Nadie me salvará de este naufragio
si no es tu amor, la tabla que procuro,
si no es tu voz, el norte que pretendo.
Eludiendo por eso el mal presagio
de que ni en ti siquiera habré seguro,
voy entre pena y pena
sonriendo.
---------------
No-one can
save me from this shipwreck,
only your
love, the floating plank for which I search,
only your
voice, the direction for which I strive.
To avoid,
therefore, the evil portent
that not even
in you will I find a safe haven,
I go from pain to pain, smiling.
De “Tengo estos huesos hechos a las penas”
por Miguel Hernandez
I spent yesterday in Orihuela – the birthplace of
Miguel Hernandez. He is the type of poet I love – awfully sad, reflective on
his past, full of passions. Orihuela is a beautiful place. It reminded me of
Cascais, Portugal in the way that it is the colorful and quiet home to a less-than-well-off population of people. The colors, though, for me anyway, mask the
poverty in a way that highlights its rusticity. There was an apartment for a
sale in a small orange building with a balcony and a small chair that seemed
perfect for sitting and thinking.
Hernandez is infused in the city. He is in its soul. I sometimes
feel like Albany lacks inspiration; that there is no “vibe” there. In Albany I can only
write about silly boys and drinking too much but in Spain there is so
much to see, so much to feel. Outside of the school where Hernandez spent two
years of his childhood were enthusiastic boys with mischief in their eyes.
Around the corner a street was blocked off by the policia while the townsfolk
whispered and wondered what had happened. Inside of the cathedral was a
serenity and a sense of reverence for God that guilted me into timidez and
influenced a silent prayer.
Even now, as I write back in Alicante, I can hear
Tomás singing. His voice flutters across the courtyard. It is honey, sweet and
pure. Unrefined. I can’t make out all of the words but I can hear 'libertad', 'felicidad', 'Hermosa'. He tells me that he is a pacifist but that trouble always
finds him. “I am just living”.
This place is magical. Every day I have to remind myself that there is actually a reality waiting back for me across the Atlantic. That thought keeps me from floating too far off the ground. I'm thinking, though, that I should just let myself hover for a little bit. I'll be grounded soon enough.
