Esta es parte de mi creación artística donde uso pequeños formatos en papel para dibujar con tinta negra, lápiz y carboncillo. También
he agregado algunas poesías para realzar el intento creativo con otros objetos tridimensionales en este caso máscaras hechas en papel mâché.
This is part of my artistic creation where I use small formats of paper with black ink, pencil and charcoal. Also, I have added some poems.
I dreamed that the voices of those who died in the treacherous betrayals rose, between
the sweet voices of the araucarias. I dreamed that from the horizon I could see the farmland turgid, where the song of the men calm down the pain spread, and clean the fume from the calm waters of the ocean. I dreamed that the stars left their silence, to dance around the euphoria of your heart getting caught your hands between the first flowers of the time.
I dreamed that all staunches the blood dripping from the deepest wound of the earth, blood that oxidizes the feelings, and dye the faces with dire predictions, and with its heavy smell permeated the elytrum of the beetles.
Este tres de Diciembre nuestra patria se viste de gala, ya que le dará sepultura a uno de los chilenos más importante de este cuarto de siglo. me refiero a Victor Jara, artista vilmente asesinado por la huestes negras que cubrieron nuestra historia con los crimenes mas deleznable que un ser humano puede cometer contra otro, al que se supone que los considera hijos de la misma patria. Es tiempode que se traten de sanar las heridas que nos tienen tan profundamente divididos. Pues el compañero Victor Jara es el paradigma de un luchador que solo con su canto y creación lucho por una sociedad mas justa donde todos serían respetados y escuchados. En todos los estrados y escenarios que se presento su voz entregola imagen de una patria solidaria y con la hidalguía que lo caracterizaba el llevaba el claro mensaje de paz y solidaridad entre los hombres. Su imagen estará grabada a fuego en la conciencia colectiva de nuestro pueblo, quien yahace mucho tiempo lo ha colocado entre uno de nuestros héroes más querido. Ni olvido ni perdón . Viva Victor Jara.
Manos.
Miro las manos ya ajadas partidas por la tierra sin dejar de pensar, que hubo caminos que no recorrieron perdidas en los contornos de la montaña y con la hoz cortando el verde simiente de los sueños. Manos cuarteadas por el sudor al extraer los secretos de lo más profundos de la tierra, manos gentiles, tibias que acurrucaron entre los nervios y los brazos los nuevos frutos de su amor irrefrenable, manos firmes que podando naranjos y rosas fueron dando pinceladas que cambiaron el celeste del espacio.
Miro tus manos y sus dedos saliendo veloces al encuentro de la solución de las cosas, los veo reparando el arado rompiendo la dura tierra, preparando los ingredientes del amasijo, moviendo las cortinas para atisbar en reflejo del rocio las primeras estrellas recortadas en el manto negro de la noche, manos constructoras de sueños, de esperanzas trabajadas de sol a sol aún en días de desesperos.
Victor Jara. These three of December, our country will wear the best clothes, as it will give burial to one of the most important Chilean of this quarter of century. I mean Victor Jara, artist despicable murdered by the black hordes that covered our story with the most friable crimes that a human being can commit against another, which is supposed to consider them children of the same country. It's time to try to heal the wounds we have so deeply divided. Since the comrade Victor Jara is the epitome of a fighter who just with his singing and strive to create fought for a just society where all would be respected and heard. In all platforms and scenarios his voice presented the image of a country united and the nobility that had characterized the clear message of peace and solidarity among men. His image is burned into the collective conscience of our people, who long ago placed it between one of our most beloved heroes. Neither forgets nor forgives. Viva Victor Jara.
Hands.
Look the withered hands cracked for the soil without stop to thinking that there was paths not traveled lost in the contours of the mountain and with the scythe cutting the green seed of dreams. Chapped hands by the sweat to extract the secrets from the deepest on earth, gentle hands, warm that curled between nerves and arms the new fruits of his irrepressible love, steady hands that pruning orange tree and roses were giving brushing that changed the celestial space. I look at your hands and fingers going faster to meet the solution of things, I see them repairing the plow breaking the hard ground, preparing the ingredients for the dough, moving the curtains to peer into reflection of the dew the first stars cut in the black mantle of the night, hands builders of dreams, and hopes worked from sunrise to sunset even in days of despair.
