MUJER DEL ENCUENTRO

Mujer:
¿Será coincidencia encontrarnos en un mismo eclipse?
No debe ser jamás coincidencia 
encarnar en la hebra del tiempo
al amor en la misma centuria 
habiendo tanto Universo 
De aquí yo podría cobijar a la luna en su insomnio de luz en relámpago
Abrirte las alas en vuelo de nupcias 
Y besarte los labios
Mujer,
¿Por qué no asesinar al espectro 
que aun nos persigue celando dragones ?
No permitiré yo jamás 
que otra mirada de Venus 
deslinde mis ojos en un precipicio
Jamás te amaré 
en un cuerpo distinto a tu cuerpo
Es este verso el que dibuja la tez de tu rostro 
transmutado en diez mil luminares 
Te espero en la tierra bebiendo
6 años de vida 
para que coincida la magia de vernos el alma 
en solo un cuerpo 
El destino en su ejes aéreos
echaron la suerte y aquí estamos 
mirándonos en un equinoccio de soles 
6 años adelante de tí 
Cruzamos caminos con respecto al tarot 
Será un solo encuentro total el que hagamos
Venimos los dos a seguirnos amando a destiempo 
a pesar de los Dioses Inmensos 
en dos almas completas.

Venimos los dos a ser uno solo por fin 
despeñados en un mar de gardenias
Venimos los dos a está tierra
A amarnos en cuerpo eternos.

Paul Paniagua
Réquiem de Amor
Copyright 2012

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CUANDO ÉRAMOS JÓVENES

En su adolescencia

le brotó el amor de su pecho

Te prometo las flores

de un azahar de naranjos, le dije.

¿Las quieres?

En sus labios

desnudó  su sonrisa

en un hormigueo de inquietudes

Asintiendo, me dijo que sí

Alzó su mirada de luz infinita

ofreciendo

el Edén de sus ojos

en su arrebato de novia

Cuando llegó el amor de verdad

Ya era ella mujer

Me entregó ella su Vida

en una Iglesia en su canto de pájaros

En ese arrebato de aire invisible

murieron los ángeles

en una borrasca de amor

Fue el cielo el testigo

Paul Paniagua 

Réquiem del Amor

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ESCRIBIR

Escribo

a veces

para escapar

el Terror de vivir

en ausencia

Otras

para cerrar

el abismo

del Verso

en un cuerpo

que duele

Será el misterio

en tus ojos

mi tumba

total

Paul Paniagua
Requiem del Amor
Copyright 2012

CON DESTINO A MERCURIO

El velero en sus orbes engulle

su mar asediado por un sol asesino

traspasa su dorso

respira sus olas 

Emerge su cuerpo  encendido en azul

Esa mujer lleva  camino  a Mercurio 

Lo vi en sus ojos decirlo

Te deseo un abismo, 

le dije

¡Suerte! 

No volvamos a vernos

contestó  y se fue 

Yo le dije:  está bien 

acepto el adiós

Le di sólo un beso 

y murió aquel capítulo de hojas 

en esa mejilla sabor a durazno

Hoy resucito la angustia en este papel

No supe jamás 

el porque  del adiós

El verso lo siente aun en su sangre

Asesina

Paul Paniagua

Réquiem del Amore 

2012

HOY TE SUPULTO

Tú fuiste,

el ángel de ensueño,

y yo sólo un cuervo.

Extiende tus alas y vuela.

Total

el sol calcinó mis anhelos de plumas,

No quiero volar más contigo,

vuela tú sola a Mercurio.

Amiga yo sólo soy cuervo en tus ojos.

Vuela,

huye hacia el cielo.

Me quedo sin alas tranquilo.

Algún día nos veremos.

Sacaré el perdón de mi pecho

embriagado de ti en mi mano.

Será el número 7 y el último.

¿Quién podrá en el olvido arrancarte las alas?

No encontrarás tus huellas de besos jamás en mis labios.

No serán tuyos jamás otra vez.

