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Notes from a Catalan village: full circle

4 Oct

We were told some months ago about the boulder in the tree, by Lluís Serrano of Cantallops. So we made an excursion of it, trekked up past the castle of Requessens (of which more in a future blog) and up early autumnal paths to view the wonder. Lluís is a great source of information about local history – both cultural and natural – but even he does not know for sure how a rock estimated to weigh up to 100 tonnes landed in a tree. It can only be assumed that it came rolling down the hill behind the tree and was caught in the branches. The impact must have damaged the tree, as there is a fissure running down the trunk, but it survived.


Another strange feature of the tree is the dinosaur head formed by one of the lower branches:


A year ago I posted about the grape harvest in Rabós, and this account would not be complete without a reminder that the vendimia has  been again, and gone. A very wet early summer made wine producers fear the worst for the 2016 vintage in the Empordà, but the proof will be in the  . . . bottle. Before we started picking, we had to make some space, so a couple of thousand of the last batch but one were corked and stored, prior to labelling.


And then, on a warm September morning, we ambled down to the fields to fill our buckets. It is a timeless ritual, and one which is so much more enjoyable now than it was 35 years ago, when you did it for pay.



Even Bruno the Dog joined in, robbing grapes from everyone’s buckets and chewing up kilos of the fruit, only to disgorge much of it in dramatic fashion once we had returned home.


The last days of Antonio Machado

2 Oct


After reading an article by Javier Cercas in El País, we decide to visit Collioure, just over the border in France. I want to visit the cemetery that hosts the earthly remains of Antonio Machado, who crossed over to France in exile toward the end of the Spanish Civil War, in 1939. The small group travelling with the poet had to leave most of their luggage when they abandoned the car in the bottleneck of escaping vehicles during a violent rainstorm at Port Bou. Machado, along with his brother José and their terminally ill mother, were refused food or even water in Cerbères by the French authorities because they could not pay. They made it along the coast as far as Collioure and, after receiving financial help from the Spanish novelist Corpus Barga, they stayed at the hotel Bougnol Quintana, now deserted, but with plaque (see below).




I knew much of the story already, but in Cercas’s account, he is told the following story by two elderly English residents of Collioure: in the days before the poet’s death, Machado and José would never appear in the hotel dining room together, but always separately. Nobody could understand why this was, other than to put it down to some bad blood between the two, brought on by the hardships of exile. Only later was the truth discovered: they only had one suit between them, and took it in turns to come down to eat. Antonio left the hotel only once, to visit the harbour, and sit for a while by the sea. The poet died three weeks after arriving in Collioure, on 22nd February 1939, victim to an undisclosed illness, and an interminable sorrow for his country’s defeat. His mother died three days later. But it was the anecdote of the suit, whether true or apocryphal, and the tearful reaction to it described by Cercas – whom I met once at a dinner and who seemed a genuinely agreeable person – that made me decide to take the forty minute drive across the mountain at Coll de Banyuls, and up the coast to Collioure. However, I was so tired, after yet another insomniac night, that before we even reached the town of Banyuls, I had to pull over, and Mrs Blanco took the wheel.

At Collioure, we left our ancient peppermint Citroën by the railway station; Bruno the dog helpfully watered the tauntingly upright meter as I paid for our parking ticket, and the three of us, led by the impatient hound, walked down into the pretty, touristy town, with its art shops and overpriced boutiques, and soon found both the ex-hotel and the nearby cemetery. It was all attractive and relaxed, in that comfortable, provincial, southern French way, but the reason for our visit added a tinge of melancholy to the evening. Afterwards we went and sat outside a café by the harbour and had an apéro, because the waiter said they didn’t serve coffee at that hour, which struck me as a bit strange, but then remembered this was France.  It’s easy to forget, when you live near the border, how customs vary.


I read a lot of Machado when I came to live in Spain, and during the 90s he became, and remains, one of my favourite poets. He was the first Spanish poet I attempted to translate, fifteen years ago. His language is extraordinarily ‘rooted’ in Spanish, in a way that is hard to describe. He doesn’t translate comfortably, which is why a better introduction to the non-Spanish reader might be via Don Paterson’s ‘versions’ of Machado, The Eyes (1999). This, however, was my first effort at one of his poems, before abandoning the idea of translating him:


I have walked down many roads

and cleared many paths.

