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 u hombre recién casado que busca la libertad en tiempos difíciles, aun cuando llenos 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 yo 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.
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 Honduras
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 yo that matter
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
Ion 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
CHISEL ON MY HANDS
tengo que vivir
silbo canciones
apoyado en un semaforo
una pinta de cerveza tres chelines
una trincha que me abriga
montopen mi bici
marcho echando leches
me gustan las mañanas frías leddelo
henchidas de aire
y bufandas volanderas
no cojas un catarro hijo mío
hago austo stop
y siempre me paran camioneros
friendly chaps
¿Adonde vas? ¿A Jerusalén?
Estoy en ella
el campo está verde
los tordos bajan a la hierba
en traje de picos blancos
piropeo a las urracas
y a los gorriones picoteros
escarban en la nueve
del jardin de la ofina
escucho a los dentistas
empastandome las muelas
dedos de lúpulo
y miro el trrasero a las fregonas
going to the pub in Saturday
sufro por los muertos de Vietnam
y sin embargo en la felicidad de esta ciudad santa
que me impregnate
la tengo entre los dedos
no la dejjes escapar
por la misericordia
tengo un cincel para esculpir mis sueños
the deacon of Saint Georges
gives me his benediction
the water ripples on the mill under bridge of the river
with glorious sound
now an angel rings the bell
time is up
so long
hasta mañana
humo de mi hogar
plenitud del deseo
una bruja me espera
mañana es Halloween
battlements and barbicans
wickets o cancelas to go
for secret lovers
when the doors of York
were bolted
heavy irons of the past
houses did n´t have glasses
but ale was cheap
at dawn came charts of mules and horses
loaded with barrels and kegs from Tadcaster
pinky old men and wives
at the gates
the sentries were sleep
york had ten towers and a port
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