The ocean dislodges with a deafening noise, his scream its felt among the ancient ruins bleached by the sun, his crying silence the noise of crickets at the torrid night of love.
The man rips the geography leaving painful marks of its horrors, and the traces of the blood have been
circumscribe the limits
of the habitants, beings without existence
in the vacuum of things.
The horizon disappeared swallowed by the outbursts, he could not escape the ripping of the flesh.
The ocean dislodge from his rooted in a rearing up gallop holding in his rump our dreams of laughter, its gallop try to reach the echoes of those who dodge the murderous bullets, singing the singing of the people.
la sección 60 del cementerio de Arlington, en Washington,
donde están enterrados la mayoría de los caídos en Irak y Afganistán.
Se elevan las lápidas cual uñas,
desde lo helado de la tierra
tratando de horadar las nubes
en un último intento de zafarse
de la muerte.
La sombra pausada de los árboles
ahogan el sonido de las lágrimas,
el viento trae a veces el fragor terrible
de la guerra,
hay momentos en el día
en que el sigilo de las hojas
rompen la blanca cadencia
del horizonte desperdigándose
entre los nombres que se enredan
en la grama recién sembrada.
Trozo de tierra donde el dolor
a tejido la sutil trama de la tristeza
donde los momentos de sonrisas
son luz escapando entre las alas
de la aves,
allí no hay cantos de alabanzas
sola vemos las mejillas mustias
por la tristeza intrascendente.
Son filas limpias, incólumes,
blancas esperando la orden
para navegar en el mar insondable
de los espiritus que buscan una razón
para el devenir de sus almas.
Section 60.
Section 60 of Arlington Cemetery in Washington, which are buried most of the fallen in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The gravestones rose as nails from the frozen land trying to pierce the clouds in a final attempt to escape death. The slow shade of the trees drown the sound of tears, sometimes the wind brings the dreadful
thunder of war, There are moments in the day that the secrecy of the leaves break the white cadence of the horizon scattering among the names that are entangled in newly planted grass. Piece of land where the pain woven a subtle fabric of sadness where the moments of smiles are light escaping between the wings of birds, there are no songs of praise only we see withered cheeks by inconsequential sadness. The rows are clean, intact, white waiting for the order to navigate the fathomless sea of spirits seeking a reason for the future of their souls.
Volveré a intentar la sutil tarea de tocarte en el instante de la siesta espero no desvelar tu sueños, solo quisiera besar tus labios que llenos de almibar me transportarán al suave susurro de nuestro océano donde muchas veces pudimos limpiar los enojos.
Voy a intentar abrir tus puños que permanecen apretados por los golpes que la vida te ha sabido dar, cuando ya estén abiertos voy a depositar el jolgorio de nuestros nietos, que por la virtud de la vida nos han de llevar a nuestro renacimiento.
Intentaré por enésima vez cubrir los elementos de tu cuerpo con un dibujo donde el carboncillo produzca el trazo rápido de tu sonrisa.
The nap.
I would retry the subtle task
to touch you at the moment of the nap
I hope not to awake your dreams,
I just want to kiss your lips filled with syrup
they transported me to the soft whisper
of our ocean where many times
we clean up our anger.
I will try to open your fists
that remain tight by the blows
that life has succeeded in giving you,
when they are open
I will deposit the revelry of our grandchildren,
that under the virtue of life we have to lead our revival.
Hay veces en el día que no quisiera ver los trenes de carga y su golpeteo obtuso en los rieles, no quisiera ver las altas chimeneas enviando sus mensajes de venenos, no quisiera ver en la playa las coleadas de muerte de los peces, o el fuego desvastando los bosques quisiera lanzar la caja de mentiras al barranco de las cosas ya muertas, no quisiera ver las heridas de los que no tienen nada, y que reptando en el pavimento helado lloran el dolor de sus estomagos vacios.
