El camino del bosque en un día de calor

Una atmósfera pesada y húmeda limitaba los movimientos y el pensamiento.  Apuró el paso esperando no llegar demasiado tarde.  Debería haber salido mas temprano.   Cuando pasaba algún vehículo, la tierra que se levantaba del camino  aumentaba la sensación de calor.  

Esa era la parte del camino que olía tan mal.  Debía de haber algún animal muerto.  Apuró aún mas el paso.  Cuando dejó de sentir el mal olor, se detuvo sin aliento.  

¡Iba a llegar tarde, nomás!    A lo lejos vió una figura en bicicleta que venía en dirección contraria a la suya.  No le hubiera venido mal a él una bicicleta.  La bicicleta y la figura se iban acercando.   A lo mejor era un conocido y se la podía pedir prestada.  ¡Qué disparate!  ¿por qué se la iba a prestar?

Sintió que se agitaba.  La respiración entrecortada le quemaba el pecho.  Sintió retorcijones en el vientre.  Empezó a distinguir la figura.  Parecía una mujer.  Era una mujer, una mujer joven.Por unos segundos se le nubló la vista.  Sacudió la cabeza. De pronto volvió a respirar normalmente.  Dejó de sentir dolor y pudo ver con claridad a la mujer.    Ella estaba llegando al lugar adonde él se había detenido.  Sin pensar lo que hacía, él le sonrió.  La joven le devolvió la sonrisa y se detuvo.  El hombre frunció el ceño.  Quiso hablar, pero no supo qué decir.  La joven se largó a reír y empezó a pedalear nuevamente.   El se le acercó y tomó el manubrio de la bicicleta impidiéndole moverse.  Y ahora ¿qué?  pensó, ¿qué estoy haciendo?  Con la mano izquierda la agarró de un brazo, soltó el manubrio y con esa mano le tomó el otro brazo.  La obligó a bajarse de la bicicleta.  A los tirones la obligó a meterse en el bosque.  Le pegó un empujón y la mujer se cayó sobre las ramas secas y sobre el colchón de hojas caídas que tapizaban el suelo.   La escuchó llorar como si ese llanto no tuviese que ver con él.  Cuando vio que la mujer no atinaba a levantarse, volvió al camino y buscó la bicicleta.  La tiró a un costado.

Después con movimientos lentos y pesados se le tiró encima, golpeándola para que no gritase.  Comprendió que ahora no solo llegaría tarde, ya no llegaría nunca.

Memory

I have complied with her

not having known beforehand

I had to

she lurks in the recesses

of the mind

a labile creature

turning up unexpectedly

to claim  my attention

distracting the mind

from the immediate

shadowing it 

pulling me back relentlessly.

The rift

                                                                                                     

                                                                                                   
                                                                                                       In memoriam
                                                                                                       Pablo Molinari
                                                                                                    


There was this rift in the family
when two of the dearest died
eight years apart

then another one died
dearest and closest
a beacon of light
lost in his suffering
and his efforts to interpret life
and his next of kin

tender and brightest he left
creating a dark and awkward hiatus
leaving behind
an area gloomed by questions
unanswered 

five more dearest were born 
into the family
other generations
as beautiful clever and darling 
as their elders

II

life goes on 
taking its toll it
goes on
adding and subtracting

whatever took place
goes on taking place
unawares or conscientiously

people react differently
to loss and bereavement
there are those who turn to God 
others to their next of kin
or friends

or turn into another
a shadow of themselves
inhabited by those
who left

there are no answers
and no solutions
to missing the dead

only a whiff of light
that turns experience
into partial understanding
into meaning or the lack of it

III

how can others grasp
the feeling of despair
of the bereaved
before the tragedies
that could have been
avoided

who will concur
agree accept
with them
other than themselves

nobody dares

there is little
they can do
other than empathize

and people will not
for it is to enter
themselves
into the domain
of gloom

IV

one does not forget
the dearest dead
those closest to ourselves
siblings and offsprings

for were they not
other versions 
of ourselves

were they not ourselves
who partly died with them
and live the terms
of our separation
as an ongoing experience

their absence as a presence
a reminder
that we in ourselves
are not complete

that there are
depths of meaning
layers of understanding
and misunderstandings
unresolved

V   

one does not weep
out loud
as when they had 
barely departed

there is the lingering
feeling of absence
of being torn apart
from those who should
be growing older with us

sharing discussing
planning quarrelling
making up
trying to come to terms
with differences

one has lost worlds
of compatibility
worlds of caring
and be cared for

VI

their absence is still
relevant
discouraging
poignant
meaningful

their past and 
their unachieved present
reel on 
a film in process
every day 
of every week
of every month
of every year

through different
moods and perceptions
rewinding in real time
or fast forward 

it reels on.

On thinking

to think thinking *

is knowing

what one thinks

may be a misconception

it may might

be knowing

or not knowing

to surmise wonder stall

is thinking

not leading to knowing

necessarily

for doesn’t everybody

think

and yet can we say

everybody knows

concrete thoughts

vapid and disperse

mental processes

may be or may not be

creative

shall we assume

we are thinkers

who dabble

in useless perusals

some of us do

some of us don’t

so what is

and what is not

who knows

there are those

who think they know

and ignore

many and most

so be it

a few may

know

and not know

they know.  

* from The rift and other poems, Sifipublishing, Cornwall, 2016.

I am trapped by them

I am trapped by them*
my long time lovers
there are too many of them

even if I ignore them
they are there
overwhelmingly present

shelves of them
stacks on tables

how does one do without them

and how can I live with them
crowding my space.

* from Autobiogardens and other poems, Sifipublishung, Cornwall, England, 2015

The rift and other poems

My latest book at Walrus Books  in San Telmo - 

Estados Unidos 617

with an Epilogue by Luis Chitarroni that covers

 Autobiogardens and other poems 

and Born and bred in Buenos Aires as well.

Back cover of Autobiogardens and other poems

It was through the gardens in literature that I sensed the importance of gardens in a person's psyche.  From the gardens in fairy tales to Il giardino dei Finzi-Contini by Giorgio Bassani.  Umbrous space and quiet brought out a certain sensibility, central to an individual’s personality.  It was also the place where a person could hide from the world, or disguise her real intentions under other preoccupations, as in The cherry orchard by Anton Chekov, or in a A voyage round my father by John Mortimer.   My childhood memories were closely linked to gardens, but it was only when writing Autobiogardens that I realized that my interest in gardens in literature  stemmed  from the experience of my own perception of the gardens I grew up in.