HOY TE SEPULTO

Sin Trompo de Poner 2011

ÉRASE UNA VEZ

Érase una vez la mujer

cavilando en sus ciernes el verso

Rosicler que tiñe el durazno

en una silueta fatal

Érase una vez

la muchacha

La manzana:

sus labios

el cerezo exquisito

volcando  su arpa  en rapsodias

Eran lunas de plata en su voladura

Su color:

el amante asesino del mundo

en la tierra del TIGRES

Érase una vez la mujer la aurora

en su exorcismo

El viento: el contorno del cuerpo

Un espejismo total

Endigando sus mil querubines

El árbol allî,

con camino hacía ella

Allí

Érase ella el  encanto

el fruto prohibido

Allí la mujer en sus ojos

de mar encendido

mirándome en un eptitafio

Érase ella  un AMEDEO MODIGLIANI  

en su absoluta belleza

En un girasol acentuaba el MAGENTA

en su labios

Érase ella el encuentro en su magia

la explosión del color

en sus óleos

Érase una vez la mujer

Allí postrada mirándome

Yo dibujaba su alma en el óleo

Érase una vez la mujer en mis brazos

REAL…

Paul Paniagua

Requiem del Amore

SIN TROMPO DE PONER por PAUL PANIAGUA: LA COLIFLOR

SIN TROMPO DE PONER por PAUL PANIAGUA: LA COLIFLOR: La coliflor traga lombrices de tierra; nunca las haya dormidas, estudia sus túneles y cuevas secretas. Le atraen también las hormigas. La ...

LA COLIFLOR

La coliflor traga lombrices de tierra; nunca las haya dormidas, estudia sus túneles y cuevas secretas. Le atraen también las hormigas. La coliflor parece un cerebro humano olvidado. Se entierra hasta la altura del entrecejo fruncido en la tierra; asoman sus dos hemisferios. Es comestible, adopta una nueva postura. Mira hacia arriba. Le atraen las legumbres y otros repollos vecinos; carece de sexto sentido. Es vergonzosa. Sigue enterrada; frunce la frente. Nadie le mira su rostro. Siente el sol en el cráneo. Esconde los ojos. Bucea de píe. Es inconspicua.

Paul Paniagua

Copyright 2012

Sin Trompo de Poner

NOTAS MUSICALES

Las innumerables variaciones musicales de la clave de Sol enloquecen a Re, y no se diga lo que pasa con Do menor en la pista. Son la conga y los timbales los que se alegran cuando suena el piano. En el pentagrama musical, hasta la guitarra ruge cuando llega el bajo y suena el saxofón. No hay trombón ni trompeta que resista a Sol en la Salsa. En la escala de Sol Mayor todo es sabor. No hay síncope ni redobles difíciles para los tambores. Aquí todos en el salón, nos llevamos bien, entre líneas.

THE LINE

The line is a genuine experiment of balance to abolish disorder and inefficiency. Generally, it is found in hospitals and government offices, or on city streets among candy stores, newspaper stands, meat stores, tortilla factories, supermarkets or hot dogs stands. The line extends endlessly through out the city between secret streets and mountains; it grows in between Gordian knots and unforeseen turns as it merges unto others. It is formed by perpetual links that entrap everybody.

The line, however; is fun in amusement parks and beaches. The line is an elusive phenomenon adorned with pastel and white-colored blouses, neat and tidy shirts and t-shirts; tuxedo when a late marriage license is being processed. It is composed of professional fighters, photographers, gymnasts, journalists, soccer players, rock stars, famous wrestlers, mountain climbers, stay-at-home moms, writers and ordinary people. There are hair-stylists and barbers that begin beauty school with people that are part of the same line. There are great companies that have originated from waiting and models that started their careers there, also hospitals and prosperous mortuaries. Even circuses and rock concerts begin their business while making the most of their spectators. Chihuahua’s and hippos stand in line next to their owners just like in the circus; there are neither crocodiles nor lions, to avoid a tragedy. The line parodies an inept bureaucrat. It was useful in the mexican revolution to line up conservatives heading to the execution wall and in France, on their way to the guillotine. But, the line is also a trap that can be fatal for those who at last arrive at the service window, and forget the purpose for which they stood in line. Torture is the appropriate

