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Monday, April 22, 2013

Sola, sin tu sombra (fragmento). Elia Casillas

 
 
Sola, sin tu sombra
 Elia Casillas
 
 
 
 
 
 
Y la torre azul crece      

Frida      

mira el dolor que se doblegó sin ella         

Con acuarela en el cabello

pinta un cielo lóbrego en cada herida          

amarrada al caballete de su maldición         

cultiva un centenario triste en los ojos              

Diego        

y flechas          

repartidos en el lecho
 
atizan el calvario     

   
 Frida        

más viva que nunca        

En armazón de muerte               

amamos tus costillas       

porque somos barro encendido que vuela         

vuela                 y                

 Vuela mal querido           

como tú             

para no perderse en turbina cotidiana         

para curar la fe que amenizan tus manos       

      quedas en retina del tiempo

                                                                                            buscándote tu misma 
 
    
Guardas males en la botella          
amores en  lienzo de piedra                 
enardecen tus deseos            
pariendo Fridos al tiempo          
Huella que se adelanta      
desde la sangre que pusiste en bocetos        
suscritos en entrañas del desconsuelo
que ya te cargaba entre ojos    
 
o entre varillas         
      
Vulnerable sombra retinta

predice tu naufragio en la falda                

y pisa desde otro extremo

alegría de los tobillos         

Prófuga en jardín de espinas       

amarras alfileres en la piel craquelada

y descubres el arco iris de metal
 
                                                                                                                              que te acosa    

  
Esternón de plástico     

y boceto lastimado          

donde patinas cementerios        

el perdón de la matriz vacía      

tu otra parca    

frío que llegó con iceberg hosco

y sin mentira

desgasta los talones

 poco

                                                           

 a

                                                                        

 p

                                                                          

 o

                                                                               

 c

                                                                                   

 o       

 

atropellando a la madre

que zarpó sin hijos        
 
 
    

Ciudad del siglo         

el tiempo no desentierra perfume de la osamenta

que abandona astillas en el patio huérfano       

con los pies a medias

para circular la gloria que dejaste con tu fuga         

tres pulmones al viento        

y tonada de cantina    
 
 
Marchas con ilusión carcomida
el bisturí va
y viene en las raíces calizas
mutilando  al nido blanco de ramas plateadas
a la cáscara de tu mampara eufórica
a tu amor de papel
que rotula sin tinta su partida
 Abres
mezclas desierto con hojas
cuando ovulas tu Frida
y aparecen otras Fridas

como tú
arponeadas
     
Sigues el  taconeo de muslos
el tul de tu montaña parda contempla el reinado
con lupa de jerarca
Invocaciones atraviesan las tinieblas
pero el espejo ya no puede repetirte 
ya no hay urgencia en la tela
tus dedos respiran éter violáceo
y tiñen el universo de luces
Un musgo dorado fortalece tus alas
descuartiza el tiempo
y revela el embrague de los días
que sólo escucha la galería  de los  planetas
 
 
Los cuervos celebran tus músculos clavados
saboreándose
pero tú estás ronca
desde el amor que te dejó aturdida
zapateas lutos en un jarabe largo
y el tequila se frota el sexo contigo
y quedas en el vaso que te bebe
sal      limón     agave
chupándote la vida
y a ti
Para no vivir con voluntad caída
barnizas tu asesino
con mano aguda que contempla
desde el silencio 
y pateas
y escupes la guadaña   
que cada tanto manda premisas
de epitafio
  De frente
copias siete vueltas seguidas
a la desgracia
que rebasó tus pesadillas
con cautela

Hay un dolor que te define y niega

moldeas el universo con tres ojos

y las manos se lo comen

En el vestido crece una noche

y dos estrellas

pero tú giras s o l a

                        s

                                        

                              o

                                           

          l                                                                                                      

          

              a                                            

                                                          

                                                                                                                                                                        

                                               S

                                                  

                                               O         

                                         

                                                L

                   

                                               A

                                                 sin tu sombra
                  

Para no vivir con voluntad caída
barnizas tu asesino
con mano aguda que contempla
desde el silencio 
y pateas
y escupes la guadaña   
que cada tanto manda premisas
de epitafio
  De frente
copias siete vueltas seguidas
a la desgracia
que rebasó tus pesadillas
con cautela
 