I have sailed a hundred seas

made fast to a hundred shores.


Everywhere I’ve seen

caravans of sadness,

proud people sad people

drunks in black shadow,


and pedants offstage

who watch on, keep silence, think

they know better, because they don’t

drink wine in humble bars.


Bad people who carry on

like pests polluting the earth.


And everywhere I’ve seen

people who dance and play

when they can, and work

their four palms of earth.


If they arrive somewhere

they never ask where they are.

When they travel, they ride

on the shanks of an old mule,


they never hurry

not even on fiesta days.

Where there is wine they drink wine;

where there is no wine they drink cold water.


Good people who live

and work, get by and dream.

And one day like any other

they go under the ground.


And in the original:

He andado muchos caminos,
he abierto muchas veredas;
he navegado en cien mares,
y atracado en cien riberas.

 En todas partes he visto
caravanas de tristeza,
soberbios y melancólicos
borrachos de sombra negra,

 y pedantones al paño
que miran, callan, y piensan
que saben, porque no beben
el vino de las tabernas.

 Mala gente que camina
y va apestando la tierra…

 Y en todas partes he visto
gentes que danzan o juegan, 

cuando pueden, y laboran
sus cuatro palmos de tierra.

Nunca, si llegan a un sitio,
preguntan a dónde llegan. 

Cuando caminan, cabalgan
a lomos de mula vieja,

y no conocen la prisa
ni aun en los días de fiesta.
Donde hay vino, beben vino;
donde no hay vino, agua fresca.

Son buenas gentes que viven,
laboran, pasan y sueñan,
y en un día como tantos,
descansan bajo la tierra. 

(from Soledades, 1903).

That obscure object of the author’s desire

21 Aug
Proust MS (a)

From draft of A la recherche du temps perdu.

Three and half years ago on this blog I wrote about Adam Phillips’ book ‘Missing Out’, which explains how not getting what you think you want might actually be what you want. In the current issue of the LRB, Phillips reviews a new biography of Proust (Proust: The Search, by Benjamin Taylor), and we discover that for the author of A la recherche, the act of desire is what matters, not the attainment of the object of desire. Maybe we shouldn’t bother with trying to fulfil our desires, or achieve our dreams: maybe the beauty of harbouring a desire is simply that – it fills our hearts and minds while it is a potentiality, but the moment we achieve it, win it, possess it (in Proust’s diction), its lustre falls away and we are, more often than not, left bereft, and in mourning for something we we never truly possessed. In other words, the slow burn of unfulfilment is preferable to fulfilment itself.

In the review, Phillips writes:

‘Marcel often intimates with his preachy irony, that we should actually work as hard as we can not to get what we think we want. We do this automatically, it seems, but we need to put our minds to it, because the one belief we appear to be unable to give up on is the belief in the importance of satisfaction. We can’t think what else to do with our wishes other than try to satisfy them.’

And furthermore:

‘The desire to make your dreams come true is a fatal misunderstanding. You have to find something you really want to do and find ways of not doing it. You have to find someone you really want in order to get over wanting them.’

But here’s the interesting part: what is being ‘reached for’ in Proust – the obscure object of the author’s desire, if you will –  is, according to Phillips the invisible book within the book – the one that is being described in the writing, and which is and is not the book that we are reading.

Phillips expresses the idea as follows:

‘. . .Proust’s readers never get to read the book Marcel is going to write; we only get to read the book about the book he may write. Marcel’s book, as opposed to Proust’s, is an emblematic object of desire; we are curious about it, but we can never have access to it.’

