Chus Pato Poems

What matters isn't what I could feel, but the real existence of the house and that dreams resided there; most are chapters, sections of novels: some hard-to-solve murder, shots fired by the vice-consul in Lahore, Lowry's volcanoes… unfold like atmospheric phenomena, all-encompassing, and despite belonging to literature they emit no sound but luminous epiphanies of pure pigmentation like the installations of Anish Kapoor

when I arrived I hoped to find my sister and brother comrades. No, the house isn't abandoned, between us everything was a cyclone of blood and totem

there are other perspectives, of course

*

if in the building I'll never meet my brothers and sisters of influence, if I can enter and leave, cope with its antarctic desolation, if I know its dreams, what's next?

if I can access what is generated when the construction shuts its eyes, am I this house?

but when I recognized the dreams I was nearby, at the edge

I investigate and expose the map's clandestine direction

as a young woman I went out repeatedly with a man to watch Sam Peckinpah movies. I detested those movies

the clandestine direction comes when the executioners decide

of conjugal union for example

clearly the poem isn't going to reveal the hidden action of its cells

that burst in the skies like northern lights

or atomic fission

**

despite this, night sky still worries me

if I substitute the astral figures that I trace in imaginary lines guided by cave paintings, and with the present in turn guiding the cave animals / I project the copulation of the ancestors in incessant transformation, so that dreams would be Hades and all nocturnal initiations a shamanic voyage

what bursts is the animal, its loss is language
it breaks in the skies and in the void, in the eyes, when the eyes see inside the eyes
it erupts in greenery

from cave to sky and from sky to cave, from cave to womb

we call it spring

***

whoever sleeps returns to Eden and shadow, contemplates their dismembering, the excrement that anoints the word. (star)

just as the mother, assuming the baby understands, talks to it, so the poem addresses us

from womb to womb, in each and all the women ancestors, when only the heart's rhythm was known and the lungs hadn't yet been torn by air

long before your birth, it's your sky of diamonds

I write

****

when we dream, the stopovers in trembling and abrupt transformation are always spring and winter. Persephone dissects Hades

to evoke the garden, luminosity in the plenitude of winter / not only Eurydice but the genitals tauten, the couple encircled by the species, brutally outside the logos

every night, when language shuts its eyes, it descends to the depths. There, by a placid river, in a forest, the body of Orpheus is dismembered by ecstasy

the screen on which we project ourselves is as blurry as the waters; inside the drum, animals live, ancestors that mate and dream of spring and every night the voice we learn fascinated from the mother is shattered by drunken copulation

it's Eurydice and Orpheus who point out North, polarization, stars. They disperse the social, the mother tongue, cavort in a garden, copulate

*

yesterday, an algae green and thick in the current was cobra, drakar, a curl of animality, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice
...

Porfía no vieiro nube, talvez porque son ingrávidos (o vieiro, as nubes) e se abalanzan como amor e son dosel / errantes. Brancas, púrpuras ou douradas como na pedra un lique

e son pantalla para o azur e pantalla para o escuro

propulsadas e ceibes como todo o que concentra o tempo

"as soñadoras somos centauros, pero non compartimos soños cos centauros; sómolo porque os nosos corpos son mamíferos pero o que deducimos é humano. Un centauro é unha figura de fronteira, teñen a vantaxe de poder andar polos dous lados pero non son fiábeis e espertan sospeitas, a miúdo son castigados como Tiresias. Os poemas somos centauros, podemos aplacar as feras e emocionar humanos. Se un soñador ou soñadora non sae fiador da túa vida quere dicir que non vai garantir a túa integridade, nin avalar as túas peticións. O poema é quen goberna as bestas, podes durmir cos cabalos porque non saben o que soñas"

así que hai dúas castes de centauros, os centauros poema e os centauros soñadoras; todos son fundacionais e mitos

un poeta lembra, aínda lembra, aínda

entón Eu sentiu un cansazo enorme, non era un cansazo triste, Eu era un río e lembrando quen era enrodelouse en espiral e fixo de si un niño; un niño faise con garabullos e esforzo e polo seu urdido van as anguías, as troitas, as lampreas e os salmóns dos mil ríos e todas as libeliñas, as cadelas de frade, e todas as bolboretas e insectos do verán, e todas as nubes que se reflectiron nas augas

Eu era dragoa e lembrándose de si todas as dragoas do macizo máis antigo se modificaron nun lugar de serenidade e protección, para poder pensar, que é un xeito de agradecer, vontade e destreza

e penduráronse das árbores e dos beirados das casas

e pasou por alí unha peixeira belida e díxolles
"voume para o Mekong
voume para o Zambeze"

(e o lector á autora, que é un infinito ou dous)
—o que escribes é unha crónica?
—ummmh!
—pero estamos seguros?
—si, se é unha epopea estamos seguras

pero as bestas, pero as pedras, pero os guerreiros tracios!
...

