"Hay personas miserables
en todos los rubros"
me dijo un poeta
en mi adolescencia.
Nunca más me olvidé
de esa frase.
Oda a las Américas - Pablo Neruda (en Odas elementales, 1954)
Américas purísimas,
tierras que los océanos
guardaron
intactas y purpúreas,
siglos de colmenares silenciosos,
pirámides, vasijas,
ríos de ensangrentadas mariposas,
volcanes amarillos
y razas de silencio,
formadoras de cántaros,
labradoras de piedra.
Y hoy, Paraguay, turquesa
fluvial, rosa enterrada,
te convertiste en cárcel.
Perú, pecho del mundo,
corona
de las águilas,
existes?
Venezuela, Colombia,
no se oyen
vuestras bocas felices.
Dónde ha partido el coro
de plata matutina?
Sólo los pájaros
de antigua vestidura,
sólo las cataratas
mantienen su diadema.
La cárcel ha extendido
sus barrotes.
En el húmedo reino
del fuego y la esmeralda,
entre
los ríos paternales,
cada día
sube un mandón y con su sable corta
hipoteca y remata tu tesoro.
Se abre la cacería
del hermano.
Suenan tiros perdidos en los puertos.
Llegan de Pennsylvania
los expertos,
los nuevos
conquistadores,
mientras tanto
nuestra sangre
alimenta
las pútridas
plantaciones o minas subterráneas,
los dólares resbalan
y
nuestras locas muchachas
se descaderan aprendiendo el baile
de los orangutanes.
Américas purísimas,
sagrados territorios,
qué tristeza!
Muere un Machado y un Bautista nace.
Permanece un Trujillo.
Tanto espacio
de libertad silvestre,
Américas,
tanta
pureza, agua
de océano,
pampas de soledad, vertiginosa
geografía
para que se propaguen los minúsculos
negociantes de sangre.
Qué pasa?
Cómo puede
continuar el silencio
entrecortado
por sanguinarios loros
encaramados en las enramadas
de la codicia panamericana?
Américas heridas
por la más ancha espuma,
por los felices mares
olorosos
a la pimienta de los archipiélagos,
Américas
oscuras,
inclinada
hacia nosotros surge
la estrella de los pueblos,
nacen héroes, se cubren
de victoria
otros caminos,
existen otra vez
viejas naciones,
en la luz más radiante
se traspasa el otoño,
el viento se estremece
con las nuevas banderas.
Que tu voz y tus hechos,
América,
se desprendan
de tu cintura verde,
termine
tu amor encarcelado,
restaures el decoro
que te dio nacimiento
y eleves tus espigas sosteniendo
con otros pueblos
la irresistible aurora.
Van Morrison and Bob Dylan (Athens, Greece, 1989)
"On a summer day in 1989, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan met up in Greece and brought their acoustic guitars to the place in Athens where the ancients believed the muses lived. Philopappos Hill, traditionally known as the Hill of the Muses, rises high above the Athens Basin and has a commanding view of the Acropolis. It was June 29. Dylan had just wrapped up a European tour the night before at Panathinaiko Stadium, and Morrison was traveling with a BBC crew for an Arena documentary that would be broadcast in 1991 as One Irish Rover: Van Morrison in Performances. The two legendary singer-songwriters played 4 of Morrison’s songs: “Foreign Window” and “One Irish Rover,” above, and “Crazy Love,” below. A fourth song, “And It Stoned Me,” was apparently cut from the film, but here it is, in all it`s glory even with a false start."
No hay derecho
Cuánta estafa puede haber...
No puedo creer cómo
(y este cómo se refiere a la forma)
cómo murió Maradona.
No puedo creer cómo
un ícono popular, murió estafado
maltratado, y sin cuidado.
Cuando fue alguien que dió tanto.
Qué injusto puede ser el estafador
hasta con alguien que ha dado todo.