punishment for those who slip in to advance forward illegally, or for hustlers who stand in line for others for personal profit or for those who show disdain for this bureaucratic wink. The line favors the commencement of a romance with a distracted girl or boy in some secret chamber, unify a country; and ensure the survival of the species.There have been irresponsible attempts to abolish or dismiss the line by assigning a ticket number to the victims or by setting appointments by phone, but they have all failed. The line will always be indispensable while human imperfections exist and government bureaucrats waste time planning vacations or reconcile their checkbook at work. The line is a perpetual patrimony and national heritage. The line is inevitable.

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ON MOVING MOUNTAINS

From the beginning he always wanted to move mountains with his faith.  At the age of five he began by trying to move spoons, forks and marbles; later, as a teenager, he continued trying with tops and Mexican cup-and-ball toys but without success.  As an adult he attempted stones and bricks, and still no success.  He studied the Torah, Kabbalah, the Quran, the Gospels, and a hundred different philosophical systems . . . but still he never managed to move anything from anywhere.  Everywhere he went he would try moving an object, because he knew that with a bit of faith the size of a mustard seed he could move a mountain.  At least that’s what he’d been told.  

What he really wanted was to move Mt. Everest to the Mojave Desert and do away with the inferno where he lived.  He tried strengthening his faith by doing push-ups, squatting on his haunches, meditating afternoons and evenings.  He would close his eyes and gesticulate with his hands as if he were levitating the highest Himalayan ranges and transporting them through the sky without causing an accident or earthquake in the attempt. Then he would draw the curtain of his bedroom to see if it had worked.  He would open his eyes and open them again, hoping to see that eternal mountain but . . . nothing; everything stayed where it had always been.  The failures accumulated and he never did learn to move mountains, although the desire never left him.  

As a last recourse, he joined the first church he could find that promised to increase his faith to the monumental dimensions required.  Nothing of the kind happened. Not even a modest hill, as far as can be ascertained.  In light of this disappointment he suspended the effort and decided instead to improve the air conditioning in his spacious home and take in every orphaned child he could find to save them from the sweltering desert heat.  Next he founded a clinic to rehabilitate drug addicts who were on the verge of suicide.  He dedicated the rest of his life to building hospitals and orphanages.  He even rescued giraffes and snakes.  He saved a life here, another life there, a home here, a home there, for the rest of his days.  People began seeking him out, leaving everything behind to follow him.  People came down from the hills and mountains, from villages and towns, even whole cities came looking for him. 

He never moved mountains; they ended up moving themselves.  People loved him for his faith, of whatever size it was.  It all happened without him realizing it—committed, doing good the only way he knew how.  It never occurred to him that mountains have feet and hands, and that they walk from town to town smiling from ear to ear.  Nor did he think people could steal his heart as he served and loved the poor.  Mountains flocked to him endlessly.


Translation by Prof. David Rock

NO CLOUDS

In the end,

let someone else write my poems.

What is there left for me to say?  

There, a lily,

there, some jasmines,

there, the dew on your lips,

there, the moon burning the night,

there, the night in pain,

there, the blue stars shivering.

What is there left for me to say?  

Here you come, repentant now,

your downcast eyes.

I’d rather be banished.

I can’t live with your lies.

It’s no use. I’ll have to sleep in Phoenicia;

I’ll have to learn Phoenician.

Cast your ashes into the sea and that’s it.

No clouds to cloud any stars,

as Gonzalo Rojas once said.

Blessed be his name, tonight.

Translated by Prof. David Rock

WITHOUT BORDERS

There are more elbows* than meet the eye, if we include ankles, knees, knuckles of both hands and feet, and even some brothers, uncles, friends and acquaintances of mine; and of course the people of the lovely state of Monterrey, Mexico.  And—why not?—my buddy Joan who never picks up the check when he invites me to eat watery elbow-macaroni soup or tuna and elbow-macaroni.  Elbows are innumerable, even infinite.  They flourish.  They make the rules.

*Translator’s note:  The Spanish word for elbow is codo. In colloquial usage codo also designates a stingy person, a tightwad.

