Visita ao Centro EPA de Ourense

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

2^nd 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.