Mi patria es todo el mundo.

Poema

Vientos del pueblo / Wind of the people

Vientos del pueblo me llevan, vientos del pueblo me arrastran,
me esparcen el corazón y me aventan la garganta.
Los bueyes doblan la frente, impotentemente mansa,
delante de los castigos: los leones la levantan
y al mismo tiempo castigan con su clamorosa zarpa.


No soy de un pueblo de bueyes,
que soy de un pueblo que embargan
yacimientos de leones, desfiladeros de águilas
y cordilleras de toros con el orgullo en el asta.
Nunca medraron los bueyes en los páramos de España.
¿Quién habló de echar un yugo sobre el cuello de esta raza?
¿Quién ha puesto al huracán jamás ni yugos ni trabas,
ni quién al rayo detuvo prisionero en una jaula?


Asturianos de braveza, vascos de piedra blindada,
valencianos de alegría y castellanos de alma,
labrados como la tierra y airosos como las alas;
andaluces de relámpagos, nacidos entre guitarras
y forjados en los yunques torrenciales de las lágrimas;


extremeños de centeno, gallegos de lluvia y calma,
catalanes de firmeza, aragoneses de casta,
murcianos de dinamita frutalmente propagada,
leoneses, navarros, dueños del hambre, el sudor y el hacha,
reyes de la minería, señores de la labranza,


hombres que entre las raíces, como raíces gallardas,
vais de la vida a la muerte, vais de la nada a la nada:
yugos os quieren poner gentes de la hierba mala,
yugos que habéis de dejar rotos sobre sus espaldas.
Crepúsculo de los bueyes está despuntando el alba.


Los bueyes mueren vestidos de humildad y olor de cuadra;
las águilas, los leones y los toros de arrogancia,
y detrás de ellos, el cielo ni se enturbia ni se acaba.
La agonía de los bueyes tiene pequeña la cara,
la del animal varón toda la creación agranda.


Si me muero, que me muera con la cabeza muy alta.
Muerto y veinte veces muerto, la boca contra la grama,
tendré apretados los dientes y decidida la barba.


Cantando espero a la muerte, que hay ruiseñores que cantan
encima de los fusiles y en medio de las batallas.

descripción

Wind of the people


Winds of the people carry me along,
winds of the people pull me along,
they sprinkle my heart about
and bring air to my throat.

Oxen bow down their brows,
impotent and meek,
when punished:
lions raise theirs
and at the same time they inflict punishment
with their clamorous claws.

I am not from a people of oxen,
I am from a people who embody
ancient settlements of lions,
high passes of eagles
and mountain ranges of bulls
bearing pride as their flag.

Oxen never prospered
on the barren plains of Spain.
Who said they would throw a yoke
round the neck of this race?

Who has ever yoked or hobbled
a hurricane,
or who has held lightning
prisoner in a cage?

Asturians of bravery,
Basques of reinforced stone,
Valencians of joy
and Castilians of soul,
worked like the earth
and with the grace of wings;

Andalusians of lightning
born amongst guitars
and forged on the
torrential anvils of tears;

Extremadurans of rye,
Galicians of rain and calm,
Catalans of firmness,
Aragonese of age-old caste,

Murcians of dynamite
planted like fruit trees,
Leonese, Navarrans, masters
of hunger, sweat and the axe,
kings of the mines,
lords of labour,

men who, amongst the roots,
like valiant roots yourselves,
go from life to death,
from nothing to nothing:

there are people who, like weeds,
want to put a yoke on you,
a yoke which you must leave
broken across their backs.
Twilight of the oxen
dawn is breaking.

Oxen die clothed
in humility and the smell of the stable:
eagles, lions
and bulls die clothed in pride,
and behind them, the sky
neither clouds over nor comes to an end.

The death-agony of oxen
has a small face,
that of the male animal
enlarges all of creation.

If I die, may I die
with my head held high.
Dead and twenty times dead,
my mouth against the wild grass,
I will have my teeth clenched
and my jaw resolute.

Singing I await death,
for there are nightingales that sing
above the guns
and in the midst of battles.

Ataque a la libertad

En la mañana de este jueves, Google eliminó todas las cuentas de la cadena de noticias internacional HispanTV,
tanto en Youtube como en Google Plus. Mediante un correo, la compañía estadounidense especializada en productos y servicios relacionados con Internet, califica de no permitido el envío de spam, incluido el envío de contenido
publicitario o comercial no deseado, ni de solicitudes en masa no deseadas. Hace tres meses, Youtube había bloqueado la transmisión en vivo de HispanTV.

No es la primera vez que esta cadena es víctima de censura. En 2012,
el proveedor español de satélite Hispasat dejó de dar servicios a HispanTV y PressTV.