Siempre con urna de colores
tercer ojo donde descansas
y flotas con la catástrofe
junto a los pinceles
que te cercenaron antes de entrar
al mausoleo

 
Retozas en el anochecer de tu faldón
y en la pintura que secciona tus fantasmas
desdoblas el cadáver que vive en la brocha
humedeciendo el corazón del sudario  
con tu niña de cristal
                                           hecha pedazos
 
 
Y cantas
cantas con púa que afloró en el cuello
cantas en medio del abismo encarnado
con un grito melancólico que te absorbe
y vomita
              Cantas al sapo de la acuarela
 y al príncipe de overol     
cantas a los perros del blanco
 y a la vida intensa del gris
cantas al  violeta infiltrado
que te dejó un zapato amargo
sin pie
Y cantas
con manos enamoradas
aullándole al amor 
Magdalena concebida en el motín
la revuelta marcó hecatombes y jolgorios
regalos de la providencia
que se jugó tu pies en los pantanos
Soberana del tiempo y sus encajes
adornaste tu Frida con acero
mientras agitabas costumbres
con tu niña de colores
Encapsulada
y sin ti
barres el universo 
                                   con tu escenario de testigo
Con el sueño azul que selló pesadillas
armas una leyenda surrealista
crudeza mágica
 enganchada al segundero de la parca 
que se refresca en tu corpiño
Vas en medio de la fatalidad
y despiertas con un cadáver en cada ojo
escarbas
y en el cabello rueda una noche de lobos
en la sangre huyen los espantos 
y regresas del laberinto seco
con un dios despellejado
                                            en las entrañas
Frida
¿Cuántas veces te has asesinado?
 
Preguntas por tu cuerpo
y sólo recoges fragmentos de silencio
  dolencia de clavo
que no cesa de sufrir 
y es vaivén ondulando
su desgracia en canal del  infinito
Viajas
                y viajas con puñalada fija
               descalza
para no ensuciar tu alfombra
Te devuelves 
y sólo eres una huésped más
                                                   de polvo

 
                                                          

                                                            

  

