hay tanta gente sola
seria perdida mustia
que sueña que sucumbe
gente que se detiene
en los semáforos
y hojea —es un decir—
revistas de países
a los que nunca irá
ánimas solitarias cuerpos solos
con tedio se masturban y a menudo
piensan en el pasado
lejos de ser felices se conforman
con la mención de la felicidad
están al día de todas las noticias
de todas las canciones
los libros las películas
son buenos anfitriones y organizan
cenas con compañeros de trabajo
en pisos de alquiler
recogen entre todos
la mesa
después vuelven a casa
y así viven
 todos creen merecer algo mejor

JAVIER VELA, Fábula, Vandalia, Sevilla, 2017






Se detuvo el reloj en la tarde,

confirmó el presagio y se heló el aliento.

Destino quebrado de marzo.


Back to #Yeats


Picture and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.

My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bone,
Can make the truth known.

Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;

A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind.



 Esos besos bohemios,

caramelos con sabor de atardecer

que se amargan en la madrugada

y reclaman el olvido de la resaca.

Esos besos desordenados,

como acuarelas.






 "Long walks at night
that's what good for the soul..."


And the Moon, and the Stars, and the World

Charles Bukowsky


So True


«Nada tan dulce como contemplar lo que nos colma.»

Christian Bobin, La grande vie


#8M #IWD2017



"Women´s liberation is the liberation of the feminine in the man and the masculine in the woman."

Corita Kent



Luna llena en Marzo

Año 01 


Under the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
i{Hysterica passio} dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy -- but I name no more --
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.

Un año después de la llegada de "Luna Llena en Marzo" a la Blogesfera dejo en la nube algunos de los últimos versos de W.B.Yeats.



Spring is coming

 "Oh March, Come right upstairs with me
I have so much to tell
I got your Letter, and the Birds    
The Maples never knew that you were coming
I declare - how Red their Faces grew            
But March, forgive me    
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue    
There was no Purple suitable    
You took it all with you "


 Emily Dickinson