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Carrickfergus

Carrickfergus
“Carrickfergus” is an Irish folk song, named after the town of Carrickfergus in County Antrim, Northern Ireland.
The origins of the song are unclear, but it has been traced to an Irish-language song, “Do bhí bean uasal” (“There Was a Noblewoman”), which is attributed to the poet Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna, who died in 1745 in County Clare.
The song appears on a ballad sheet in Cork City in the mid nineteenth century in macaronic form. The Irish lyrics were about a man being cuckolded, a bawdy and humorous ditty. By contrast, the English lyrics are nostalgic.
With the Industrial Revolution, a linen-trade developed between County Antrim (where Carrickfergus is situated), and County Cork. It is possible the English lyrics came from snatches picked up in interactions between the Cork men and the Antrim men.
Robert Gogan suggests Carrickfergus may have evolved from at least two separate songs, which would explain why it does not have a consistent narrative. For example, the Ancient Music of Ireland, published by George Petrie in 1855, contained a song called “The Young Lady” which featured many but not all of the lyrics used in Carrickfergus. Gogan also refers to a recording of a song called “Sweet Maggie Gordon” which is kept in the Music for the Nation section of the US Library of Congress. It was published by Mrs Pauline Lieder in New York in 1880. It contains verses which are similar to Carrickfergus, but the chorus is closer to another Irish/Scottish folk song called “Peggy Gordon”.
In modern times, “Carrickfergus” became known after actor Peter O’Toole related it to Dominic Behan, who put it in print and made a recording in the mid-1960s. The middle verse was allegedly written by Behan.
 
The song has been recorded by many well known performers including Ryan Kelly, Celtic Thunder, Paddy Reilly, Declan Affley, Joan Baez, Bryan Ferry, Dominic Behan, Charlotte Church, The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, Brian Dunphy, De Dannan, Subway to Sally, Joe Dassin (as Mon village du bout du monde), The Dubliners, Garnet Rogers, Brian Kennedy, Declan Galbraith, Irish Stew of Sindidun, Lisa Kelly, Cedric Smith, with Loreena McKennitt on harp (as Carrighfergus), Órla Fallon, Van Morrison, Bryn Terfel, the Chieftains, Ronan Keating, Katherine Jenkins, Allison Moorer and Dexys. It was also adapted in Scooter’s song “Where the Beats…”. The song is a popular request at folk festivals and concerts, and was played at the 1999 funeral of John F. Kennedy, Jr. The song was more recently performed by Loudon Wainwright III over the closing credits of HBO’s series Boardwalk Empire. Furthermore, the Russian singer-songwriter Aleksandr Karpov (a.k.a. “Aleksandr O’Karpov”) translated the lyrics into Russian, recording a Russian version of “Carrickfergus”, also titled “За синим морем, за океаном” (Za sinim morem, za okeanom – “Beyond the blue sea, beyond the ocean”).
Closely related is the song “The Water is Wide”, which has a similar tune and very similar lyrics in some lines. Recordings have been made by many people including Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, The Seekers and two former members of The Byrds, Roger Mcguinn and Chris Hillman, who both did solo versions.

I wish I was in Carrighfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrant
I would swim over the deepest ocean
Only for nights in Ballygrant
But the sea is wide and I can’t get over
And neither have I wings to fly
If I could find me a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over to my love and die
Now in Kilkenny, it is reported
They’ve marble stones there as black as ink
With gold and silver I would transport her
But I’ll sing no more now ‘til I get a drink
I’m drunk today but then I’m seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town
Oh but I am sick now, my days are over
Come all you young lads and lay me down
I wish I was in Carrighfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrant
 
 

The battle of Carrickfergus

I experienced an odd co-incidence over the last couple of days. I’m currently writing the climax of a novel that will be the sequel to Lions of the Grail (tentatively titled “The Wasted Land”) and found myself writing about a largely forgotten battle that took place in medieval Carrickfergus.

I’ve wanted to write about it for years because it sounds so brilliant- There was an amphibious assault, desperate fighting in the streets and a besieged castle where the defenders had turned to cannibalism. It all happened on Good Friday and Easter Saturday in 1316.

When I checked the date of Easter in 1316 I found it was on April 11, and I was writing a fictional account of events that had happened 698 years ago to the day.

Perhaps those old ghosts were calling to me over the centuries?

Anyway, for those who haven’t heard about it, this is what happened.

In 1315, a year after defeating the English at Bannockburn, Edward Bruce (brother of Robert) invaded Ireland, starting a now largely forgotten side war to the Scottish Wars of Independence.

A year later, in 1316, his war had ground to a stalemate, exacerbated by the onset of the terrible European famine that would kill millions over the coming years. Carrickfergus Castle in Ulster still refused to surrender, something which must have particularly annoyed Edward Bruce who was now using Carrickfergus town as his new capitol (he had had himself crowned “King of Ireland” by this time).

