wilberfoss a village of remembers

 

wilberfox diario poético 1970

 

 27 de noviembre de 2021

 

 

 Encontré entre mis papeles olvidados tamizados por el tiempo estos poemas de mi estancia en Wilberfoss a unos kilómetros de la ciudad de York. Es el diario de un hombre acosado por el destino, recién casado que busca la libertad en tiempos difíciles, aun cuando lleno de entusiasmo por abrirse paso en la vida. El amor en estos versos se conjuga con el dolor y la perplejidad del descubrimiento de la vida que no era tan fácil como creía. Pobre de mí. el bungalow estaba a la vera de la autopista que atraviesa el norte de Inglaterra desde Hull a Liverpool. Yo quisiera que estos dulces y amargos pensamientos no sean la hoja volandera que esparce el viento y quedan clavados en este álbum de viejas canciones y recuerdos plenos de ruidos, de furia y de dulzura. La vida misma. Una memoria de un querer que resultó imposible. Pero esa Inglaterra soñada y que no existía me construyó por fuera y por dentro. Thank you England, my England

 

 

1

Why do we hate?

Time wears and deletes

And we get tired at the end

We pass around messages of wrath

But we dine together in the Tavern in the town

By the mills of the river Ouse

Evolving the rules of distinction

That ruthless man

Impossible man

Writing stories in Spanish

They lead anywhere

Funny building of words

We Spaniards are not welcome

In  British Honduras

That harbored pirates

Keep the distance and smile

Life is hard of nails dear friend

Let us open the Pandora box

Of silence

We are in good terms

Morning brings the morning tea

And we shake hands

Happy new year

Reconciliation and humiliations

As pride lead no anywhere

We have to lead outlives better

Saying good morning

But coming home there is only you that matters

You are part of me

I gave you ten pound notes

To entertaining strange guests

Who make love in the settee

Strange blokes and strange birds

This the merry go around of England

Supposed to be paradise

 

2

 

CHURCH OF WILBERFOSS

 

I am a collector of words

hanging up for my dreams

and anxieties

we are free from boredom

we live, let us live

and breath the chaste morning

wind

of the new day

refreshing winter

flat lands of the East

the Plain of York

we cross sauntering

the dear river Floss

there are fancy bridges

water smooth run and run

where the river goes?

To the sea or the Good Father Thames

Flowing secret streams underneath

We walk together

My arm over our shoulders

We are two happy lover in the country side

And I notice the baby daughter

In your womb

She will be a flower of May

We reach the cemetery behind the Norman church

Bells spread their sound on the air

Pleasant peace of the dead

We see the the graces under the morning sun

There are names in every tomb

I kiss the Cross sign of resurrection

The church is empty but

We can hear still the echoes

Of the last evening song

Smelling of glory and incense

A crib on the corner near the fountain

The congregation celebrates

The Birth or our Lord

In the parish font of blessed

Water shall be christened our son...Martin? Alcuin? Ethel?

Should be she will be my English rose

Old prayers books

Glittering lights of sunset

I  collected humble some woods

From the trees

For our stove

We go back home

Wilberfoss is my hearth

Segovia was

 

shall continue