Let me elaborate: in Proust’s book, the character of ‘Marcel’ describes himself as writing a book, or as wanting to write a book, which describes the social world with which he is obsessed. ‘Marcel’, needless to say, is a fiction – composed as an adjunct or alternative to the ‘real’ Proust. The book the fictional Marcel is writing will never be written or read. It is the invisible book at the heart of Proust’s fiction. Not the book we hold before us, but its shadow. In another sense, it is the book that Proust ‘desired’ to write, rather than the book he in fact wrote. What resonance this has in marking the distinction between the books we set out to write, the books we might have written, and the books we actually complete; the books we experience as unfulfilled desire, and the books which are, however unsatisfactorily, ‘fulfilled’.

Hunter, White Mountains

23 May



I woke in the freezing dawn, and looked out from the cave, over a misty sea. I stepped outside and stretched, drank the last of the water from my canteen, stuffed blanket into knapsack, and set off eastward along the coast, following a goat-track. The cliffs fell away sheer to the sea on my right. A false step would result in a terrible plunge towards the rocks far below, but my feet were steady and I moved along the trail at speed. I was hungry and the map I had was useless, but I reckoned I should reach a village by early afternoon. A stream crossed the path and I kneeled and drank, cupping my hands, before filling my canteen. Then the track started to climb, and we joined an ancient causeway. I guessed it had been there since Minoan times. I crossed an incline and on a rock to my left sat a man, shotgun across his knees. A large mountain sheepdog lay at his feet, ears cocked, neck muscles straining. The man called a greeting and patted the space on the boulder next to him. The dog sniffed at me before relaxing and lying down again. The man had a face you don’t easily forget, on account of his startling blue-green eyes. He was in his fifties or sixties maybe, mahogany skin, unshaven, with a grey moustache. He was loose-limbed, agile, with an ascetic, martial air. Two dead hares lay on an olive sack next to the rock. He carried old German binoculars around his neck, relics of the occupation. Lifting a red woollen bag, he reached inside. He cut cheese with a big knife, and passed me a hunk of dark bread, olives, a flask of liquor. I ate, and washed the food down with the strong drink. He nodded at me, almost smiled. Then he pointed at the sky. I could make out a dark speck, at a great height. He said the word for eagle, and handed me the binoculars. When I passed them back I noticed some marks had been engraved into the boulder behind us. They were a row of hieroglyphs, carved with complex and concise strokes. I offered the hunter a cigarette and we smoked in silence for a while. Before I left, I asked him about the hieroglyphs, and he looked at me with those piercing eyes and said: those, my child, hold the secret of the world. I wished him good health and went on my way. The sun was over the mountains now and the mist had cleared from the sea. As I walked I was happy, thinking about the marks in the rock that contained the secret of the world. I believe I can still remember the hunter’s face, though I saw him only once, so many years ago. But whether it is his face I am remembering, or the face of some other man, I will never know.



‘Hunter’, by Richard Gwyn, was first published by Wales Arts Review on 25 June 2015.

Notes from a Catalan village: summer on its way

18 May



The weather has been cloudy, windy and wet for much of May – validating the Catalan proverb, Al maig, cada dia un raig (in May, a shower every day) – with just the occasional day of glorious sunshine, when we take off for a walk, just to reassure ourselves that summer is really coming. On one of these occasions, wandering round the lanes near Rabós, we came upon this goat, standing in proprietorial fashion in the doorway of a caravan. She stared at us as we passed, not remotely deterred by the dog, who wisely stayed away.

Spring started a long time ago now, announced by the cherry blossom in February. It always seems to me that the summer is on its way when the first shoots appear on the vines, in early April. The poppies shoot up at the same time, bestowing on the olive groves a scattering of scarlet.


vineyard april

poppies and olive tree


The first tourists start to appear then too, almost exclusively French at this time of year, driving in the middle of the road on country lanes, and getting lost in the medieval labyrinth of the village.

One of the walks we took a couple of weeks back was to the Santuari de la Mare de Deu, near Terrades. A half hour’s climb to a tiny chapel rewards with views of Canigou and beyond.


Santa Maria

Chapel on mountain at Santuari de la Mare de Deu, near Terrades


Another of my favourite places, all year round, which still provides unspoiled beaches out of season, is Cap Norfeu – named after Orpheus – on the Cap de Creus peninsula, where, if you listen carefully, you can hear strains of song from below the cliffs. But don’t venture too close. Or go stepping on any snakes. You might end up in the underworld.