Federico García Lorca Bibliografía (Granada, 5 de junio de 1898 - Granada, 18 de agosto de 1936)
Libros de poesía
Libro de poemas (1921)
Canciones (1927)
Odas (1926-1928)
Romancero gitano (1928)
Poeta en Nueva York (1930)
Poema del cante jondo (1931)
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías (1935)
Seis poemas galegos (1935)
Sonetos del amor oscuro (1936)
Diván del Tamarit (1940)
Obras teatrales
El maleficio de la mariposa (1920)
Mariana Pineda (1927)
La zapatera prodigiosa (1930)
Retablillo de Don Cristóbal (1930)
El público (1930)
Así que pasen cinco años (1931)
Amor de don Perlimplín con Belisa en su jardín (1933)
Bodas de sangre (1933)
Yerma (1934)
Doña Rosita la soltera o el lenguaje de las flores (1935)
La casa de Bernarda Alba (1936)
Comedia sin título (inacabada) (1936)[
Prosa
Mariana Pineda (1927)
La zapatera prodigiosa (1930)
Retablillo de Don Cristóbal (1930)
El público (1930)
Así que pasen cinco años (1931)
Amor de don Perlimplín con Belisa en su jardín (1933)
Bodas de sangre (1933)
Yerma (1934)
Doña Rosita la soltera o el lenguaje de las flores (1935)
La casa de Bernarda Alba (1936)
Comedia sin título (inacabada) (1936)[
Prosa
Truth is like the sun
La verdad es como el Sol. La podés ocultar por un tiempo, pero no se va a ir.
Deseo - Federico García Lorca (Libro de Poemas, 1921)
Sólo tu corazón caliente,
y nada más.
Mi paraíso un campo
sin ruiseñor
ni liras,
con un río discreto
y una fuentecilla.
Sin la espuela del viento
sobre la fronda,
ni la estrella que quiere
ser hoja.
Una enorme luz
que fuera
luciérnaga
de otra,
en un campo
de miradas rotas.
Un reposo claro
y allí nuestros besos,
lunares sonoros
del eco,
se abrirían muy lejos.
Y tu corazón caliente,
nada más.
Arder de deseo
Arder de deseo y callarlo es el peor castigo que nos podemos autoinflingir.
Federico García Lorca
De La Banda a Santiago - Leo Dan · Los Manseros Santiagueños (1980)
Santiagueño soy, señores, cantando la chacarera
Cruzando el Río Dulce, siempre alguien me espera
Tomando un traguito y vino, golpeando dos cajas viejas
Vidaleros se preparan cantando en la ceja
Repícale fuerte al bombo, que el violín está llorando
Salamanca de Loreto siempre ando añorando
A la banda voy llegando, siempre me acuerdo del pago
Aunque lejos yo me encuentre, le canto a Santiago
Nochecitas santiagueñas, nunca las puedo olvidar
Hasta que aclare el día, sabíamos cantar
Se viste de fiesta el pago cuando suena una guitarra
Ay, juñita, qué lindo eran aquellas lindas farras
Ya me voy, estoy de vuelta, cantando la chacarera
Debajo de un talavero aunque después me muera
A la banda voy llegando, siempre me acuerdo del pago
Aunque lejos yo me encuentre, le canto a Santiago
Nick Cave on Love / The Red Hand Files ISSUE #374 (AUGUST 2026)
How do I make my partner not the centre of my world? I love him so much now I depend on his presence because everything is just better by his side.
AGUSTINA, BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
Dear Agustina,
I have chosen this question not because I have something particularly helpful to say, but because it marks a milestone - the 150,000th letter to The Red Hand Files, all of which, dear people, I have read. I take some pride in being able to say this, and I am grateful for your continued involvement. It is a strange, lovely thing we are doing together, wringing out our hearts.
I am not the one to advise on how to keep love at a sensible distance, Agustina. Against the advice of an army of therapists, analysts, 12-step sponsors, life-coaches, hypnotists and TED Talkers, my wife and I remain committed to full-on emotional enmeshment, a massive dose of co-dependency, some good old maladaptive caretaking, and a fair amount of enslavement. I am a happy planet helplessly orbiting my wife, the sun; I am her vassal, her monkey on a chain, in her thrall, drunk on her, lost to her. I suspect if you asked her, she’d say she’s the planet, and I’m the sun, but that would be her being modest. Whatever the case, we are better together and a mess apart, fully entangled, all in, happily doomed. By the way, there was an eclipse last night, marking, amongst other things, twenty-seven years of our marriage. How thoughtful of the cosmos to have remembered.
I loved your letter, Agustina, the 150,000th, and I think your partner is fortunate to have someone who seems willing to submit to love’s snares and entanglements. To me, the measure of a relationship is not in the distance maintained between the two of you, but whether you want the best for your partner, and your partner wants the best for you. If you have that and can maintain it, you are pretty much there and can let love have its way.
