24 poemas

 

(Texto íntegro)

 

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                                                                                     Galiza, terra irmã de Portugal
                                                                           Que a divina saudade transfigura.
                                                                           ..............................................
                                                                           Terra da nossa infância virginal,
                                                                           Altar de Rosalía e da ternura.

                                                                                     TEIXEIRA DE PASCOAES


                                                                      COLAXE

                                                                 O ceo é de feltro.
                                                                 A veiga, pintada.
                                                                 Uceiras cinguidas
                                                                 con valos de pedra.
                                                                 Espellos facendo
                                                                 as veces de auga,
                                                                 e ovellas que nela
                                                                 mitigan a sede.
                                                                 Escorren da tea
                                                                 a cor estridente
                                                                 do can que as arreda
                                                                 e o neno que as garda.


                                                                      O POEMA

                                                                 Direi que o poema
                                                                 non só é o ser cego
                                                                 que toco na pedra...
                                                                 (O leve tremor da pedra esculpida).

                                                                 Direi que o poema
                                                                 é o ser un na pedra.
                                                                 É mesmo a beleza
                                                                 solemne e antiga
                                                                 da columna grega.


                                                                           FINIS-TERRAE

                                                                                          (Costa da Morte)

                                                                 Dobrou Fisterra,
                                                                 a Arnela contornou cara a Muxía.

                                                                 O tenue azul do leste e Camariñas.
                                                                 -A flor que o mar coñece-

                                                                 Restingas de coral e conchas finas,
                                                                 as praias nebulosas de Camelle...

                                                                 Nos píncaros das rías avistadas,
                                                                 un solemne clamor de antigos deuses.


                                                                           O COREÑO

                                                                 (Xinzo)


                                                                 De seu era pobre.

                                                                 Mesquiño non o era,

                                                                 só herdara o mal nome;

                                                                 a voz laboriosa

                                                                 do sol e do vento

                                                                 e a fouce emprestada

                                                                 de servir señores.


                                                                                CHE

                                                                 Cumpre,

                                                                 pega arreo

                                                                 do teu lado aberto,

                                                                 e os puños cerra;

                                                                 sen tremor,

                                                                 en guerra;

                                                                 -hai que facer fronte-

                                                                 deixes nada ou neve

                                                                 no común da terra.


                                                                                BRINDE

                                                                                     Não esqueças nunca Treblika e Hiroshima
                                                                                     O horror o terror a suprema ignominia

                                                                                          SOPHIA DE MELLO BREYNER ANDRESEN

                                                                 Brindo:
                                                                 -os ritos pola paz son necesarios-
                                                                 por esa pomba que adiviño ilesa
                                                                 cun ramo fresco de oliveira ao bico...
                                                                 Inevitabelmente dentro de mil anos.


                                                                                VENTO FERIDO

                                                                                          A Carlos Casares

                                                                 Ás veces o vento
                                                                 semella que fala
                                                                 dos meus,
                                                                 os que eu amo,
                                                                 da miña outra patria.

                                                                 É a voz que fai eco
                                                                 no eterno silencio
                                                                 da rúa do adro.


                                                                      FLORBELA

                                                                 Ó abeiro da casa
                                                                 gabean a hedra
                                                                 e a herba salgueira.

                                                                 E plantas de ornato
                                                                 criadas por ela
                                                                 con meigo desvelo.

                                                                 Na terra calcada
                                                                 o cardo ten aínda
                                                                 algunha flor seca.

                                                                 Aquí e alí dispersos
                                                                 abondan a silva,
                                                                 o toxo e a xesta;

                                                                 o fiúncho illado
                                                                 de longo pecíolo
                                                                 e a cana de lesta

                                                                 de flor amarela
                                                                 saíndo da espiga:
                                                                 o sol de Florbela.


                                                                      ACUIDADE

                                                                                Ó amor dos meus fillos

                                                                 Leva tempo ser ceibe
                                                                 e non ter cousa propia.

                                                                 Mar e noite copulan
                                                                 nun declive da beira.

                                                                 Todo é sombra e latexo
                                                                 no misterio da hora.

                                                                 Esa luz habitada
                                                                 no mar alto, a beleza

                                                                 do meu lar coroado
                                                                 polo Carro da Osa.

                                                                 O queixume da xesta,
                                                                 que o menor sopro inquieta,

                                                                 prega o soño da herba
                                                                 sobre o amor devanceiro.

