles
And they never care about any music
And although some of them read books they never value them.

And after walking all they could they decided
But time was not enough as they moved in circles
Without perceiving that the light was slowly fading
And they beat on some doors which only increased their fears.

And who knows why, but they persisted in their way
Now already becoming part of an anchor in an abyss
As suspected that perhaps they would understand later
And maybe in realizing it they did not discover how to ask for help.

We should think on it and not judge
Trying to see the origin, the way and the end
Of each muddy print that each step leaves
Noting similarities and differences perhaps reflected in a mirror.

From the screams that war provokes
From the bent knees of marionettes
To the fingers of someone moving threads
And the mind of one who believes he has the whole truth.

Quiet is anger when understanding is clear
And all bitterness and resentment are uprooted
The body is free of fat and the soul is launched to its goal
To accommodate lust as the situation demands.

Because dependency only secures a greater weakness
Or more futility than ignoring what to do to help others
Just like there is nothing stronger than a faithful person acts
Or more freedom than attained in services devoted to people

One who doubts of justice can not ignore the beast
And one, who pretends falls in the middle of the eternal path
Abandoned by reason and forgotten by force
At the mercy of time enduring misfortune forever.

The way in which everything passes
As every movement passes perceptibly
But some things change

As what you see when you look at someone observing you.

lunes, 23 de diciembre de 2013

Relative Pronoum

Relative Pronoun

Those falling effortlessly
Like feathers of eaglets
Which are floating on air
Like thoughts of chosen people.

They decided to be present consciously 
Like a yoke imposed and a plow accepted
Who perceived as much in an occurrence
Like the scab of the thorn of immobile existence
Able to record the movement of others.

Who during the first rays of the sun in the morning
That shatters without breaking on the walls
Like lips that did not pray the night before
Feeling powerless to follow the desires of the soul,

Four stars that can make up a cross
And three of them an arrow that never fails
Time is not held up in the heart
Despite of having been written in front of your eyes.

It is and will continue being possible
The intensity of beginning and persistence of some
That when one is separated from another
Even in disorder the wisdom obtained will become in beauty.

If the moon stops changing for ever
Would end changing for one who observes it
That the floating raft could become a burden
As the son relying on his mother and demanding many sacrifices.

During this morning like many others
None face would dawn equal to any other
As the schedule direct our actions
But it is clocking second hand that pushes and pulls.

That someone who already believes he is expected
And silently awaits a greeting
Like Esteban, seeing the splinter in another’s eye and not the beam in his own
And still resides with beggar children on the corners.

Palm trees smile in hardship seeking the sky
Although few of them reaches and none remains
That the day could not be as a rotating coin

Only an intention that opens its way between two columns.

sábado, 21 de diciembre de 2013

Gavrí Akhenazi - Hojas de sombra

Ficha del libro:
Título: Hojas de sombra (prosas breves y seudopoéticas)
Autor: Gavrí Akhenazi
Editorial: Lulu editores
ISBN: 978-1-300-25576-5
Nro. Páginas: 136
Hojas de sombra (prosas breves y seudopoéticas)
por Silvio M. Rodríguez C.

Sé que a muchos les parecerá indecente, pero cuando leo un libro tengo la costumbre de ir marcando lo que más me gusta, a veces una frase, una puntuación que se erige en lección de cesura, y hasta diálogos enteros. Este libro para mí es como una colección de subrayados, o un conjunto de fotografías que no conforman la exposición de una idea única o de un sólo tema, pero que sí refieren a la mano del escritor, al pulso del fotógrafo cuando consigue hacer de cada una de sus capturas la extensión de lo que siente, piensa y realiza.

El autor dice que son prosas breves y pseudopoéticas, y yo creo que son más poéticas que pseudo, porque aun cuando pareciera que no es su intención recurrir a la imagen o a la metáfora, estas se instalan sin atrasos justo ahí donde son necesarias para potenciar el mensaje. Por ejemplo, en el cierre de "Correr por la vida" leemos "Pero quedarse preso en las heridas es no saber sanar", y aquí la auto detención -que no es pausa en el sendero- significa un aspecto que en un punto es negativo y que se opone al acto de buscar la propia sanidad.

"Alguien dejó su voz para después, pero después no existe, porque no tengo tiempo para poder vivirlo" (de Igual no importa). Aquí yo me encuentro con esas ganas, con la exigencia que algunos llevan por dentro de hacer ahora, y que se suplementa en "Ellos se quejaron, alelados y transidos de espanto y por qué no de ese odio pequeñito que soportan los débiles hacia aquellos que no son iguales a su inútil estima de sí mismos;" (de Los parcantistas), cuando luego de haberse mirado a uno mismo, se mira desde adentro hacia afuera, hacia los que no son siquiera semejantes.