Cala Pelosa etc

Cala Pelosa and Cala Montjoi from Cap Norfeu

I kill out of rage

14 May


Shoes hanging

An exhibit by the artist Alfredo Lopez Casanova, using the shoes of missing people with messages on their soles, in an exhibition currently running at the ‘Casa de la Memoria Indomita’ in Mexico City, titled ‘Huellas de la Memoria‘ (Memory Traces).


Since posting María Rivera’s ‘The Dead’ on Wednesday, over 500 people have checked in, and María herself emailed to thank me for posting her poem. ‘The Dead’ evoked some powerful responses from readers. Echoing the views of others, John Freeman commented (on FB) that María achieves something he thought was ‘impossible to do – for a poet to create such emotional immediacy with such a sweep of large political anger’.

Shortly after encountering María’s poem, my friend Carlos López Beltrán directed me towards another fine poem  – again by a woman – that addresses the terrible swathe of violence in which Mexico has been immersed for the past decade. It appears in the anthology of Mexican Poetry edited by Pedro Serrano and Carlos himself, and titled 359 Delicados (con filtro), (Santiago de Chile: Lom, 2012).

The poem, ‘I kill out of rage’, by Claudia Hernández de Valle-Arizpe, adopts the voice of an assassin, reciting a list of random, barbaric ‘reasons’ for random, barbaric murder. In the poem the act of killing builds up its own terrible momentum, so that in the second stanza, the possibilities – or potential – for murder extend even to those hypothetical victims who are not killed on this occasion, but who might just as easily have been, according to the appalling logic that propels the actions of the poem’s speaker.

This poem, along with 156 others by 97 Latin American poets, selected and translated by Richard Gwyn, will be published in October 2016 in The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, from Seren Books.

‘Mato por rabia’ first appeared in the collection Perros muy azules, México DF: Era (2012).



I Kill out of Rage

by Claudia Hernández de Valle-Arizpe (México)


I kill out of rage, out of hatred, out of spite; I kill from jealousy,

for revenge; I kill to bring justice (for me or for you),

so that you understand for once and for all, to get a rest

from you; I kill out of fear, to rob, to flee, to defend myself;

I kill out of habit, for fun; I kill as a reaction;

so that you don’t kill me, so that you don’t rape me. I kill because

I can’t bear it anymore, because I want to die but don’t dare,

because even children kill, because I’m sick because

I’m crazy, because I’m sad, because nobody loves me anymore.

I kill in the name of my religion, in the name of my people,

of freedom, of democracy. I kill in the name of God.

And also I kill because here I feel like it, in the shack,

in the neighbourhood, in the nightclub, on the road, in your house, in mine.

I kill for drugs, because it excites me, because it’s exercise, because

one day it’s me they’re going to kill. I kill dogs, cats, pigs, people.

I kill who’s going past in the street, or sleeping, or having fun.

I kill with weapons so that there’s blood, so that the blood runs

like my rage, my weariness, my injustice, my ugliness, my sex,

my obesity, my diabetes, my cirrhosis, my cancer, my mental retardation,

my stupidity, my nightmares, my hopeless life.


I kill you but could kill your sister, your father, your wife,

your children, your lover, your grandmother, your dog. I kill you today but

don’t trust me, because I can kill you tomorrow, any day,

with bullets that will pierce your lung and your stomach

and will lodge, very hot, in your neck, in your groin,

in your head. And what is yours will be no one’s, you see: what you proclaimed,

what you did, what you knew, what you liked so much: your mornings,

your nights in company, your memories, your plans, all of this will bite

the dust. Bullets, brother, bullets; what a tragedy, what sorrow,

those who knew you will cry, and you now in ashes, man,

woman, child, ugly, pretty, ignorant, brilliant, poor, rich, whatever.

Have you ever killed? Have you tried to?

Shoot, says the killer to the boy,

or don’t you dare?

There has never been a weapon in my house, there never was,

I have never fired a shot.