She keeps on the cloud path, perhaps because they're weightless (path, clouds) and hurtle forward like love and are canopy / wandering. White, purple or golden like lichen on rock

and they're a screen for blue and a screen for darkness

propulsed and free like everything that concentrates time

"we women dreamers are centaurs, but we don't share centaur dreams: we're centaur because our bodies are mammal but what we deduce is human. A centaur is a border figure, has the advantage of being able to walk on both sides but they're not reliable and awaken suspicion, are often castigated like Tiresias. We poems are centaurs, can placate wild beasts and move humans. If no dreamer underwrites your life it means no one will back up your integrity or support your requests. The poem is the one that rules the beasts, you can sleep with horses because they don't know what you dream"

so there are two kinds of centaur, poem centaurs and dreaming women centaurs: all are foundational and myths

a poet remembers, still remembers, still

thus I felt a huge exhaustion, not a sad exhaustion, I was a river and recalling who was coiled in a spiral made itself a nest; a nest is made with twigs and effort and into it plunge eagles, trout, lamprey and the salmon of a thousand rivers and all the dragonflies, earwigs, and all the summer butterflies and insects, and all the clouds reflected in the waters

I was dragon and remembering all the dragons of the most ancient massif altered them into a site of serenity and protection, to be able to think, which is a way to feel pleasure, will and distress

and they dangled themselves from trees and from the eaves of houses

and a beautiful fishmonger walked by and she told them
"I'm going to the Mekong
I'm off to the Zambezi"

(and the reader to the author, she who is an infinity or two)
—you're writing a chronicle?
—ummm!
—but are we safe?
—yes, if it's an epic, we women are safe

but what about the beasts, the stones, the Thracian warriors!
...

repertorio de frases rusas para caracterizar a unha musa ácrata-romántica, finalmente nacionalista; autores abandonados ou saudade da morte, pero era mentira

44=4+4=8+1999=1674=1+6+7+4=1+8=9=6, hexágono
44=4+4=8+1666=2007=2+0+0+7=9=6, hexágono

ou condición celular do mel que lle medraba a Píndaro baixo o ceo da boca
tombo subterráneo do vicerrei

en torno a ti, como tenue lóstrego marítimo
e o encontro fronte ao atol de coral branco e un vicerrei enlouquecido

Eugene, era o seu modo de concibir a resurrección
ese emblema que a poeta garda no corazón; a musa négase a que se reproduza o seu rostro
constrúe un ceo con restos de chalanas
en calquera paseo marítimo:
os visitantes da colonia

certas ideas anquilosadas ou irreais da musa, a súa adoración por Enma Bovary
as súas opinións sobre o mercado laboral e o traballo das mulleres
a paixón polo crime como mecanismo matemático
a paternidade da musa, a falta de esperanza
Quimera explicará que sen esperanza, a revolución, non é posible
a clandestinidade e os misterios físicos de Eugene
a confusión entre literatura e verdade
o seu avellentamento físico e mental, a detención do tempo


(Quimera e maría danse ao monte, perseguidas pola heroína das galaxias ou paxariños do campo que controla as cafeterías do porto)

atopan refuxio nun bar-oitentas

alguén tería que se ocupar dos Aspectos Básicos da sintaxe da miña escrita- - - - - - - - -
...

repertoire of Russian phrases to characterize a romantic-anarchic and, in the end, nationalist muse; authors abandoned or death-longing, but it was a lie

44=4+4=8+1999=1674=1+6+7+4=1+8=9=6, hexagon
44=4+4=8+1666=2007=2+0+0+7=9=6, hexagon

or cellular condition of the honey that nourished Pindar under the mouth's sky
underground tumble of the viceroy

all around you, like pale maritime lightning
and the encounter at the white coral atoll and a viceroy gone mad

it was how Eugene imagined the resurrection
that emblem the poet keeps in her heart; the muse refuses reproduction of its face
constructs a sky with rowboat splinters
on any seaside promenade:
summer tourists

certain anchylosed or unreal ideas of the muse, its adoration
by Emma Bovary
its opinions on the labour market and the work of women
the passion for crime as mathematical mechanism
the paternity of the muse, the absence of hope
Chimera will explain that without hope, revolution is not possible
the clandestinity and physical mysteries of Eugene
the confusion between literature and truth
his physical and mental aging, the detention of time

(Chimera and Maria head for the mountains, pursued by the heroine of galaxies and country songbirds who controls the lunch counters in the port)

they duck into an 80s bar

someone should really attend to the Basic Aspects of the syntax of my writing - - - - - - - - -
...