Leo "Por familia no hablo de parientes. Hablo de lo que está cerca de uno cuando uno está lejos" (de Escurrencia), y páginas después me encuentro con un "Sigo siendo un elefante en un bazar, ya resignado a ser un elefante y que se rompa todo mientras avanzo persiguiendo la ruta que lleva al cementerio" (de Cristalería fina), y recuerdo cuando en un texto religioso me parecía encontrar contradicciones. Pero, justamente, a cierto nivel de vivencias la geografía personal se torna tan vasta que caben en ella la necesidad de estar a solas, como el bullicio de un mensaje por correo.

Me pasaría páginas comentando construcciones como las anteriores, porque "Hojas de sombra" es  una especie de calidoscopio, cargado de sentencias que van mudando de forma y disposición, pero que siempre terminan haciendo pensar en su validez y, sobre todo,  en cómo fue que fueron concebidas. No deja de ser un lujo acceder a un escritor como Gavrí Akhenazi que es capaz no sólo de transmitir aquello que conoce y vive, sino que nos permite acompañar su línea de códigos, compartiendo las conclusiones a las que arriba, y sin privarse de darle a cada texto la dimensión que le otorga su voz.

Hojas de sombra en Lulu Editores

El blog del autor

La página del autor en Youtube

The state of return

The state of return

We have found
In the depths of the sea
A cave and in there the traces
Of the history of the first dagger.

Step by step are the narratives
The hand of a child in the hand of an adult
What you feel in passing
From your own support to the light that guides you.

The bravery of an idea
The power to discard everything
And the power to grasp something
And decide without loss or shackle.

Stroke by stroke
Melody, rhythm and harmony
In the oldest Kansas cottage
The homestead in the middle of the field.

Unconquerable legions against a few
Like a splendid athlete among cripples
Opposing the cripple who inspires his companions
Sons of same God who assesses them.

The control of anger
The domination of thirst
The instant preceding madness
The remorse prior to confession.

Dreaming of shapes
Sculptures of gratitude to Freud
Real situations like games
Such as wars and things that are written.

Etruria for ever
Abdera among the weak
The village and the iron pot
The faithful dog awaiting the return at the porch.

Some murmurs of tragedies – maybe they are mine - 
And the future already arriving tomorrow
The beauty, the light and order

What should be said when nobody has anything to say.

jueves, 19 de diciembre de 2013

Sex hi d ai

 Sex hi d ai

She talked to me about hell
As I was too young
She dared to talk me regarding it
And I accepted all she said.

She also talked to me about her life
Saying that was as life occurs
And although I listened attentively
I understood very little.

Then when a few years later
I realized that I was not there
Even when the earth was created
Or when the poles were filled with ice.

I visited many writers
Magicians and priests
And forgetting myself
I made them believe the opposite.

I remember all the marks
Of confusions of errors
And with more strength I say the contrary
And in committing errors I seek companionship rather than opposition.

As no one will give me back the time
Although I never demanded it to anybody
In this present time and in its way
Because the past projects the future.

Useless is to be missed by someone
Even if ingratitude and incomprehension hurts
They temper you more than any book
Because one defending needs more faith than one who attacks.

While a child was dying of diphtheria
Another talked to me from heaven
And seeing that I smiled
He talked more and said less.

The point is different, talking does not mean living
Some things change so that others remain
Quantity always counts with quality
And the immensity in each one of us is like power

That only needs to be guided in its use.

miércoles, 18 de diciembre de 2013

The coin

The coin

Light in the air
Practicing with shadows
Feeling the body
Appreciating the emptiness.

The scent of a desire
Over full goblets
The heart and the clouds
Are connected to the eyes that observe.

Afterwards, behind the door
Of the tragedy of one who knows
And the one who would have to live
Without giving compensation to the helpless.

In only one moment of attention
Where years of effort are created
The patience and enthusiasm
The faith and reason, shoulder to shoulder toward the same thing.

More variables and more intensity
Different trees of the same forest
Where they are not cut down but sown
Like a child who does not want to empty the sea

But rather attempts to fill it more
Because whether he could accomplish it or not
He feels he can
And for him the intent is enough.

The shelter of chosen words
Less spontaneity but more precision
The knuckles that do not hurt when punched
For immediate and direct results.

Because each minute that you are aware of your existence
Becomes a commitment, chain or cross
Which you decide will restrict or expand
To access or not the power of clarity

For the means by which it was done
There is more and more of your moving force
And although the world denied it a little warmness

It continues open handed in confidence that you will return.