Sempre o ecoar daquel primeiro encontro, na primavera, as cereixas, mentres ía no tren. E agora no outono, Jacqueline e Alfredo tiñan reservados para min dous grupos fantásticos cos que traballar a poesía.
E sempre a admiración polos docentes que sementan con gran sensibilidade o entusiasmo pola palabra.
Na mañá: Un grupo de rapaces e rapazas mozos, atentísimos, construindo novos conceptos de poesía e poético. Quedo á espera dos seus poemas. Despois do moito que traballamos a poesía e a tradución. É posíbel? Entre Octavio Paz e Robert Frost. Entre Ezra Pound e Nabokov.A que se enfronta un traductor?Convírtese o tradutor en poeta? Mergullarnos na vida e obra completa do autor fai que a tradución sexa mellor?
Entre o inglés e o galego apareceron os poemas da cronoloxía. O traballo coa palabra. A atención. O silencio que tanto agradecín.
E aquí algunhas das súas palabras:
Un cárcere de madeira
co chan acolchado
Un pranto lixeiro
trae un sabor doce a miña boca
Xoguete insustituible
compañeiro nas horas de sono
Unha amizade efémera, un cambio.
Unha promesa…
Baixo a escaleira decidido, chega a entrega…
O fin dunha etapa de sabores brandos e doces
gravados na memoria.
E abro o caixón…e alí está…
Intacto, quedo…
Compañeiro leal dun meniño xa medrado.
Beni Suárez
—
La caja de los olores
Mi abuela paterna se llamaba Elena, por ella yo también me llamo así. Ella era ciega, fue perdiendo la vista poco a poco, por eso ni a mí ni a mis hermanos nos llegó a conocer. Cuando llegábamos corriendo a su casa, era capaz de conocernos por nuestra forma de movernos, o por la forma que teníamos de entrar.
Recuerdo que siempre me decía una rima:
“Tres eran tres las hijas de Elena, tres eran tres y ninguna era buena”
Y en efecto con el paso de los años tuve tres hijas…
Cuando ella murió, mi madre me dio una caja con unos objetos personales que le habían pertenecido. Alba, mi hija mayor, que había conocido a mi abuela, estaba conmigo cuando abrimos la caja y no sabéis lo que había dentro de aquella caja, todos los recuerdos de mi abuela que aparecieron en forma de olores, su propia esencia, su aroma, su recuerdo…las dos nos quedamos calladas, nos trajo su presencia y su recuerdo volvió a nosotras gracias a la caja de los olores.
Elena Iglesias
–
January 6 in Catalonia
The happiest day for a child
A big parcel
The twinkle in my mother’s eyes
Oh! At last!
My bike with the little basket
for my little bunny
First and only gift from my father
The bike breaks
The relationship also.
I will always think of him
When I remember
My pink BH
Rosa María Fernández
–
Photos
Memories
of beautiful moments
The family
The union
Much happiness.
The smiles each year
Christmas
the family meets
The laughter
The happiness.
Llulitmar Vidal
–
Through the glass
all this snow.
The sound of carols
coming from the TV
creates a homey atmosphere
full of congratulations
and unexpected guests,
who build the mountain of gifts
under the tree.
My mother coming and going
cooking non stop.
There, that night, I know
that I will not sleep
thinking about the gifts.
And that’s when I realize
I never want to grow.
Gerson Jiménez
–
That broomstick
2nd April 2000
A sad day for me
For my body.
I leave school
My adoptive parents
Pick me up
Lock me in my room
Till 10 pm
I do my homework
And go to sleep
I have nothing
But my bed
My window
And desk
They argue
And wake me up
And ask for the homework
That is all wrong
They break that broomstick
On my limbs
Next day I am swollen
With bruises
I tell the teachers
I fell off my scooter
They take me to hospital
Long testing
A year and a half
Hoping for
Another family
José Manuel Fernandes
—
I remember playing bottle caps
With my friends near the house
We get together and laugh
Everyone is fab
We share a childhood
Full of games and entertainment
Outside a shop where the family
Come together to hang out
We have animals
Like a dog and a cat
It is always bright
As the sun and the stars at night
And the most beautiful young lady
Who is that?
Answer key: My Mum
Roselvi Bautista
—
My collection of prints
I had hundreds of prints
I remember those afternoons
In the park with my friends
And my cousin Luis
We played
And collected prints.
Now I remember with love
These things of my childhood
They were very important for me
When I was a child
Hannel Steve Tonusco C.