The besieged garrison in the castle were becoming desperate. Rather than see it fall, Sir Thomas de Mandeville-the exiled Seneshal of Ulster- launched a daring attempt to break the siege by sea, taking five ships packed with soldiers and supplies north from Dundalk. The Scottish poet and biographer of Robert Bruce, John Barbour, lists some of the chiefs of the Irish army:

“Brynrane, Wedounne, Fitzwarryne,
And Schyr Paschall of Florentine,
That was a knycht of Lumbardy,
And was full of chewalry.
The Mawndweillis war thar alsua,
Besatis, Loganys, and other ma;
Savages als, and yeit was ane

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Amanecer

Amor, retorna tus ojos hacia nuestra primavera
Que tus labios sean canto de alondra herida, comienza
a alzar otra vez el vuelo despejando las tinieblas.

La última lágrima ya no es sino lluvia del pasado,
olvido, sombra, pecado de un amor que fue extinguido.
Don de Dios tu nombre es y tu vida su regalo.

¡Mira!, la aurora renace de la neblina del tiempo,
sale el sol entre los cauces ajados del pensamiento,
¡Ven a pintar la mañana!, con pinceles de recuerdos.

Crea amaneceres nuevos la brisa que lleva el fuego
del calor del nuevo día a los lienzos de tus cielos
salpicando entre tus campos dorados trozos de sueños.

Despierta el bosque dormido y callan nanas de luna
muere la noche en tus brazos de luz de hierba encendida
mientras nacen los colores que dan la vida a tu vida.

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Otoño

Es otoño,
los pájaros se irán
a lejanos confines
allende el mar.
mueren antes los días,
y no vendrás.
Es otoño
caen las hojas
de nuestro calendario
cuál alfombra amarilla
cubriendo como velo
aquellos días,
mas, no estás.

 

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Encuentro fugaz

descripción

Ayer te vi
Eras luna o estrella,
solo se que vi tu luz cual bella
en enjambrado halo de misterio.

Fulgente trozo de mi sueño,
eras tu,
o el flagante tono de otro tiempo
donde cálidas ondas
dibujaban signos de amor y recuerdos.

Volví la cara hacia el infinito
rindiendo mis pasados pensamientos
vida y sentimiento, sabrás tu
que me miraste y tembló tu cuerpo.

Que mejor para un mortal que la sonrisa, la voz y el ser de la mujer…
Ayer volví a creer en dios cuando nos miramos a los ojos.

Nothing better for man as the loved voice, smile and being of a woman…
yesterday I belived in god again when I saw your eyes.

 

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Como diría el poeta
vótame si no me ignoras
que la ignorancia es la madre
de todas las desventuras

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Pacto de amor

Conjuro a Ana, triste Plutón,

mujer que el huracán en su cabello

reduce a una caricia y a un destello

y al sol cuando lo mira hace varón;

al canto del cisne de la creación,

la de todo lo hermoso, lo más bello.

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Yo, por este contrato infernal

sello darte mi vida y toda mi pasión;

y así, sabiendo que no la merezco,

juro en un soneto y prendo en una flor que

eternidad, sangre y alma desprecio

y que yo a ti para siempre me ofrezco,

que todo mi ser consagro por su amor,

si es que para un ángel, el alma es precio. “

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Anoche encontré estos versos ardiendo
dentro de mi alma; y quemándome la vida,
abrasándome las manos, los puse en palabras.
Han dejado dentro de mí llagas tan profundas
como tus ojos, cada una con la forma de tu boca.
Ahora es un soneto infernal de amor.

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Sé que le faltan muchas cosas: decir, por ejemplo,
que tus manos son diez cuchillos de plata perfecta
que clavan la mirada a cuanto tocan,
que el brillo de tus ojos mirando al cielo,
tiene ese imposible color del arco iris
que tal vez sea el de tu propia alma.

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Sé que le faltan muchas cosas;
pero yo los encontré así, y así eran sus llamas.

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Te parecerá una osadía desproporcionada
ofrecértelos junto con una flor.
Seguramente sea una locura para ti porque los ángeles
ignoráis los fuegos del Averno.
Quizá si alguna vez hubieses estado enamorado,
lo comprendieras.

superduque

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Para Ana

Mi vida, cuanto te quiero,
el tiempo nada borró
mas mis ojos no te alcanzan,
y en mi locura diaria
buscaría por las las calles
tu posible semejanza.

Triste despojo del tiempo
que separó nuestras almas
cuando ahora solo espero
en la tímida esperanza
volver a sentirme amor
en los brazos de tus ansias

Después pensé, Miré al suelo
entre lamentos y lágrimas,
rogué a el cielo tu perdón
y entre las luces del alba
volver a verte, mi amor,
y oculto lloré de rabia.

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