Mato por rabia

Mato por rabia, por odio, por despecho; mato por celos,

por venganza; mato para hacer(me), hacer(te) justicia.

Para que entiendas de una vez y para siempre, para descansar

de ti; mato por miedo, para robar, para huir, para defenderme;

mato por hábito, para divertirme; mato por reacción,

para que no me mates, para que no me violes. Mato porque

ya no aguanto, porque quiero morirme pero no me atrevo,

porque hasta los niños matan, porque estoy enfermo, porque

estoy loco, porque estoy triste, porque ya nadie me quiere.

Mato en nombre de mi religión, en nombre de mi pueblo,

de la libertad, de la democracia. Mato en nombre de Dios.

Y también mato porque se me da la gana aquí, en la chabola,

en el barrio, en el antro, en la carretera, en tu casa, en la mía.

Mato por droga, porque me excita, porque me ejercito, porque

un día a mí me van a matar. Mato perros, gatos, puercos, gente.

Mato al que va en la calle, al que duerme, al que se divierte.

Mato con armas para que haya sangre, para que corra la sangre

como mi rabia, mi hartazgo, mi injusticia, mi fealdad, mi sexo,

mi gordura, mi diabetes, mi cirrosis, mi cáncer, mi retraso mental,

mi estupidez, mis pesadillas, mi vida sin remedio.


Te mato a ti pero puedo matar a tu hermana, a tu padre, a tu mujer,

a tus hijos, a tu amante, a tu abuela, a tu perro. Te mato hoy pero

no confíes porque puedo matarte mañana, cualquier día,

con las balas que van a perforar tu pulmón y tu estomago

y que se alojarán, muy calientes, en tu cuello, en tus ingles,

en tu cabeza. Y lo tuyo no será de nadie, ya ves, lo que pregonaste,

lo que hiciste, lo que sabías, lo que tanto te gustaba: tus mañanas,

tus noches acompañado, tus recuerdos, tus planes, todo se lo comerá

el acero. Bullets, hermano, bullets; qué tragedia, que dolor,

van a gritar los que te conocieron, y tú ya en cenizas, hombre,

mujer, niño, feo, bonito, bruto, genial, pobre, rico, qué importa.

¿Mataste alguna vez? ¿Lo has intentado?

Dispara, le dice el asesino al muchacho,

¿o es que no te atreves?

Nunca ha habido un arma en mi casa, nunca la hubo,

nunca he disparado.




The Dead

10 May

Mexico Drugs War


The Dead


María Rivera (Mexico)


Here they come

the decapitated,

the amputees,

the torn into pieces,

the women with their coccyx split apart,

those with their heads smashed in,

the little ones crying

inside dark walls

of minerals and sand.

Here they come

those who sleep in buildings

that house secret tombs:

they come with their eyes blindfolded,

their hands tied,

shot between their temples.

Here come those who were lost in Tamaupilas,

in-laws, neighbours,

the woman they gang raped before killing her,

the man who tried to stop it and received a bullet,

the woman they also raped, who escaped and told the story

comes walking down Broadway,

consoled by the wail of the ambulances,

the hospital doors,

light shining on the waters of the Hudson.

Here they come

the dead who set out from Usulután,

from La Paz

from La Unión,

from La Libertad,

from Sonsonate,

from San Salvador,

from San Juan Mixtepec,

from Cuscatlán,

from El Progreso,

from El Guante,


those who were given the goodbye at a karaoke party,

and were found shot in Tecate.

Here comes the one they forced to dig his brother’s grave,

the one they murdered after collecting a four thousand dollar ransom,

those who were kidnapped

with a woman they raped in front of her eight year old son

three times.

Where do they come from,

from what gangrene,

oh lymph,

the bloodthirsty,

the heartless,

the murdering


Here they come,

the dead so alone, so mute, so much ours,

set beneath the enormous sky of Anáhuac,

they walk,

they drag themselves,

with their bowl of horror in their hands,

their terrifying tenderness.