Hay veces en el día que no quisiera entrar en el cuarto de los recuerdos, o recoger las manzanas que cuelgan de las ramas del vecino, no quisiera atravesarme con esos que han sido mis enemigos, quisiera taparme los oidos y no escuchar las balas asesinas que cruzan el espacio en busca de inocentes, o las querellas de los amantes que con gritos destemplados rompen la quietud de las murallas.
Hay veces en el día que no quisiera poner un pie en el piso helado cuando el monótono sonido del reloj me invoca el despertar de la mañana, bueno… hay veces en el día que no quiero hacer nada….
Sometimes the day I would not like.
There are times during the day
I would not see freight trains
and their pounding obtuse on the rails,
I do not like to see the tall chimneys
sending their messages of poisons,
I do not like to see on the beach
the tailing of fishes dying
or the fire devastating the forest
I would throw the box of lies
to the ravine of things already dead
I would not like to see the wounds
of the those who do not have nothing,
and crawling in the icy pavement
crying the pain of their empty stomachs.
There are times during the day
who would not enter in the room of memories,
or pick apples hanging of the branches of neighbor
Entre mis palabras y tus palabras hemos quebrado el equilibrio frágil de la aurora descendiendo presurosa entre la maleza de los páramos… solo, se escuchaba en la distancia el pesado ronquido de los leones tratando de escapar la estampida, nuestras palabras mancharon la tibieza de los contornos, tu voz se transformo en el sonido sincopado del viento golpeando las hojas perennes…
Entre mis palabras y tus palabras solo han quedado gravitando los espacios vacios, perdidos en la vocinglera multitud de mercaderes, con mis ojos vacios trato de alcanzarte en las noches de estrellas, transformándose todo en un pesadilla de monstruos descargando su furia en el potro del tormento…..
Entre mis palabras y tus palabras hemos encontrado, al fin el equilibrio de las cosas que en el espacio abierto de las querellas que descansan en la palma de tu mano. Pese a estar todo solo se siente el pausado respiro de mi gato reposando el silencio de la tarde.
Between words.
Among my words and your words
we have broken the fragile balance
of the dawn descending
hurried into the brush of moors ...
alone, was heard in the distance
the heavy snore of the lions
trying to escape the stampede,
our words stained
the warmth of the contours,
your voice was transformed into
the syncopated sound of the wind pounding the evergreen leaves ...
Among my words and your words
only it have been gravitating
the empty spaces lost
in the noisy crowd of merchants,
with my empty eyes
I try to catch you up
in the night with stars,
becoming everything
in a nightmare of monsters
venting their fury
on the rack of torment... ..
Among my words and your words
we found at last
the balance of things that
in the space open to the complaints
that rest i
n the palm of your hand
despite being all alone, we feel the slow breathing
Voy a caer en el peor de mis errores
voy a tratar de entender tu violencia
el porque matas sin que te provoquen,
no te has dado cuenta
que has repartido la muerte a los cuatro
puntos cardinales,
¿porqué?
me pregunto.
Es en la respuesta adversa,
donde encuentro que tú mirada separa
el firmamento de la mañana.
Quisiera no llorar,
pero ha veces el deseo incontenible
de la lluvia moja mis sienes ya secas.
He caminado otros caminos transitados
por los deseos irreversibles,
no quisiera naufragar en las riveras tibias de la gula.
La noche aún no ha vaciado la humedad
delpasto los grillos comienzan recien
a alejarse del dejo de sus recuerdos
en las notas tristes de las raices
quiero elevar el reflejo de las luces
hasta el fin de la sombras.
Tal vez no volverás a mirar
el sol cayendo recto y silencioso
en el ocaso de las agonias
pues los niños ya no rien
miran tristes sus limbos
arrancados
sin hilos los volantines apoyados
en las nubes lejanas
tal vez la lluvia no alcanzo a mojar
los alfeizares…
cuando la llamarada
venida del cielo
desparramo nuestros sueños
en horrendas escenas de dolor.