                                                                 Os bois pasan traendo
                                                                 o sosego da veiga.

                                                                 Leva tempo ser ceibe
                                                                 e non ter cousa propia.


                                                                 DECORO UNHA CAIXA

                                                                 Decoro unha caixa
                                                                 por tódolos lados
                                                                 para íntimo uso.

                                                                 Tendo a caixa paga,
                                                                 eu levo o meu paso.


                                                                 ELA TIÑA MIL FLORES...

                                                                                     A María Xesús Armada Castaño

                                                                 
Ela tiña mil flores sen nome
                                                                 no val inxenuo
                                                                 do ideal.

                                                                 Medrou.
                                                                 E deprendeu nomes
                                                                 sen flor e sen val.

                                                                 Agora depenica os murchos nomes,
                                                                 e tece no recendo dos solpores
                                                                 unha flor marxinal.


                                                                                CONFÍN

                                                                                     (Trandeiras)

                                                                 Neste confín do inverno
                                                                 de levísimas seivas,
                                                                 invisíbeis, a penas,
                                                                 fan o amor as palabra


                                                                                BRAÑA

                                                                 Xuncos, oucas, espadanas,
                                                                 mesturados semellan
                                                                 verdes reixas na auga.

                                                                 Un colar formado
                                                                 de diminutas oucas
                                                                 e volumosas pérolas de orballo.

                                                                 Deitada sobre elas
                                                                 a seiva olorosa
                                                                 dun ramo de xesta.

                                                                 Só con espadanas
                                                                 e algunhas oucas.
                                                                 Non esmague á herba
                                                                 o peso da sombra.


                                                                      FALADE EN BAIXO

                                                                 Falade en baixo agora
                                                                 ou por acenos.

                                                                 Que nada tolde o sono
                                                                 do meu anxo.

                                                                 Axiña ha de abanalo
                                                                 e aquecelo

                                                                 a boneca que a nai
                                                                 lle fai de pano

                                                                 no berce aprimorado
                                                                 que martelo.


                                                                 UNHA FLOR QUE SE VIRA

                                                                           A Mª Elvira González Sánchez

                                                                 É unha flor que se vira
                                                                 contra o pulo que a ergue.

                                                                 E rexeita o que abonda
                                                                 en recendo e beleza.

                                                                 Deixa ver o reverso
                                                                 da paixón que lle é propia.

                                                                 É unha flor que se vira
                                                                 contra o pulo que a ergue.


                                                                           NARCISO

                                                                 Con sede de si propio,
                                                                 -o propio amor é tanto-
                                                                 na auga que o retrata
                                                                 Narciso desempana
                                                                 a tona mol dos labios.


                                                                           ROSSIO
                                                                                               ( 2000)

                                                                 Agora, no Rossio lisboeta,
                                                                 a morte cibernética do fado.
                                                                 Dous mil irados anos festexados en pedra.
                                                                 Tristes emblemas do queixume herdado.


                                                                                BOLBORETA

No remate da pola,
nua e frouxa,
a viravolta
mol
da bolboreta.

                                                                                     ELA

                                                                                               (Rosalía)

Deus o puxo na noite,
mais foi ela
quen acolleu ó moucho
no poema.

                                                                      ROSALÍA

                                                                 Ela,
                                                                 sentada ao sol na pedra.

                                                                 Ela, si, co seu metro...
                                                                 O perfume do nardo
                                                                 mesturado ao da herba.

                                                                 Ela, alí, sosegada,
                                                                 e das lágrimas perto.


                                                                      ALOUMIÑO

                                                                                     A Sira

                                                                 Recreouse no engado

                                                                 do primeiro aloumiño

                                                                 de unha rosa nos beizos.

                                                                 Renaceu en delirio,

                                                                 e chorou coma un neno,

                                                                 debruzado na herba.


                                                                      SAUDADE

                                                                 Un voo de ave
                                                                 que morre nos labios
                                                                 de morte suave.


                                                                                (1911-1977)

                                                                 Na lápida

                                                                      M A R Í A

                                                                 Dúas datas


                                                                           CAPELADA

                                                                 (Teixido)

                                                                 A esta luz matinal
                                                                 o recorte da serra
                                                                 lembra a orla do mar.

                                                                 A mole da serra
                                                                 e o mar á súa roda
                                                                 que foxen da tebra.

                                                                 É aínda máis real
                                                                 no frontal da capela
                                                                 a esta luz matinal.


 

 

 


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