They are called

the dead that they found in a ditch in Taxco,

the dead that they found in remote places of Chihuahua,

the dead that they found strewn across plots of crops,

the dead that they found shot in la Marquesa,

the dead that they found hanging from bridges,

the dead that they found without heads on common land,

the dead that they found at the side of the road,

the dead that they found in abandoned cars,

the dead that they found in San Fernando,

those without number they cut into pieces and have still not been found,

the legs, the arms, the heads, the femurs of the dead

dissolved in drums.

They are called

remains, corpses, the deceased,

they are called

the dead whose mothers do not tire of waiting,

the dead whose children do not tire of waiting,

the dead whose wives do not tire of waiting,

they imagine them in subways, among gringos.

They are called

baby clothes woven in the casket of the soul,

the little tee shirt of a three-month-old

the photo of a toothless smile,

they are called mamita,


they are called

little kicks

in the tummy

and the newborn’s cry,

they are called four children,

Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)

and a widow (a girl) who fell in love at primary school,

they are called wanting to dance at fiestas,

they are called blushing of hot cheeks and sweaty hands,

they are called boys,

they are called wanting

to build a house,

laying bricks,

giving food to my children,

they are called two dollars for cleaning beans,

houses, estates, offices,

they are called

crying of children on earth floors,

the light flying over the birds,

the flight of pigeons in the church,

they are called

kisses at the river’s edge,

they are called

Gelder (17)

Daniel (22)

Filmar (24)

Ismael (15)

Agustín (20)

José (16)

Jacinta (21)

Inés (28)

Francisco (53)


in the scrubland,

hands tied

in the gardens of ranches,


in the gardens of ‘safe’ houses,

in some forgotten wilderness,

disintegrating mutely

and in secret,

they are called

secrets of hitmen,

secrets of slaughter,

secrets of policemen,

they are called sobbing,

they are called mist,

they are called body,

they are called skin,

they are called warmth,

they are called kiss,

they are called hug,

they are called laughter,

they are called people,

they are called pleading,

they were called I,

they were called you,

they were called us,

they are called shame,

they are called sobbing.

Here they go









breasts bitten,

hands tied,

their bodies burned to a crisp,

their bones polished by the sand of the desert.

They are called

the dead women that no one knows no one saw being killed,

they are called

women who go out alone to bars at night,

they are called

working women who leave their homes at dawn,

they are called








chucked away,

they are called meat,

they are called meat.


without flowers,

without tombstones,

without an age,

without a name,

without sobbing,

they sleep in their cemetery:

its name is Temixco,

its name is Santa Ana,

its name is Mazatepec,

its name is Juárez,

its name is Puente de Ixtla,

its name is San Fernando,

its name is Tlaltizapán,

its name is Samalayuca,

its name is el Capulín,

its name is Reynosa,

its name is Nuevo Laredo,

its name is Guadalupe,

its name is Lomas de Poleo,

its name is Mexico.


Translated by Richard Gwyn

This poem, along with 155 others by 97 Latin American poets, selected and translated by Richard Gwyn, will be published in October 2016 in The Other Tiger: Recent Poetry from Latin America, from Seren Books.

A video of the poet reading ‘The Dead’ can be found here:


Los Muertos


Allá vienen

los descabezados,

los mancos,

los descuartizados,

a las que les partieron el coxis,

a los que les aplastaron la cabeza,

los pequeñitos llorando

entre paredes oscuras

de minerales y arena.

Allá vienen

los que duermen en edificios

de tumbas clandestinas:

vienen con los ojos vendados,

atadas las manos,

baleados entre las sienes.

Allí vienen los que se perdieron por Tamaulipas,

cuñados, yernos, vecinos,

la mujer que violaron entre todos antes de matarla,

el hombre que intentó evitarlo y recibió un balazo,

la que también violaron, escapó y lo contó viene

caminando por Broadway,

se consuela con el llanto de las ambulancias,

las puertas de los hospitales,

la luz brillando en el agua del Hudson.

Allá vienen

los muertos que salieron de Usulután,

de La Paz,

de La Unión,

de La Libertad,

de Sonsonate,

de San Salvador,

de San Juan Mixtepec,

de Cuscatlán,

de El Progreso,

de El Guante,


a los que despidieron en una fiesta con karaoke,

y los encontraron baleados en Tecate.

