Copihue Poetry

nobody wants them there
but they are there and
endure
some will look at them tenderly
others with
hate

but they are there
and endure
they cut them
they endure
the weeds

they appear again

and disappear
and appear
though nobody wants it

they are there
they endure
there

​

*

​

far, in a messy backdrop, the characters appear
messy but
beautiful there
as if they did it well
with rebellious movements
annoyed and tense
muscles and skin

fragile and brown
but inside the gaze’s organized chaos
friends,
no longer a multitude nor a power that appears

they can be seen dressed and undressed
under a special light
giving them superiority
vulgarity
from a spitter
on their tenderness
secretive
themselves
segregated
   they hit
they hit
my door and they enter
and the visitors enter

and we have to welcome them
with tea.

​

*

​

there is something not letting me tell you
what I should tell you

I have continuously crushed

(in successive intervals
without the small abyss
of a meditation filled/ of a room filled)

my rascals who
appear and appear
and call and call
with the authority of those stuck
to the ground, to the sea, to the mountains
but with their backs turned
turned and climbing air as fiction

how much dirt fits in this infinite hole?

their voice performance was perfect
while they laid anguished
they sang with a unique tone
not because it was phenomenal
but because it lacked variation

maybe what is phenomenal is what lacks variation

they were so beautiful
they formed on the ground
a fabric of strident moles
voice was perfect and I almost made a mistake and revealed them my secrets
action that would have led me to work for free
for those rascals
them
who exchange their heart on command
or for a small beating box

we are afraid
we are afraid

afraid they will suck me, harm, relegate, acquire, take away, love me, circulate nonstop to confuse the cells of the air or a sheet of gold gets in the way of the light and the only remains are the shadows of our movements

I like to see those fractions of pain when work is done
or when the pain of work is a delightful faction

or an inoperative form
of a way of being

​

*

​

I saw
at Gabriela Mistral’s house
horrible visitors
they were looking at their reflections
on the vitrines and
suddenly realized
that near but
far away from them, there
they were, poems, letters and
all the papers that belonged
to the lady who
when she wants to
gets serious
really serious
and she reminds me of an
aunt or
reminds me of

no one, perhaps
I would like her to
remind me of a
great-aunt
it would be a bit poetic
that among those papers
a relative would appear
and that while
the visitors
look at each other
like they were
themselves
hidden and transparent
someone close to them would appear
a relative, someone
to talk to and feel
their dancing steps in
the room, in the house
itself, empty and
inhabited and in those
steps, in their breath
suddenly turn into only one
wind and whirlwind
there it is inscribed
the history
of pedagogy itself
with a face
as hard and at the same time
as close
as to a yoga
or an esotericism
apprentice

while we lose our concentration
looking at ourselves
at that crossing
on that
game
our faces appear
which compose
the light of a
dark room
strong, a
dance like
the stars that
surround Mama

Lluca
a type of identity
hidden paper trails
from ourselves

I was told
Gabriela Mistral
wrote sitting on a
chair with a board
on her lap
they say it
like that strange
news that cannot be
proven and
deserve to be true
it was the board
she took
afloat once
the country flooded and
she was not welcomed
into Noah’s ark
they say and will say
that us
rascals
can scream
but the Elqui
river it’s louder
stronger
sometimes
when
the raucous
starts to die down

​