Carta a una musa - Por ser viento eres mi alimento

Esta es una carta a una amiga anónima - escrita en Mayo del 2007 cuando vivía en Edmonton, Alberta,  En esa época recién el personaje de Eaglehook comenzaba a moldearse: 

Aprovecho para comentar que admito ser un poco raro - por que a veces me comunico con metáforas, sarcasmos, ironías, eufemismos y demás figuras retóricas.  Es que en realidad tengo una necesidad enorme de expresar mis sentimientos y la palabra escrita me limpia el alma, me tranquiliza y me ayuda a poner mi vida en perspectiva. 


Casi "mato" al pirata-tiburón (cara de hombre y mano peluda) en mi "Farewell del Marinero".  No se si te diste cuenta pero no tuve coraje de ahogarlo; lo deje naufrago pero buscando salvavidas… de ahí que es una historia inconclusa… A mi me gusta ese personaje pero no se encaja dentro de lo que soy en esencia… me gusta que me las mujeres me miren un tanto arrogante – algo que yo no puedo; quizás por la vanidad de sentir que el marinero acumula trofeos contando sus conquistas.  


Una interpretación mas exacta de mi poema vino de una amiga peruana que me escribió diciendo que posiblemente ese corsario debe tener un amor  real, sincero, dejado a un lado por tanto viaje, una mujer ya no tan joven que lo espera fiel y anhelante... aun sintiendo dentro de ella que el no volverá, y a pesar de ser triste la razón, prefiere creer que es la muerte quien lo aleja de ella y no la voluntad del marinero.


Lo que vale en todo esto es como ya dije, es que no tuve coraje de ahogarlo…  Un día de estos me animo y le tiro una soga para sacarlo de su miseria! ¿Qué te parece,  trazo un final feliz  junto a su doncella olvidada?


O lo dejo ahí a la deriva para que lo recoja Santiago, el protagonista de "El Viejo y el Mar" de Hemingway; para que le enseñe de una vez por todas a dejar de ser facineroso y lo adiestre a transformarse en un verdadero hombre del mar.


¿Y adonde estas tu en todo esto? -  Eres el viento que mueve los molinos que ponen en marcha mis sentimientos en palabras. 


Ser musa de un marinero provoco un despertar fugaz, intenso y bello – son pocas las mujeres que me inspiran;  eso lo digo yo y no el marinero.   Que a pesar de imposible siento el calor que me une a ti a tanta distancia. 


Soy feliz por que es inolvidable haberme rendido al subconsciente y darle control de mis riendas, apuntando sus mensajes en palabras, sin significado concreto, inesperado, irracional o lo que salga.  Por eso te digo ¡que por ser viento eres mi alimento! Gracias amiga.


Por eso que no te preocupes que sea un poco raro… no pienses mucho en mi que yo me ocupo de eso… ya te dije me gustas perfumada, sonriente, y dispuesta a soñar libremente…aun que todo se quede en solo palabras.


Cesar

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Este es el original de "Chupentanga en alto mar - Recuerdos del LLaoca" que menciono en la carta a mi musa anónima:

Adios al Marinero,


Me inspire en el Farewell de Neruda, pero no precisamente en el niñito que se aleja al final y que nos hace a todos llorar…. Esta es la historia  del adiós al  marinero de Farewell … ese que caletea de puerto en puerto, y de puerto en farra; ese que no encontró a quien decirle adiós ni nadie que lo despida.
Como nos decía el Maestro Neruda…”En cada puerto una mujer espera…los marineros besan y se van. (Una noche se acuestan con la muerte en el lecho del mar.)”


Léxico:
•"chupentanga" - palabra mía que significa embriagarse.
•"chalacas" son guapas hembras que habitan Callao, 

   puerto principal del Perú 
•"abirrinchado" es olor fuerte a letrina - 

   hedor a orín impregnado en el ambiente.