Allí viene al que obligaron a cavar la fosa para su hermano,

al que asesinaron luego de cobrar cuatro mil dólares,

los que estuvieron secuestrados

con una mujer que violaron frente a su hijo de ocho años

tres veces.

¿De dónde vienen,

de qué gangrena,

oh linfa,

los sanguinarios,

los desalmados,

los carniceros


Allá vienen

los muertos tan solitos, tan mudos, tan nuestros,

engarzados bajo el cielo enorme del Anáhuac,


se arrastran,

con su cuenco de horror entre las manos,

su espeluznante ternura.

Se llaman

los muertos que encontraron en una fosa en Taxco,

los muertos que encontraron en parajes alejados de Chihuahua,

los muertos que encontraron esparcidos en parcelas de cultivo,

los muertos que encontraron tirados en la Marquesa,

los muertos que encontraron colgando de los puentes,

los muertos que encontraron sin cabeza en terrenos ejidales,

los muertos que encontraron a la orilla de la carretera,

los muertos que encontraron en coches abandonados,

los muertos que encontraron en San Fernando,

los sin número que destazaron y aún no encuentran,

las piernas, los brazos, las cabezas, los fémures de muertos

disueltos en tambos.

Se llaman

restos, cadáveres, occisos,

se llaman

los muertos a los que madres no se cansan de esperar

los muertos a los que hijos no se cansan de esperar,

los muertos a los que esposas no se cansan de esperar,

imaginan entre subways y gringos.

Se llaman

chambrita tejida en el cajón del alma,

camisetita de tres meses,

la foto de la sonrisa chimuela,

se llaman mamita,


se llaman


en el  vientre

y el primer llanto,

se llaman cuatro hijos,

Petronia (2), Zacarías (3), Sabas (5), Glenda (6)

y una viuda (muchacha) que se enamoró cuando estudiaba la primaria,

se llaman ganas de bailar en las fiestas,

se llaman rubor de mejillas encendidas y manos sudorosas,

se llaman muchachos,

se llaman ganas

de construir una casa,

echar tabique,

darle de comer a mis hijos,

se llaman dos dólares por limpiar frijoles,

casas, haciendas, oficinas,

se llaman

llantos de niños en pisos de tierra,

la luz volando sobre los pájaros,

el vuelo de las palomas en la iglesia,

se llaman

besos a la orilla del río,

se llaman

Gelder (17)

Daniel (22)

Filmar (24)

Ismael (15)

Agustín (20)

José (16)

Jacinta (21)

Inés (28)

Francisco (53)

entre matorrales,


en jardines de ranchos


en jardines de casas de seguridad


en parajes olvidados,

desintegrándose muda,


se llaman

secretos de sicarios,

secretos de matanzas,

secretos de policías,

se llaman llanto,

se llaman neblina,

se llaman cuerpo,

se llaman piel,

se llaman tibieza,

se llaman beso,

se llaman abrazo,

se llaman risa,

se llaman personas,

se llaman súplicas,

se llamaban yo,

se llamaban tú,

se llamaban nosotros,

se llaman vergüenza,

se llaman llanto.

Allá van









los pechos mordidos,

las manos atadas,

calcinados sus cuerpos,

sus huesos pulidos por la arena del desierto.

Se llaman

las muertas que nadie sabe nadie vio que mataran,

se llaman

las mujeres que salen de noche solas a los bares,

se llaman

mujeres que trabajan salen de sus casas en la madrugada,

se llaman









se llaman carne,

se llaman carne.


sin flores,

sin losas,

sin edad,

sin nombre,

sin llanto,

duermen en su cementerio:

se llama Temixco,

se llama Santa Ana,

se llama Mazatepec,

se llama Juárez,

se llama Puente de Ixtla,

se llama San Fernando,

se llama Tlaltizapán,

se llama Samalayuca,

se llama el Capulín,

se llama Reynosa,

se llama Nuevo Laredo,

se llama Guadalupe,

se llama Lomas de Poleo,

se llama México.