Biography of Michel Galiana
Michel Galiana's mostly unpublished work consists of:
-two essays, entitled 'Beyond your Homeland' (1987) and 'Treatise on Indifference' (1989) in which he proclaims that he wants no part in the collective extravagances forced on us by State and Society
-two collections of narratives 'A Trip to the West Suburbs' (1991) and 'The Cry' (1993) .
And yet, poetry has always been to him a field of investigation, as well as a form of asceticism.
He wrote among others
- 'The Dream in the Orchard' (1990) where verse appears in a strict shape to assert the poet's rejection of the visible world,
- 'In Memoriam' (1991) , also keeping the strict canons of poetry
- 'Out of a Book of Hours' (1992) , a title borrowed from Rilke, which completes the former one and also gives account of poetical introspection but in a less structured manner.
Michel Galiana's Works:
The Dream in the Orchard
Bilingual editions, The Borgo Press (Wildside Press)
available via Amazon.com
Michel Galiana Poems
Dry garden. Stone and thought. And sky and quietness. Beyond the wall a tree that twists its gnarly trunk. In me there's no beyond. And all thinks and all weighs. A point where certainty may reconcile with luck,
Cat: Wild Cat
A coat of screams and yells lines a rug of ember, Circle surrounding him and mane that at him tears. When he perceives the pole wrung by his panic fears, He climbs up to the top and hopes to recover.
Your love never would have assuaged this hatred Which cast on me a spell that I could never tame. Its cry in me soars like, from the torture chamber, The song that convicts sing to alleviate their pain.
Your body, mainland that swells and roars over there, And sends out its doubts, its dreads and its wrinkles, Filling its mazes of barren chinks and crackles With tribes whose rumours cause your pallet to shiver.
A Public Garden In Madrid
No grass. The ground is bare -either stone or gravel- Strewn with empty bottles, litter, old newspapers. Trees, deprived of foliage, with no shade but their trunks'. Hard wooden benches and a few long stone ledges.
On the brink of slumber there are sparkling landscapes, With steep slopes of silence over still, peaceful ponds. In breathtaking heights fly over those quiet waves Flocks of waterfowl that glide along in thick bands.
Birth Of The Lyre
I Passed A carapace harbouring sheer silence, It smelled of mud and silt, motionless on the path, A shell where nights gather, if not a cenotaph,
Cat At Night
Whether the night haunts him or as a mask hides him, No matter, he knows where prey and fear lie in wait. Poacher whose skill daylight disregards as base cheat, But whose widened pupils know not of our chasm.
My gift was once a coin to buy wheat and power, Philtre that caravans carried to trade afar, Gold hand to enforce the Prince's rule and order, An invisible, yet ever haunting splendour.
Cat And Bird
The flight which you suspend haunts your quivering fur, Echo of wings by some caprice strayed from the sky. As you feel you could not follow the flight you spy, Your buried bound is dream, expectation, anger.
The Seemingly Dead Girl
And since a double night is consuming your brow, Since Heaven against your years has set ageless flow, Foams of desires floating above our blood like dews, Our bodies shall mimic the recumbent statues
Are you the light dancing ahead of the bowsprit? The reef you're heading for, which will be your respite? Yet I am the helmsman and I steer and I weight My holds with your ballast of darkness and of silt.
Inscription On A Stone Slab
I was caught in a whirl, with loud shouts and drum rolls, Flags streaming in the wind, delirious prophecies, Squirting blood... Suddenly, from their feasts I was torn And fell into rest which ignores time and worries.
From our two closed mouths a new island would surge. No vessel, no time would ever know of its ports, The ocean of our flesh would dash against its shores - An island that would be in innocence immerged,
Cat At Night
Whether the night haunts him or as a mask hides him,
No matter, he knows where prey and fear lie in wait.
Poacher whose skill daylight disregards as base cheat,
But whose widened pupils know not of our chasm.
Begotten by chaos to dwell in fields of fright,
He's used to vertigo and aware of its rights.
Across our obsessive fear up and down he strides,
Shy king of a dark realm that we're greatly missing.