Alguas veces la noche no trepida
en sus lamentos,
y levanta sus miembros helados
pidiendo el fin al aquelarre
de los odios.
Nadie tuvo la culpa para tanta muerte
para tanto odio
para tanto miedo
no puedes dejar de pensar en un miserable
minuto
todo el daño, de ojos helados por la metralla.
de dedos deshollados en el sincronizado tejido
de tús bombas inteligentes.
El agua se evapora en
pequeñas partículas, se despide de la alberca
el hilo tenue goteando de la llave
arranca miles de dolores.
me quisiera alejar hasta desaparecer
en las ocultas columnas de tus sueños
para unirme al clamor universal de las gargantas
implorando
“Ya basta de tanta muerte”.
“Ya basta de tanta muerte”.
“Ya basta de tanta muerte”.
“Ya basta de tanta muerte”.
Me parece verte entre los pliegues de la neblina que lenta se habia dejado caer con los fulgores de la tarde, hoy es el día en que descubrí el porque tu piel tibia se sonroja cuando la palabras saltan de mi boca a la tuya, en un intento desesperado tu lengua se esconde en los rojos alientos del deseo. De soslayo mis ojos descubrieron el sinuoso estarcido de tus senos, que ajenos a la duda se abandonaron a la quietud del espacio. Me parece que las palabras mellaron las agudas aristas que inundan tu corazón, porque en un sesgo rápido tus brazos se alejaron hacia los confines de los antojos.
Let us take by the
undulating road ahead
that leads to spaces
broken by the events,
spaces ready to explode
by poison that injected
with their infernal noise
the machines that not
stop with their howl
of its engines, which
break the floor with
the metallic sweat
of their rods
and their rusty arms
let the breath indelible
the end of the dreams.
The spaces open their arms
to leave scared
with the noise of war
with the blood flowing
from the deep cavities,
with the land wrapped
in the clouds of hatred
and evil,
with hearts dry
and fragmented,
I would
pick them between my fingers
to cover it with the wings
and take it to the soft
regions of the ancient gods.
I look away from that space
unlikely that blurring
the evils, try to jump
to the vacuum to touch your body
still shaky by the fate
love,
I try to decipher your message
caught between the whims
of the secretive seas,
its meaning escapes between the rocks nearby.
Weichafe Jaime Mendoza Collio
I did not know About you,
until a bullet, swift,
clatter
cut
yours eyes looking at others eyes,
were the eyes of your child,
maybe yours,
or mines detached
to the pain
of an earth stained
in sob,
I do not why
I said you these things,
is because
the heart is and able to put up with,
the soil is dry,
the snake encircle your waist,
their wings will cover
and in cry for relief
you will stay with us,
our time and space
will met
in your transcendence
you are the mighty condor
riding our hopes.
Thepeople who produce it as notable,
so gorgeous, gallant and bellicose,
that no king has ever been governed,
"La Araucana" Ercilla and Alonso Zuñiga
from distant lands I’m witness
of the horror created for some that forgot the history,
the outraging of the Araucania
bringing the insanity on their backs,
sowing death, imprisonment,
trampling on despair,
ravage homes, delivering
the feudal lords of lies full.
The Araucanian state used
to make laws, to order and be feared,
seeing of their throne demolished,
Forgetting the mercy things
of land, yanaconas phalanges
with the stutter of weapons
silenced the clamor of a people
drowned by the dispossession.
and mortal men oppressed;
freedom to acquire certain
failing grant-suffering
From the distant many look
with imprudence how land
is covered with blood and gunpowder
that becomes lethal clouds
resting between the eyes
of the little ones that wonder
when they see the fallacies and deceit.
comes to the exercise of the sword
idle for peace and unusual.
from the palace of the Pharisees
sold my people to the highest bidder,
sending emissaries to the death
dresses with names of the worst
to poison the path of life
must give the clear answer
a simple song of solidarity.