–
(Always remember to drive carefully and respect speed limits, the lives of others and your own life)
I love my car, when I see it my heart cares
When I start the engine, my heart jumps
When I touch the wheel, my heart jumps harder
When I drive it, my heart falls in love
When the wind touches my face, my heart feels
I love my car, from the first time I saw it
When I’m at speed, my heart feels happiness
I love my car, it’s all that my heart cares
I’m eighteen
Saber Mrabet
—
23 July in A Guarda
Playing beach paddle
With my brother
That afternoon
The incredible 40 degrees
Cheer us up
Nine years playing already
I love paddles
Andrés Feijoo
—
My Grandparents’ House
I remember my grandparents’ house in Brazil, an old house that belonged to my grandfather, who was a bricklayer.
With a wood stove, an orchard with vegetables and some fruit trees.
They also had a cage with several birds, apart from other animals.
For me this was very special, with all the food that they had there, which was very rich.
Rodrigo Alonso Ribeiro
–
A long, long afternoon
When the night never comes
Me a little boy
When the years were not many
Empty railway bridges
And nothing to do
Nobody waits for me
And the sun still on hold
Gino Blanco
–
My father’s dressing gown.
Last refuge
Worn out pieces of garnet
Cherishing memories.
Sleeplessness wrap
In the handless pockets.
Invisible fingers of past
Waving his handkerchief
But not to say good bye
When the train of oblivion passes
In the crackling fire
Of my Dad I remember
Him playing his old lute
All singing by the fireplace
At Christmas.
The man was an invincible giant
For his unconditional love
As in the feverish nights
Arriving with his remedies
To cure infant illnesses.
Because he was
The tree and the house
That the children drew
With the language of dreams
Now the tree is still there
Imperturbable
Bowed
As before his departure.
And the dressing gown
Uninhabited
Hoping to recover
The past form
The missed tissue
And touch
Hilda Couto Serantes
—
That joy and excitement!
Forbidden relax
That satisfied me all day
Playing with my friends
In the neighbourhood
Sweat, sweat
And the drops down my forehead
But joy
Climb up and down
Pick up, step
I feel good.
In the end
A cool soda at home
The prize
Of my dear mother
Happily waiting for me
With her well deserved
Slipper
And well,
I was saying,
Climb up and down
Nothing happened
The next day
Back to forbidden relax
The drops of joy
Down my forehead
Slendy Marcela Tavera
–
Sitting on her chair
Next to the fire of the kitchen
The grandmother
Sees in her mind
The past of her life.
She tells the small children
Who listen with attention
The meaning of her past
Ana María Quintáns
—
My Polar Bear
I had got a polar bear
He was always on my bed
He was always in my dreams.
I don’t know where he is now
But he is always in my heart.
When I remember him
I remember my family,
Those happy Christmas,
I remember my childhood.
Yago Reza
—
My interactive Doll
It’s not llike the others.
This is unique and beautiful for any princess.
She emits pleasant sounds.
My father gave it to me.
She’s my Baby Anabell.
She’s funny to play with.
If you give her the bottle, she burps.
If you give her the pacifier, she moves her lips.
She laughs, she cries
At the sound of the rattle, she babbles.
And in a while, she closes her eyes
And sleeps.
Alba Morais Da Fonte
The Meadows
On the way home
I went barefoot through the meadows.
I liked running among cows.
It was a happy childhood
climbing trees,
eating mangoes
and tangerines.
One catastrophic day
bad men came
and we had to leave
our trees
our cows
our meadows
and thus
my happy childhood.
Claudia Martínez
Na tarde: Un grupo de persoas entregadas á memoria. Ás palabras que tenden fíos entre nós e os obxectos. O recordo que no proceso se fai literatura. A emoción, calibrala, compartila. Sentir sempre o privilexio de quen deposita a historia persoal en nós. E despois escoller as palabras. Miralas de perto, atender á súa música.
Isto é poesía? É.
Con cada obradoiro confirmo que o contacto coa poesía, chegue á altura que chegue, pode ter un valor definitivo na vida das persoas. Dende os que nunca leron un poema ata os que escriben sonetos. Alí, na aula da tarde todo era posíbel. Dende fiar o liño ata os reloxos que aparecen na casa como cans ou gatos. O tempo. O código.
De volta, ademáis da tarta do San Martiño, trouxen un feixe de experiencias e palabras como cicatrices. Os nomes de poetas queridos ficaron no na aula do segundo andar. Velaiquí algúns dos versos.
Tan agradecida e feliz pola xornada intensa e irrepetíbel. Sempre voltar.
Deixar un comentario so far
Deixar un comentario
Sucos: blog de Dores Tembrás 