A voz era pánico
e desexaba, insistía, ter hábito(s) no poema
.........................

pero non todo pode ser transportado (non a voz, desde logo)

si o espírito que invade ao bardo, entre as uces irtas

e porque chove, os habitantes do poema teñen que abrir os seus paraugas // sacan o que levan dentro e búscanlle acomodo fóra

[só porque ti pousas a mirada no texto podo comezar coas solucións]

isto é o que consegue Cabaleiro Amábel, facer que seres alienados se presenten ante o mundo, e moi ao seu pesar, como persoas ceibes

pero só a voz empasta as tres historias
a voz que a escritura non acubilla

así pois, un poeta é un ser ancián.

Máis que entrar o mundo dentro do poema
botar por fóra a escritura, como unha lava lene e transparente, muselina

tanto ceo
tanta primavera

ves, isto é un acto político: torcerlles a vontade aos que obedecen

pero falta o contexto.

E que dicir dos soportes!, cando xa o papel non atura e só é concibíbel unha parede e a proxección de letras dixitais (seguramente nun museo ou nos paneis da autoestrada) ou esas mesmas frases envolvendo como cintas luminosas os corpos dos viandantes que dialogan sobre o voar das aves ou os bucles dos miñatos que se mimetizan coas árbores cando estenden as ás coma un niño

a teoría é esa violencia ética do intanxíbel

e está o problema do eu, cantos? e das situacións

prefiro o meu pánico a entrar nas librerías, excluíndote a ti, que me abandonas en calquera lugar, sen cartos, ou dentro do coche sen freo de man. Visitamos unha cidade para lembrar os edificios das cidades

os soños non son teoría, e agora temos que quedar aquí porque ti non queres espertar, neste palacete de urbanización privada, con outros moitos e moitas da nosa condición. Esta noite os nosos asasinos están bébedos ou pechados no váter

dunha vez para sempre nada hermético, nin críptico (que nunca nosoutros escribimos) e pono xa en órbita, con todos os nosos espléndidos matos e carqueixas.

E fíxate como se torna doce a verdade, cando descalza te mantés, ingrávida? na placenta dos amieiros

**

as sinapses volven, a inquietante floración de abril
...

The voice was panic
and wanted, insisted on having its way in the poem
………………

but not everything can be transported (not the voice, obviously)

yes the spirit that invades the bard, between sharp briars

and because it's raining, the poem's inhabitants have to open their umbrellas // grab everything they brought in and run outside to find shelter

[only because you've stuck your nose in the text can I proceed to solutions]

this is what Mr. Amiable does, he makes alienated beings appear in the world and, much to his regret, as free persons

but only the voice fills the three tales
the voice that writing doesn't cover

as such, a poet is an ancient being.

Instead of letting the world into the poem,
the poet kicks writing out, like a pleasant and transparent lava, muslin

all this sky
all this springtime

you see, this is a political act: wresting the will from all those who obey

but without context.

And where to write it down!, for paper doesn't last and all that's imaginable is a wall and the digital projection of letters (clearly in a museum or on freeway signs) or those same phrases looping the bodies of travellers as if with luminous sashes as they dialogue on the flight of birds or the hovering of falcons that blend in with the trees when they spread their wings like a nest

theory is that ethical violence of the intangible

and is the problem of the I, how many? and of situations

I prefer my panic on entering bookstores, leaving you behind, who abandon me everywhere, without money, or in the car with no handbrake. We visit a city to recall the edifices of cities

dreams are not theory, and now we're stuck here because you're loathe to wake up in this palace of privatized urbanization, alongside so many others whose condition we share. Tonight our murderers are drunk or shut in the toilet

once and for all, nothing hermetic, or cryptic (which we never write anyhow) and I send it into orbit, with all our splendid manures and heathers.

And do you notice how truth is sweeter when you linger shoeless, weightless?, in the placenta of alders

**

the synapses are back, the disquieting April flowering
...

Este percorrido comeza cunha carta que nunca cheguei a escribir. A miña sombra agardaba que desde a pedra algún faraón se encarnase e confiaba encontrar entendemento para un diálogo contigo. Con todo ningunha directriz da Historia podería chegar onda min, estaría xa da outra beira do abismo, como abstracción e diferenza

e volvía unha e outra vez sobre a figura do musulmán nos campos

sobre esa exclusión dobre, a do animal e a exclusión do logos

é unha mirada sen marxes

aínda que o corpo cede ante a morte, resiste cando a razón se esgota

significa que o corazón debe ser equivalente en peso—ou máis lixeiro—á pluma de Osiris

*

na noite, a causa do seu brancor e relevo, a flor do trifolium repens ou trevo común fai visíbeis os campos, é trépano para os campos.