Chile, fertile province, and outstanding
famous in the Antarctic region,
from remote nations of respected
From the dark shadows depart
the murderers of yesterday and today
executioners and commands with
frock coat drawing of the brothers,
think in the terrified
brother who decant the illusion
to receive the embrace of solidarity
that will protect the daring
gravediggers of lies.
by strong primary and powerful
people who produce is so notable,
o gorgeous, gallant and bellicose ....
y la justicia pareja para todos, carcel para todos,
muerte facíl para todos,
y lo del fusilamiento es para todo aquel
que se atreva a decir que todos tenemos
derecho a algo mejor,
degollaremos sin misericordia
al que levante el dedo en señal
de desaprobación,
y serán electrocutados los que
sean sorprendidos
escribiendo poesias sediciosas.
Only Lies.
The cries of the time until
when will sound between the mist,
when can we have a break from death?
that always as violent storm will fell down,
withoutprayers, stained with the torture
of the open flesh, offal in febrile
in abduction, rape, intolerance,
lies in the newspapers,
monkish pasquinade in which lie
for better heaven
sell the forgiveness of sins ......
lies open to the faces
lies without courage, lies
unequivocally.
They talk about reconciliation
... forget about the dead,
all are already dead,
and nothing and nobody can relive
neither the United Nations,
or the voice of those who believe
free to cast the first stone
including the last Nobel Peace Prize,
or suppressed laughter of the blessed
either the tears shed by the
the onset of the last soul in Purgatory.
reconciling.... ... Because we already won
the game, what you waiting in line?
and in this game you lost everything
even how to walk
do not get anything with regret,
nevertheless the sun will remain round
and justice will be the same, jail for all,
death easy for everyone
and the firing squad is for everyone
who dares to say that we all have
right to something better,
we slaughtered without mercy
to those that lift a finger signal
disapproval,
and we will electrocuted
those surprised writing
seditious poems.
The stars fall in the night
still desert
deposited in the empty beds,
with the cold evenings of summer
the stars continued to fall
preparing the coo of its light
for the meeting of the immortal lovers.
The butterflies are dressed in silk and light,
in the meantime
the exited snails draw their horns
understanding all of these duties
of lovers who hustles without
and no trouble
once again
the swore the eternal love
like other lovers in history,
they covered with the glow of lust
his eyes resting on his
discovered sexes
their pores open,
the breath is interspersed with the coup
out of time from the heart
who wants to be spectator
they touch it, kiss it,
for the joy of fireflies.
Will you take him ...
between the colors of the evening,
with his moans
interrupted with the light
of rain to the land
which is the kingdom of the death.
Be it... He will bring to you
terrestrial fear
of disasters or
to the syrup of the lips
it is minted from you ...
His arms where you will dreams
the return of the swallows
wet with the dew
of the sunrise.
I believe he is?
I think he will make you feel
the evening dew in the tedium
of those evenings
when the sun in the background
will not be seen,
he open his eyes every morning
showing how the time
slides his body in the vault
iridescent of my gods.
He is ... which in the dawn
will pick up your body to take you
between the noises of the streets,
and feel in your arms
the calm of wind
caressing the softness
sky blue from your skin,
your eyes, soft close
with the cadence of his steps.
Be it... With whom he will be a slight
blow of his hand awake you
to crumple up with the peace
of his eyes.
Maybe it was the night
that disguised in his shadow
leaves it in the ancient writings
the predicaments of the time,
inscribed in routine character
the verses of life
often in ambiguous form,
the eyes ajar
at night
let see the landscape
demolished by the invasive army
destroyed of dreams
of blood flowing voracious
carrying the message of the
numerical theorems
of the silent death.
Maybe it was the night
in a cry of three
centuries
awakened the monsters
sleeping in
in underground from the heart
to devastate the bodies
numb the hunger
defenestrated the passions
unleash the horrors,
dislocate the faces.
But also I have
to recognize that
was the night I kiss
your body dressed of night.