Euskal Idazleen Elkartea

Extracts from writer's works

Arregi Diaz de Heredia, Rikardo

Poetry

Erran, erran

TELL ME, TELL ME

Tell me, tell me
what the movements of the fish were like on the bottomless beaches,
tell me how easily our heartbeats burnt out among the dancers,
and about the suffering afterwards.

Tell me, please tell me
about the weariness of the clouds left on the city's stone steps,
how the whales sought the azure path to the moon,
tell me why doors do not turn to dust like ancient roses,
and about the mechanism in old statues that moves one foot ahead of the other.

Tell me, tell me
about the beginning and the end,
about how we drank the sweetest hemlock in silver rings on that train bound for Brno.

Remember
the peals of laughter the strawberries caused,
and the kisses
and your mouth flowing with honey among the mirrors,
and the smell of coffee coming through the organ pipes.

Tell me, please tell me
why you illuminated the night of stones,
why you fed the owl.

FALLEN PAPERS IN THE STREET

The wet road surface reflected
various, everlasting street lights.
They live, die and live for an instant
in the dark eyes of a single planet.
Damp sheets billow in the wind and
keep on composing abstract images.
And we sought refuge on the other side,
as a fly does when caught in the coldest snow
with the onset of winter.
And Who should be told, or How or When
about the alchemy produced by the mirror
in a single second? The most begging of beggars.
Like the one who crossed the street
at the same time each day.
We remember the days and houses,
the time when we loved the truth.

The fallen papers in the street became wet
and the ink of their words ran.
Memories will henceforth come to us
from the future.

FROZEN DREAMS

Is it a face or bouquet of flowers
there on the threshold?
In the evening the smooth sound
of that imaginary flute throws everything
into confusion:
people's voices, cars,
bewitched spirits in the dusk.
The eye goes from window to window:
Behold the leaves and birds,
Behold the lurching trains,
the sounds of the siren, the murmuring,
the frozen dreams in one's hands.

LOVE POEM I

I've gone after every single
witch and wizard.
I'm an expert in all kinds of superstitions.
I've made careful use of
all the gestures, games and words
conjured up for finding love.
I've borne in mind
the tradition you have in your country,
the one which comes from distant Madagascar,
and which old books
preserve in darkness,
so that my hands can fly beyond
the limits you have set.

I've gathered together all the vestiges
left everywhere by your body.
Nail clippings, the little hairs you have shed,
your shirts soaked in sweat.
I've boiled them all at dawn
with freshly picked flowers,
and I've burnt them all on stone altars
as Venus appears,
I've bathed them in quicksilver in the moonlight
and secretly buried them
under your roof.
Seven times I've been round the house on seven occasions
uttering witches' curses,
and I've carefully repeated
the alchemists' formulae.
And all at the right moment,
because I know all about
the place favoured by the stars
in the Palenque horoscopes
when you were born.

But it was all to no purpose.
Your reasons, you son of the Enlightenment, have rendered all my spells useless.

Now I've pinned my hopes
on genetics,
and I've started gathering
your vestiges once again.
Nail clippings, little hairs,
your infertile fluids.
With scientists I shall analyse
your pheromones, your amino acids,
your enzymes, your cold molecules.
We will soon prepare
the most reasonable potion,
so that my hands can fly beyond
the limits you have set.