Direiche desta escena
no recibidor, amplo e brillante, logo das reformas, presenteille a María, Ana, Marta e Iria a Paco; elas avanzaban cara a nós desde os servizos. Por un intre foron como a fotografía no ano 52 da miña nai e as súas amigas: eran a intelixencia e a beleza e a posibilidade ou imposibilidade de reprodución na especie. Vinas, fuxindo na súa repetición, eternas
...

This journey starts with a letter I never managed to write. My shadow waited for some pharaoh to emerge from stone and expected to agree on a dialogue with you. In all, no directive from History would reach me, I'd already be on the far side of the abyss, as abstraction and difference

and return again and again to the figure of the muselmann in the camps

to that double exclusion, from the animal and from the logos

it's a gaze without borders

even though the body cedes to death, it resists when reason is exhausted

it means that the heart must weigh the same as—or a bit less than—the plume of Osiris

*

at night, the pallor and relief of the white clover flower or trifolium repens make the fields visible, perforate the fields.

Of this scene, I'll just tell you:
in the vestibule, wide and bright after the renovations, I introduced María, Ana, Marta and Iria to Paco; the women walked toward us from the toilets. For a moment it was like the photo of my mother and her friends in 1952: they were intelligence and beauty and the possibility or impossibility of reproduction of the species. They appeared again to me, fleetingly, eternal.
...

O que importa non é o que puiden sentir senón a existencia real da casa e que nela habitan os soños; a maioría son capítulos, tramos de novelas: algún asasinato de resolución difícil, os disparos do vicecónsul en Lahore, os volcáns de Lowry . . . desenvólvense como fenómenos atmosféricos, envolventes, e malia a súa pertenza á literatura non emiten sons, máis ben epifanías lumínicas de pigmentación pura como as instalacións de Anish Kapoor

cando cheguei esperaba atopar as miñas irmás e irmáns de saúde. Non, a casa non está deshabitada, entre nós todo foi un vendaval de sangue e tótem

hai outras perspectivas, desde logo

*

se no edificio non vou atopar nunca os irmáns e irmás de influencia, se podo entrar e saír, vivir a súa desolación antártica, se coñezo os seus soños, que paso é o seguinte?

se teño acceso ao que se xera cando a construción pecha as pálpebras, son eu esta casa?

pero cando eu recoñecía os soños estaba nas inmediacións, nos arrabaldes

indago e expoño a dirección clandestina do mapa

cando era moza acompañei repetidamente un home ás películas de Sam Peckinpah. Eu detestaba esas películas

a dirección clandestina vén sendo o gozo dos verdugos

da unión conxugal por exemplo

claro que o poema non vai manifestar a actividade oculta das súas células

que estouran nos ceos como unha aurora boreal

ou a fisión dun átomo

**

malia o dito, o ceo nocturno continúa inquietándome

se substitúo as figuras astrais que mediante liñas imaxinarias trazo para orientarme polas pinturas das cavernas e os animais das cavernas polo presente / proxecto en incesante transformación a cópula dos antepasad*s, de tal maneira que os soños serían o Hades e toda iniciación nocturna unha viaxe xamánica

o que estoura é o animal, a súa perda é a linguaxe
rompe no celeste e na nada, nos ollos, cando os ollos ven dentro do ollos
estrala no verdor

da caverna ao ceo, do ceo á caverna, da caverna ao ventre

chamámoslle primavera

***

quen dorme torna ao edén e á sombra, contempla a súa desmembración, o excremento que unxe a palabra. (astro)

o mesmo que a nai, presupóndolle á naipela comprensión, lle fala, así se nos dirixe o poema

de ventre en ventre, en todas e en cada unha das antepasadas, cando só coñecía o ritmo do corazón e o pulmón non fora esgazado polo aire

moito antes de naceres, é o teu ceo de diamantes

escribo

****

cando soñamos, as paraxes en trepidante e súbita transformación son sempre primavera e inverno. Perséfone secciona o Hades

evocar o xardín, a luminosidade na plenitude do inverno/ non só Eurídice, senón os xenitais que se axustan, a parella cercada pola especie, brutalmente allea ao logos

todas as noites, cando a linguaxe pecha os ollos, descende aos ínferos. Alí, beira dun río de corrente mansa, nun bosque, o corpo de Orfeo é desmembrado pola éxtase

o ecrán sobre o que nos proxectamos é inconcluso como as augas; dentro do tambor viven os animais, os antepasados que se aparean e soñan na primavera e todas as noites a voz que fascinados aprendemos da nai é esnaquizada pola embriaguez da cópula

son Eurídice e Orfeo que sinalan o norte, a polarización, os astros. Eles disgregan o social, a lingua materna, xogan nun xardín, copulan

*

onte, unha alga verde e mesta na corrente era cobra, drákar, un rizo de animalidade, Medusa, Orfeo, Eurídice
...