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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