Farewell al marinero…  (recuerdos de una angioplastia…)
(Cesar Macher)


Tesoro y Chupentanga :
Armado con dientes de tiburón y con brazos de pulpo
Atiborro de cebiches, ron con anticuchos.
Todas las noches el corsario pinta sueños
chalacas desplumadas escondidas en bodega.


Intrépido:
Navega por mares lejanos a donde fuera.
Empuña el timón contra el empuje de corrientes peligrosas
El mástil de palo duro en péndulo resiste al jale de la quilla
Cada cresta amenaza arrancar la proa que él valiente incrusta
Rompe olas.


Sin rumbo:
Confundido por los años ya va tuerto el marinero
Tufo de ron, hedor de colchón abirrinchado duerme 
Orina fuera de borda e infla sus velas
Buscando viento en popa a donde fuera
Con resaca eructa vinagrera


A la deriva :
Su pecho fatigo las tuberías, olvidado sin recuerdos
Excretando pestilente lodo por sus bridas
Atorado flota nauseabundo de asco a la deriva
Dolorido, rajado y buscando salvavidas
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Para despedirme les dejo otro bosquejo mio también de la época de Edmonton

La rueda del olvido (CM)


En circulo desfilan los recuerdos
Giran al compás de un danzar eterno,
En ritmo alegre retumban descargando corriente,
Sinfónica cosquilla que estremece-envuelve


Al cruzar deja un embriagante encanto
Que arranca ansias y nostalgias vivas.
Pero de costumbre castiga a la salida
Dejando siempre vació al punto de partida 


Lentamente se llena una lagrima
Que al resbalar evoca regrese
Se instale centinela dulce melancolía. 
Que sin ti el círculo no completaría.

Change (the only constant)

     I am attempting to be more disciplined but I did not go swimming last night.  Time just slipped past me as I was trying to fix my laptop (my Skype is running too slowly)... but with a few exceptions I am going to the gym and pool almost every day these days... it is part of a self-imposed "discipline" a Spartan revival of sorts in preparation for big challenges that are looming around the corner. “Mens sana in corpore sano”.
     The topic of this blog came up as I reminisced about the day I was having a cup of coffee with a dear friend about two weeks ago.  In the middle of our conversation and without pretensions on my side, the following phrase slipped from my mouth:
    “You know something my dear… change is the only constant in my life”. 
     But as I said that, she interrupted me in the only way she knows how to interrupt, that is, very gracefully.  She repeated my words slowly looked straight at me and smiled.
     “I love what you just said”, her eyes sparkled with admiration “change is the only constant in your life”. 
     At that point she made me reflect and those words echoed with meaning!
   “Yes, so true” I said, “as paradoxical as it sounds, change is the only constant in my life; I feel like a rolling stone for I will never gather moss”. 
Considering the deleterious consequences of my inability to grow mo$$ as the privileged do, I would say that my remark is an accurate assessment of how I have lived my life so far.
    My friend is such a precious gem, those that pirates like Eaglehook would like to retain very dearly at any favorite port!  If I were to describe her most prominent attributes, I would certainly include her enchanting femininity and alluring scent!  Oh my goodness …. Hot, hot  “candela mujer”!   I love the way she makes me feel important and much wiser than I truly am! 
     For those of you who are not familiar with my blog, Eaglehook the pirate is the main character of a spicy fairy tale I have started and that is still on the works.  He is a survivor, and for that he needs to be responsive to change otherwise he will be defeated by the witch of prejudice.  He is committed to save the Queen (of all desires) from this hideous witch, but instead got himself trapped by a platoon of three-headed hounds and grotesque goblins sent by the witch.  Now he lays captured in a dark dungeon, left to rot! 
     Eaglehook not unlike his utmost foe, the witch, is also a master of deception; I am certain that he will get himself out of that hole.  He has the unbending will of a hero and lives his life accordingly. He is resolute to the point that he would be willing to sacrifice his flesh and in turn have his invincible spirit execute his ultimate maneuver to save his loving Queen.
     I admire his high standards and tonight I wish take him out of the dungeon so that we can learn from him in a different way... Let’s recall what I wrote about him back in April last year, on the episode called “The Witch of Prejudice”. 