Mario Mendoza Aizpuru: The child of Spike


Mario Mendoza Aizpuru: The child of Spike

  Elia Casillas


If anything was left over the river, were stones, just what he needed for his hits. He quickly hurried, the creek was waiting. A stick bat would often do it, in that wasteland there was no risk of the house crystals. The sound of water making bubbles on feet and hands, bird’s singing were coming from the air, along with murmurs of insects and plants surviving the cold, seducing them. He was in love with the place where nature made his great variety of greens, in contrast with the rich brown earth and stones of different grays. In the distance, a glow that could not be located caught his attention; approaching slowly he came, and...? A spike shoe! A baseball shoe with hooks facing the sun, a spike just lying there on the ground. He turned his head to all sides, wanted to be sure he was the only owner now. He found it, didn’t he? Or rather they’ve found each other, his own now, because sometimes life leaves the motive so close for each of us to take our chances, that opportunity was his, he well understood it. Reached out for it and before putting it on he looked around again, was afraid some kid would come up and snatch it from him. It fits right in, it was as if it was sent out from heaven, he looked up and thanked God. While his foot was entering the spike shoe, he heard screams and applauses, slowly raised up his face and ... He was in a Baseball Stadium! Out of nowhere a park full of fans appeared! He had never played in such freshly cut grass, white lines were well delineated in the field, and the pads were brand new, or so it seemed to him. Bewildered, he turned around and around again, his sight was not enough to record such an event like this, he was in shock for an instant, thought he was dreaming, his small hands rubbed his eyes several times, but no. No, no, this was real. In a breath of air, there were two teams, and soon he noticed he was wearing a brand new uniform of Chihuahua State, his homeland, the city where he was born, his coat and arms today. At last a virgin wooden bat, he couldn’t believe it, the only wood he’d seen before up close, was through the window of a shop downtown. He searched for the creek again, and it was no more, now a baseball field was there with him on the field, wearing a baseball uniform. But only had one spike to play and was his turn on the plate, among the audience he saw his parents and siblings, encouraging him. Its name in the voice of the announcer was another emotion that made him shiver:
-Next at bat, Mario Mendoza!
He settled into the hitting zone, apparently nobody noticed he was wearing only one spike shoe, but him. when the pitcher settle in, he strengthen his feet with his single spike hitting on the ground, the ball came glaring and whistling and he hit it hard. The ball went right between the shortstop and third base, crawling in the grass, bounced back off the wall. He got to first base, inspired by the run kept on going sliding feet first into second base. He owned it, the spike touched the pad but the umpire called him out. Removing the dust, he began to argue about the ruling. All he had fought for was useless, he was out of the game and that’s how it was stated in the book that day. On the sheet of his personal history, that morning had a great meaning for him, he belonged to a stadium, to a land and a grass bound to him as daily bread, as a favorite prayer, that place was his other skin, and in the end, he knew baseball was his purest love. He went to the dugout with his usual sailing walk, was ejected out and neither manager or couches got to calm him down to keep him on the game. On his way out he looked down at his spike and his other foot, dry, sad, so vulnerable as himself in the merciless midwinter cutting through flesh. But that morning he had a spike, at first sight, he was an immensely fortunate child. He always dreamed on having baseball shoes, he had a spike now, and this was enough for him, since he had only rocks, logs, agile hands and bare feet. However, when he arrived at the dugout no one could console him for the suspension, he removed the spike shoe, his only shoe, his dearest relic, and ... he was alone again in the river, sitting on the largest local stone, with the spike on his hand. He thought that all was just a dream, a fantasy he’d lived for a moment. A field can not appear and disappear just like that, with no time to save trophies and pictures. Where would the played game be? The arguing? The expulsion? The shouts and cheers of the supporting family? Where does the lived life go? - he wonders-. At that moment he was convinced that everything was blooming in a garden of illusions, a garden giving to him by a dream, a dream which would tie him eternally to discipline and hard work. He would not lose the feeling of playing time for the rest of his life. He placed the spike shoe between the jacket and his agitated heartbeats, fearful of meeting the owner of it, the jewel that the river had given him and no one was going to take away. When he got home, wrapped the spike shoe in newspaper paper and put it under his bed, still in doubts he went to his mother and asked her:


-Mom, have you gone out today?


- Oh Mario! Where do you want me to go with all the clothes I have to wash, yours, and your brothers. Go, take the boiled corn to grind it, your father is almost here and I have to do many tortillas for today and tomorrow's breakfast. After that, you go to the store and buy a candle bait, to heal the wounds of those hands.


-Yes Mom ...


-Son, I don’t know how much time you lose playing baseball, I don’t know what will become of your life, you keep on playing and playing and talking to yourself. Look at your feet and hands, all cut and cold. I hope someday baseball gives you to eat.


When he came back from the store a doubt was squeezing his stomach, he went to check the place where the spike shoe was hidden and was calm only when he had it again. He was afraid this could also be a mirage, one of many he had in the river, that rocky and lonely land where baseball was his only companion, right there, where he was the visiting team, and the local team, the rival and the friend, he and his best antagonist, his favorite ghost, perfect elf visions. At the time, felt the spike and pulled it out the dark, immediately put it on... Then again the voices and applauses, he covered his eyes leaving just a gap between his fingers to see what was happening. Amazed he moved his hands away. He was in a Baseball Stadium again! His body had grown now, and he was the team short stop for a major baseball team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. Today more than ever, the candle bait his mother used to cure his cold cuts have made the miracle, giving him finesse, as if a worm had prodigiously silked fabric with his hands. His hands, moving pigeons in the field with elegant movements and accuracy, making the hard look simple; a long communion between his hands and his baseball glove. The field straight out of a storybook, the shiny seats, the green grass looking its best, the pads so much like the first ones and so different too, these ones of a much better quality. The place was immense. When his name was mentioned by the local sound, astounded he heard it the ball park. This time his fans were Americans, people with a different language united to him by a sport, Baseball! Incredulous, he checked again his equipment ... wore a pair of spike shoes, clean and shiny, never would be barefoot again in a stadium. The spike shoes were as if they were sent out from heaven, he looked up and thanked God.


Navojoa, Sonora. October 23rd, 2005