Literal Translation

Literal Translation


Never had the.

My ungoing blistered in the burn of yet.

What-some had often this close

and the closer was the more other than,

the more not really the, the more not quite.


Each time expected having just

that if, then the. But.


Yes, some, like.

Yes, at times, a while, a certain or.


Still, how season, and inasmuch again,

less mean, less waterfall, less.

Bees, without.


Also might a variation of

another not-have.

Unrepairedness, unrepairingness,




Not whether, not whether, but how.

Who does, if at all,

if any ever.

Is it truly thus?

Thus really so like?

Is this it?

Should then no more for?


But why then still out to,

up to.


Where, when? If.


Published in Domestic Cherry 1, 2011


Retrato de Silverio Franconetti

Entre italiano
y flamenco,
¿cómo cantaría
aquel Silverio?
La densa miel de Italia
con el limón nuestro,
iba en el hondo llanto
del siguiriyero.
Su grito fue terrible.
Los viejos
dicen que se erizaban
los cabellos,
y se abría el azogue
de los espejos.
Pasaba por los tonos
sin romperlos.
Y fue un creador
y un jardinero.
Un creador de glorietas
para el silencio.

Ahora su melodía
duerme con los ecos.
Definitiva y pura.
¡Con los últimos ecos!

Federico García Lorca

Performed by Manolo Caracol

He had a knife …

Arboglyphs    II                   


 He had a knife and a clean aspen.

He left out the bleating, the bells, the blades of grass.

He carved the bark: “What a beautiful place to grow old

without my beloved”.


He had the nails at the end of his fingers.

He had himself, the height of the trees, the lambs.

He scratched the bark: “Gypsy, a trap

for wild doves”.


The aspens tapped the soil, grew on, slurred the words.

He drove the herd down to the 1,000 metres.

He cut a fish, a star, body parts, the bark of a dog.

“My only pain is that of a woman…”


He had a tongue no one spoke that side of the sea.

He had a tongue to lap ewe’s milk from a bowl.

He left messages for the odds to come: “All is mine,

all is mine, all is mine”.


All this thick tough grass, this trial of trees, these foreign sheep.

He had them in thousands, someone else’s chagrin.

He had turned into the myth with the golden fleece: “At home

they think that we are heroes”.


But we are nothing”, read the aspens,  and

 “This and this and that and my thigh”.

 From Cry Wolf, Straid Award, Templar Poetry 2012