Fly to burn (cm Apr/09)
For a taste of your black magic
Wicked witch let me succumb;
And be devoured by the rats
That infest in your filthy dungeon.
You have captured me in good time;
Go ahead and let me die
For the flesh that you have caught
Lives a the spirit of a moth
Thwart your plan is my delight
Spin and gyre round your lamp
Wings in smoke I drop my poison
Drink to implode your wicked soul.


     There you go, that was a snapshot of his spirit - cheers, to you Eaglehook. 


A world traveler, he has circumnavigated the oceans countless times. That is why when I think of him I imagine him provisioning the “Black Pearl” in preparation for his next adventure. Of course along with his dozen crew of loyal buccaneers, who as the story goes are half-human and half-ghost for they have been cursed to remain in that amorphous stated by the wicket witch herself!    

Response to Laura: Words

Laura, thanks for posting on my entry Potpourri , I am glad that you liked what I wrote and I also know that it takes courage to post something for the first time. Sometimes I receive accolades from people who read my stuff but only a few leave a record for others to read. 
I like to read, but not only poetry… I even enjoy “reading” a finished sudoku puzzle and gratify myself with the accomplishment!  
In Spanish for instance, I like the work from my Peruvian compatriot Cesar Vallejos, and all the verses of the great master Neruda (the Chilean Olympian of words) – who now rejoices among the elites of the Olympus and sits at the same table with Zeus together with Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe and other classics of the English language.…Yes, I enjoy reading but likewise I also indulge in eating, sleeping, or walking a dog if one is available!
A lot of people tell me that I should do this or that and some have venture telling me that I should write for a living . Wow! I have even thought of joining poetry circles on the various places I have lived; to hang out with those who may think of themselves as being more equal than the rest. But I prefer the anonymity of the internet, of mingling with the masses, plebeians, drunken poets, bohemian or anyone who loves words and uses them to express feelings or thoughts.  Blogging gives you that advantage: anyone from anywhere and from all walks of life can read your writings and you can read theirs and share thoughts (with kings and paupers just the same!) 
I don’t like pseudo-intellectuals, persons who can recite, quote and name the writing of many simply to impress others and like them much less if they have the audacity to “price tag” your work. – pompous they conduct themselves as if they possessed some divine authority to judge. Emphatically, I am suspicious of these “virtuosos” with giant memories filled with the words of others but who cannot produce meaning of their own creation.  
You may wish to enlighten your spirit by reading from the “literary giants”; or you may even want to emulate their style by virtue of their intrinsic beauty.  Yes, I agree with anyone who endorses that reading from the great writers is incredibly rewarding.
But it is not a prerequisite to “educate” your intellect with the words of others to be able to write from within - your own suffice to to connect with your soul.  The creative process of how words take meaning and how they capture the essence of thought it is an intimate experience.  In that regard, words that explain your feelings and connect to your soul are innate to the creator (the poet) and nobody else.  
I like to say that when I am inspired, I enter into a "zone", a space where words float around my mind, then I filter them through my heart, choose them like picking cherries, and then compose for meaning.
Impostors who insensitively spew Chaucer and Joyce as to show a metric of their worth, are most certainly obtuse and deprived from understanding the true value words; particularly from the words written by the superb minds that composed the original versions they think to master – understanding comes with sensitivity, the ability to connect with meaning that flow through your senses and not from data-bank of extraneous knowledge.   
To illustrate my point, imagine a 5 year old girl tenderly holding a chick who has just hatched, stretching her arms and hands - with a smile and her eyes filled with discovery utters the word “yellow” … she has just composed her first one word poem at the age of 5.  
Now, a few seconds later she calls your attention again, and as she brings the chick close to her chest, she recites her poem for the second time and says “yellow”.  She has just concluded her act by adding meaning and sublime value to her creation, and perhaps bringing some tears in your eyes.  
I recommend you read what a Paulo Lopez who wrote on his blog about the subject.

Thanks for your visit, and come again. Cesar