 Author: I attempt to put to rest the false myth that  people born in the State of Monterrey are stingy.

Translator Professor David Rock

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MY LAST BABY TOOTH

One night I was wiggling my loose tooth and it popped out. I was happy to see it come out. It was my last baby tooth. In the mirror I saw a small blood stain on the gum which gradually disappeared from between my teeth. There was a big hole now which my tongue covered up, ashamed. As I looked at the tooth, I noticed it was shining, silvery like the moon at night. I was surprised to think that my mouth was shiny; someone had told me this before but I never understood why. It didn’t occur to me that a molar could be so beautiful.

I rinsed my mouth and ran to show the marvelous tooth to my mom. She looked at it and told me it was silver. She told me how she had taken me to the dentist who, while I was asleep, had put the crown on my tooth. I never knew that. Mom took a look at my new smile. With her finger she touched the new tooth that had begun to sprout in the hollow space and had pushed out the other tooth. “Marieanne,” she said, “I can see your new little tooth; it’s white and shiny! I smiled. 

I watched Wizards of Waverly Place and for a while I forgot about everything. It was late, I could see from the clock. I brushed the rest of my teeth, took a shower, and puton my pajamas. I read a poem, said my prayers and got into bed. But first I carefully placed my silvery tooth under the pillow, hoping for a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

I woke up at 7:30 the next morning anxious to see what the Tooth Fairy had left for me. I knew my tooth was special. I doubted that anyone else had one like it. I thought it must be worth a fortune. I lifted up the pillow and was surprised to see that the Tooth Fairy hadn’t left any gift or money in exchange for my tooth. I asked Mom what had happened. She explained that the Tooth Fairy didn’t want to bother me while I was sleeping, since I had a bad cold and wasn’t feeling well. I thought that was nice of her. I had slept with a fever. I think mom stayed up with me all night. 

I told Dad what had happened and he promised me the Tooth Fairy would come that night. Hearing that made me want to go to sleep. I knew the Fairy would come, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to give her my tooth. I sat back up on the bed and wrote her a note: “Dear Tooth Fairy, This silver tooth is a special treasure. It’s filled with memories and lots of delicious scrumdiddlyumptious flavors. If you don’t need it, please don’t take it.” I left the letter under my pillow and lay down again. Dad kissed me on the forehead and turned off the light in my room. I snuggled under the blankets and this time I really fell asleep. The Tooth Fairy accepted my proposal, leaving me the tooth and a stunningvsurprise.

Sin Trompo de Poner
Copyright 2011

By Marieanne Paniagua 

NOVEMBER

November is leaves swifting all around. 

Suddenly, it gets a little chilly. 

I put on a sweater; I run 

It makes me a little hot.

I take my sweater off.

November is leaves swifting all around. 

I fill the wind, a little breeze. 

I sit down on a bench. 

The wind stops.

I start to run again.

November is a stirring of leaves all around. 

It gets a little cold for me; colder than I like 

I think it’s time for me to go inside.

I walk home, 

leaves fall upon the frozen ground 

The paths of autumn wear browns, 

yellows and its reds

I get home: I go inside 

It’s warm inside 

Dad waits for me

I take a blanket ;

I wrap it around me 

I look out the window.

Autumn color’s are everywhere 

November is leaves stirring all around .

Written by Marieanne Paniagua

SIN FRONTERAS

Los codos podrían ser más, si incluyéramos los tobillos, las rodillas, los nudillos de los dedos de las manos y de los pies, inclusive algunos de mis hermanos, tíos, amigos y conocidos; y por supuesto, a esa linda gente de ese hermoso Estado de Monterrey, México. Y, ¿por qué no? a mi compadre Joan que se rehúsa siempre a pagar las cuentas en el restaurante cuando invita a comer sopita aguada de codos o atún con codos, aunque éste sea español. Los codos son innumerables y sin límites geográficos o étnicos. Los codos son muchos e infinitos. Los codos abundan. Los codos son ortodoxos.

Paul Paniagua

Sin trompo de Poner

Copyright 2011