Love, Nick
AGUSTINA, BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA
Dear Agustina,
I have chosen this question not because I have something particularly helpful to say, but because it marks a milestone - the 150,000th letter to The Red Hand Files, all of which, dear people, I have read. I take some pride in being able to say this, and I am grateful for your continued involvement. It is a strange, lovely thing we are doing together, wringing out our hearts.
I am not the one to advise on how to keep love at a sensible distance, Agustina. Against the advice of an army of therapists, analysts, 12-step sponsors, life-coaches, hypnotists and TED Talkers, my wife and I remain committed to full-on emotional enmeshment, a massive dose of co-dependency, some good old maladaptive caretaking, and a fair amount of enslavement. I am a happy planet helplessly orbiting my wife, the sun; I am her vassal, her monkey on a chain, in her thrall, drunk on her, lost to her. I suspect if you asked her, she’d say she’s the planet, and I’m the sun, but that would be her being modest. Whatever the case, we are better together and a mess apart, fully entangled, all in, happily doomed. By the way, there was an eclipse last night, marking, amongst other things, twenty-seven years of our marriage. How thoughtful of the cosmos to have remembered.
I loved your letter, Agustina, the 150,000th, and I think your partner is fortunate to have someone who seems willing to submit to love’s snares and entanglements. To me, the measure of a relationship is not in the distance maintained between the two of you, but whether you want the best for your partner, and your partner wants the best for you. If you have that and can maintain it, you are pretty much there and can let love have its way.
Love, Nick
Glitch, rareza, síntoma
Lo freak, lo extraño, lo raro
lo que hace único a cada ser.
Lo excéntrico de cada uno
es lo que más hay que rescatar,
resaltar. Porque es
tuyo nomás. No te lo pueden quitar.
No lo pueden imitar.
Es propio.
Escuchar eso que querés
que deseás fuertemente
como un fuego, solo tuyo
y quizás por miedo no lo hacés...
No conviene encajar, porque eso
sería todo lo contrario a
ser vos misma/o.
Soltáte el pelo, liberá las tensiones
y vas a darte cuenta
quién (se) reprime
y quién no.
No Second Troy - W. B. Yeats
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
At the River Clarion - Mary Oliver
1.
I don’t know who God is exactly.
But I’ll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying.
Said the river I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.
I’d been to the river before, a few times.
Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don’t hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through all the traffic, the ambition.
2.
If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck.
He’s also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.
Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God) would sing to you if it could sing,
if you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn’t sing?
If God exists he isn’t just churches and mathematics.
He’s the forest, He’s the desert.
He’s the ice caps, that are dying.
He’s the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.
He’s van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert Motherwell.
He’s the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing their weapons.
He’s every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician, the poet.
And if this is true, isn’t it something very important?
Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and each of you too, or at least
of his intention and his hope.
Which is a delight beyond measure.
I don’t know how you get to suspect such an idea.
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.
If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck.
He’s also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.
Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God) would sing to you if it could sing,
if you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn’t sing?
If God exists he isn’t just churches and mathematics.
He’s the forest, He’s the desert.
He’s the ice caps, that are dying.
He’s the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.
He’s van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert Motherwell.
He’s the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing their weapons.
He’s every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician, the poet.
And if this is true, isn’t it something very important?
Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and each of you too, or at least
of his intention and his hope.
Which is a delight beyond measure.
I don’t know how you get to suspect such an idea.
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.
3.
Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.
4.
There was someone I loved who grew old and ill
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do
except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do
except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.
5.
My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest, she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows from wherever it comes from
to where it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn’t much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.
My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest, she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows from wherever it comes from
to where it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn’t much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.
6.
Along its shores were, may I say, very intense cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them, for heaven’s sakes–
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.
Along its shores were, may I say, very intense cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them, for heaven’s sakes–
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.
7.
And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.
“At the River Clarion” by Mary Oliver, from Evidence: Poems, Beacon Press.
And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.
“At the River Clarion” by Mary Oliver, from Evidence: Poems, Beacon Press.
Andar con fé (a mi padre)
(los que a mí más me gusta leer
y escuchar al menos)
son cristianos y lo dicen.
son cristianos y lo dicen.
Que son canales de la palabra
de Dios.
Creo en la Humanidad porque tengo
Creo en la Humanidad porque tengo
fe en Dios, poder superior,
justicia poética, amor.
Agradecida!
The Human Seasons - John Keats
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