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Euskal Idazleen Elkartea

Juan Ramon Makuso Mujika > Extracts

Poetry

2004/2006 | Ediciones Beta/Elea


BIZITZEAK HIL EGITEN DU (Living kills)
Ediciones Beta, 2004

Internal Torments.

Water
escapes through the hands.
And living kills.

Having come into the world.
Hands

cannot reach.
And living kills.

Doubts, doubts.
The cleared up ones

are not for me.
And living kills.

Torment

The honeycomb of my bones.
The earth is not damp.
The field's dampness
calms
the burnt honey of my heart.
See and suffer.
Unable to settle in one's stomach,
the food splashes around.
In you, with you, together and without being
with anyone, I want the chance to be happy.
Having been, you wouldn't be
my partner
nor my conversation partner.
Relative, travelling companion,
the wind cuts you to shreds
whenever you draw close to me,
for you are not yet ours.
Meanwhile, aware of the night's servitude,
arms offer me their warmth
and push you away.
Until when? There is no room for you,
while the two of us join and hold each other.


Until we find each other

Approaching
from a distance
steps proceed slowly.

Glances extending
like pillars
opposite one another.

Building long conversations,
mutually understood,
messages go deep.

Lost until now?

Adrift

Presumed ways
are made by water.
The leaf crosses
the wind's paths.
The heats of love
are melted by fire.
The journeys of man
are covered by earth.


IN PRAISE OF THE CITY (Elea, 2006)

Time chisels the stone.
I don't want a stone aorta,
nor a heart of stone
that would not move water or emotions.
You heart of sponge.
You swallow up
my anger, screams and iron caresses.
Your heart is my conjoined twin.
In the technopolis they can't guess right
and they have no key
to make out the words between us.
- - - - - - - - - -

The city you love
will take you
right to the roots, right to death.
The shortcut,
eternal punishment!

The city you love
the thread, the whiteness, the thinness
of the thread will make you
weary.
Your hometown, not the city,
will not give you
the warmth of autumn
leaves.

What are not cities, the city, for me,
has to be
the intestines of my path,
streets, beggars.
- - - - - - - - - -
Until the present is concealed from the past
while my dear Errenteria belonged to no one.
The city grew up among smoke stacks
until the present is concealed from the past.
Little Manchester was big
in the child's eyes.
The greatness gradually subsided
in the rain's rusty net.
I do not want streets built in blood,
because they are no more than splinters of hate.
Darkness without light spreads
in the narrow, peopleless streets.
While my Errenteria belonged to no one
it was turned upside down in the frozen spirits
of the city dwellers gathered in the town square.
The city is about to be born in landless areas
until the present is concealed from the past.
- - - - - - - - - -
Black flows the sunny day in the bird's beak.
The snail's nomadic house
cannot accommodate another flatmate.
The city has no homes in the station where plains appear.
Cries lamentations hands fears
are plaits in hands devoid of fingers.
They will exist in the forests that do not exist
in trees devoid of leaves.
I have no smile
on my face devoid of lips.
They say death has no windows
when its doors are wide open.

It goes without saying
when we say unaligned words before the mirror.
We know not where to go when we know
you are there alone
gazing at us along the way.
Say `yes' in that look that is saying `no'.
You have left me in doubt in that farewell kiss.
My solitary tear goes down
the avenue of your back.
- - - - - - - - - -
I want without wanting.
I want to say without saying.
I want to be with you without staying.
I've thought without thought
and I find myself in nothingness
being a man, a manā
the echo crashing
retains the character of this city dweller.
And there comes the loss,
on the day's journey, at duskā
facilitating the human being's end,
levelling the dust of the ego.
And dust is continually blown up
by the strength of affliction.
Then the rockings of to-ing and fro-ing arrive,
as does the splashing of the boats in the harbour.
And we go from street to street, from city to city
to that little wide world,
thinking without thinking
saying without saying
I am without being.
- - - - - - - - - -
The red roof appeared in the sky
along my route.
At the end a sturdy building embraced
the little boy's wonder.

The stairs on the threshold of the map of the sky
pointed to the previous route,
suggesting solemn organ music.

The stairs on the threshold led me to the dreams of smoke
splashing the little boy's wonder
with the paints of reality.

The streets concealed themselves in the fog
along with the music and people
greeting the couple's love.

The stairs on the threshold, the little boy's wonder.
- - - - - - - - - -
The sojourn of the cold is reflected in solitary spirits
under the layer of snow.
Death has found accommodation in the youngster's wonder
in the sterile belief in eternity.
The history of the living has been beyond belief
in the dry kiss at the station, in
the farewell without embrace.
By shaking the dreams the bird's wing
has quenched the lily's thirst

In the city devoid of doubt, no human beings!
- - - - - - - - - -
Power lights the city's streets.
The power acts out the night visit
-death's caresses- to the stalls.
The theatre stalls are empty
like the little girl's longing
after observing the circus's deception.
The elephant has no trunk
and being city street corners without corners
the sterile imaginings of humans
hang from the scarecrows' arms
playing out the weeping of madness.
I have the oil lamp of hope in the fields
in the sunset without point of orientation.
It is night and the little girl
weeps lonely tears in the lap of the circus.
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