I move a little,
they change,
Scurrying aside.
Hey hey,
Dance.
Un, deux, trois...
The orchestra crunches.
A step back, go forth.
Masks on hands.
And the sun beams,
They dapple as they hop and glide.
My hand above,
A sun eclipse.
Etiqueta: Merriam A Grain
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Masquerade
Photo by Ibolya Toldi on Pexels.com -
You haven’t written
Photo by yi yan on Pexels.com In one step I've been denied.
My spirit intact remains,
No matter how much they try to have it marred.
I can still fly in words.
An unstoppable flow of thought. -
What to feed?
Photo by Luca Nardone on Pexels.com What can I use?
The not native pine tree against the sky?
The mottled light dancing a masquerade?
Or the sheep ruining a sprout menaced by ferocious teeth?
Perhaps the quietness without dog bark?
Possibilities, spins and time.
Who knows what to write?
Who knows what poetry feeds with?
A swarm of worms moving the lizard's belly on ground?
The account of round,
dejections on the fence's stone?
A cat's yellow bile after green grass?
Only the beauty?
However life?
Maybe Death comes and whistles a tune's worth.
Who knows what to write about? -
Lagartija
El sol ilumina una mancha.
Un trozo de corteza,
Una raíz.
Las sombras de las hojas se mecen.
Atentas.
Una cabeza,
La mancha tiene patas.
Salta.
Entre los huecos,
Y la cola es el último pedacito visible.
El sol iluminaba una mancha.
Photo by Valeriia Miller on Pexels.com -
24 de diciembre
Photo by Axel Grollemund on Pexels.com
¿Noche de paz?
Seguro.
Paz, paz, splosh, ahuuu.
Tronaban los cohetes,
Aullaban las respuestas.
¿Todo duerme en derredor?
Yo y las demás creaturas,
Esperabamos silencio.
¿Bebian los peces en el río?
Sidra, cerveza y tequila.
Brindaban y boqueaban los salmos.
Salmos del balance financiero.
Aleluya comer bacalao y romeros. -
Cuentos de jamón
Photo by Ellie Burgin on Pexels.com Salado y grasoso,
De relamer los labios...
Están hechos los pecados.
Sobre todo,
Los de no exigir consenso...
Un minuto de silencio.
Por el cerdo...
Cuya vida insatisfactoria,
Me he sorbida toda.
En una tira de días interminables.
Sin distracciones.
Sin paseos.
Un solo engrane solitario,
De una industria que vende cadáveres al día.
Carcasas de dinero,
Sin individualidad requerida.
Ah, lloremos por el puerco.
Porque este es un asesinato metódico y crónico,
Uno al que no renuncio.
En nuestros cuentos,
Un simple jamón...
Sin deseos. -
Libélulas
Photo by Stijn Dijkstra on Pexels.com Arriba, abajo.
Te aferras al pasto.
Tres ramitas color de secas.
Alas de cielo,
De nada y de todo.
Y tres pares de ojos saltones,
Que me ven,
alertas. -
Sin sabor
Photo by Isabella Mendes on Pexels.com Guayaba en la olla,
Hirviendo lento.
El puñal de jade,
Guardado en el traje.
Granos de azúcar en la comisura de la boca.
Era un crimen de hambre,
Ningún cadáver.
Y él se fué.
Cabizbajo por la calle. -
The imminent danger of metaphor p3
Photo by Eugene Shelestov on Pexels.com IN INHERITANCE
Meanwhile, any married woman who has no children of her own will be pitifully pitied behind her back. Or mocked for looking after kids who are not really «hers». Or for looking after her cat/ cats as someone who will die ‘alone’. You might argue you never have but I bet you snort to anyone’s life whose idea of happiness doesn’t match yours. I’ve done…
Maybe that’s why the current movement to call the absent father a «sperm donor» or the woman an «egg donor»; seems superficial and terrifies language purists. These language purists are apparently not aware society changes too quickly to keep the language the way it used to be.
WHERE IS THE METAPHOR WITHIN THIS NONSENSE ABOUT LANGUAGE AND HOW IS IT RELATED TO WRITING FICTION?
Robert McKee, the guy who teaches how to write movie scripts, says the words are mere tools to create good stories with which to persuade people. Through images (movies have images).
Jane Aitchinson introduces us to the metaphor, by the use of words and whilst it can be deemed obvious (since she is a linguist and not a script writer); it comes to us that words bring out images of their own that will end up being translated into movie scenes.
I only need to name Switzerland and you will imagine cows as well as glorious and majestic peaks. But if I add tax paradise, then it ain’t as squeaky clean. It includes a few gangsters wearing white collars and using Mont Blanc pens.
Both, Aitchinson and McKee, reckon metaphors as powerful persuasive images. They change our reaction to events. And they need to grow roots into collective mindsets. They don’t work equally in China as they do in Ireland.
They have their own life force. Such as the word ‘ neo liberal’ is an insult in my country. It deems evil entrepreneurs ready to take everything away from the poor. No matter how much of a responsible company they do own or how many new companies they help to start1. No matter how much they are part of the money religion we all profess.
That’s how that pair of American linguists were right. Metaphors are local. They shape imagined realities by persuading us the world is this and not that way.
Every language is a different world. As a writer you need command of the language. Not to make of it something beautiful [additional problem]. To persuade. To enchant. To create metaphors. To listen and be able to pick up the metaphors that could work in most places. To go up the ladder is better than down… Isn’t it?
Have fun making up your own metaphors. Pasto kalo.
- Seriously ↩︎
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¡Ay!
Photo by Diana ✨ on Pexels.com Agujas curvas en mi trasero,
Me interrumpían en medio de la cacería.
La detective tenía una pista,
Mientras detrás mío,
La barriguita suave respiraba lento.
Y yo maldiciendo.
Porque sus ojos azules son tan tiernos.