poems by Juan C. Tajes
Mother drunk from Orient’s
throat of black sounds
laugh with her broken voice
her wounded gazelle eyes
her black-winged mane
between her hands
shells ruby fire shining in the sun
the morning is the silence of the flies
I learned from her that people
have the soul passion red
as a pomegranate heart
under the shell they gather
the sweet voice of singing
in her words.
Wind between palm trees
Whistle the secret out of nowhere.
A man watches his shadow
Under the lunar darkness,
Preessage sign strokes
From one to nine.
The cylinder seal leaves the mark
Of the calculable
On the clay,
Stars and camels are the addends
And the bales of barley
and the grains of sand
And the suns and the weather
And the tides and the heartbeat
And the beats of the music
And the stones of the wall
And the bars of the cell.
Every created thing,
His weight and his measure,
A letter and a number.
But he still can’t imagine everything
Without resolving the definitive sign.
How to express, then, the absence and the not having?
The smile shone in the slanted eyes,
Forebode the king number
Of the perfect formula, Glory of the Infinite,
Humble form of wonder,
Thus, that man,
In the ancient Sumerian night
He opened both hands, looked into them
And seeing them empty, he understood.
Here I am, invaded by absence.
Nostalgia smells like dirty clothes to me.
Piety is the ultimate pride.
Repentance is to disgrace twice,
Humility is not a virtue, it is arrogance.
Those forms that Sadness acquires,
they are effects of Fear and Anguish.
Happiness, it is the sun of consciousness
and not moral sand, but a path
of Freedom, armed with patience.
Do not accept the praise of fools.
Otherness is not a metaphor.
Own and Others are distilled
in judgments and prejudices and perjures
behind non-geographic borders.
Today, this is the time for distant dialogues,
distant voices of interlocutors,
of introspections, silent soliloquies,
words are absolute signs,
its weight is physical, thorough, tangible.
Gone is the language of other days,
discursive answer, the interdict.
Ours are the limits of expression,
everyday life is not shared,
alone, every day with us.
We are judge and prosecutor, defense and criminal.
Sound and silence are ours.
Like those who tend to adopt
false poses in front of themselves,
unbearable shadows of the mirror.
Doesn’t wake up from sleep,
Wonder and concern.
At the end of the stairs
At the other end
With the eternal.
Where to go
If the prophets
They no longer speak
Crack the keys
Juan C. Tajes 1946 Uruguay/The Netherlands. Multidisciplinary artist, actor, drama teacher, communicator, former teacher of oratory art at the University of Sciences Poliques de Paris and of Intaerpretation at the Conservatory of Rotterdam. Since 1963 published regularly. Based in Holland since 1971, his poetry seeks a sound and an identity of his own, within a non-Spanish-speaking society. Nostalgia, desire, mismatches, memory and remoteness are recurrent themes in his poetics. Edited work: Poetry, Prosa, Theter, Essay. Publications in anthologies and individual editions . Collaborates with specialized magazines in France, Turkey, Romania, Bangladesh, India, Brasil, Mexico, Argentina, Germany and Holland. Last edited: Time for words (2017) The confines of the water (2020)
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