memories of a rat - introduction - exordium

2008-05-17T15:15:00.001-07:00

MEMORIES OF A RAT

“The most valuable thing man has is life. It is given only once and we have to live it in a way that no torturous pain is felt for the wasted years, so that shame doesn’t burn for the vile and mean yesterday, and so that in the moment of death we could say: All my life and all my strength have been devoted to the most beautiful purpose of life: the struggle of the mankind liberation! And we have to hurry to live. Because a stupid sickness or any tragic accident may cut short the trend of existence”

Nikolai Ostrovski, And the steel was hardened.

INTRODUCTION

TWO, THREE.. MAYBE FOUR WORDS.

“He said to him:
Poets feed, live from air.
And the poet ate him”

J.R.S.

While society covers us with visible or invisible mantles, the poet reveals himself.
Human being frequently becomes in insensitive, unperceptive and not living funereal bales. The poet, however, shows himself to the others, to life, to the society from the space of his sensibility, from his observer eye, from his perceptions which sift them in order to convert them in words, in an organized and meaningful poetical text.
Not everybody is a poet. Are they chosen beings?
Once poet William Stafford was asked: “When did you decide to become a poet?”, and he answered: “Your question is incorrect. We all born as poets, we discover how words sound and work, we got interested and enjoy with them. I only went on doing it, what everybody knows how to do. So your correct answer should be: why do people are not poets anymore?”
We are lucky that Peru is the nest of a lot of poets, beings who have not lose the innocence, the purity, the obstinate persistence for revealing life in the course of their lives. So we are a country of privileged beings.
For the poet, the word doesn’t only inform: it expresses emotions, sensations, feelings and ideas. He transforms it to give it other meanings; he uses the sounds displayed by the words, he changes the order of these to make his verses; likewise, the daily logic of expressions; all this in order to make bloom details of the word, to obtain from it other senses, to smash the words on the sheet of paper and discover new faces, distinct aspects, new lives.
There are poets who make us think, and others who make us feel. Pedro Lopez Ganvini joins –there’s no doubt- the second group.
Pedro approaches –in this book of poems- to society through by a topic: the sex, which in a large part of his work shows itself in a violent, painful relationship which finally becomes calmed.
Walking by the art is a marvel, but it is also a hard way, wherein the quest is the permanent purpose of each day which -seemingly- never ends.
This third book of Pedro Lopez Ganvini, is not his start in the long way of the poetry. This is his third book. Because “walker, there’s no way...you make way by walking”

Juan Rivera Saavedra.
Dramaturgy

EXORDIUM

Real lives inspire these verses. Examples of lives not to be followed; but delightfully provocative, multiple experiences torrentially orgasmic.
Based on an epithet which expresses, under its nastier sense, vile, rabble, opportunist, crooked, ignoble, liar, hypocritical and evil; which is also referred to beings who have or had unfortunate and turbid lives; who lived consciously or unconsciously, whose lives were swept away by the waves of stormy seas.
The theme of parallel lives and/or lives is dealt, their intense gratefulness and their deep anguishes. The calm and the storm. Recognizing and loving the lived time means having balls. Experiences which for others would be madness or incredible unruliness.
Who writes is just an observer and surely a bad commentator; but disturbed and tempted by that as a lot of mortal ones. There are male and female rats.
Maybe you’re a rat or you’re part of the life of one of these rats. Indeed, each being carries a rat inside who sometimes is let to see the daylight and sometimes we let it go for a walk in the park.
From his sight and with his idiosyncrasy, the observer’s eye describes the things and says what he feels about life, love, women, sea and it all. He also says, between lines, with some silences, his skepticism about some matters

The Author.

poemas

2008-05-17T15:13:00.000-07:00

Baby
Even though I born again
I shouldn’t deserve you

To my owner,
the Poetry.
All for Her.

----------------------------

I shelter in you
every time coldness and existence
make my soul languish
and by the dawn of my daily happiness
the misfortunes and disappointments
tear the reflection of life.

The travel is short
The advance is less
The darkness lies in
the mad uncertainty

----------------------------

THE RAT

And though he’s a rat,
the female’s smell and sweat dilate him
As a tame snake
he moves and with gestures and cheers
bewitches her, dizzies her, sweetens her
and then he mates with her
It’s a marvel
Skills he carries in the veins
During moons, he inebriates of her
They curl up each other and by the summer they change of skin

--------------------------

I walk in darkness among tunnels and sewers
nasty noises and inebriating stenches
whistlings, mourning, and stertors
Nibelungs’ romances in ecstasy
water, wine, gin and whisky get mixed
I would like being out
but being inside is delightful
it’s dirty but full of lives.

---------------------------

WATER OF LIFE

I like traveling through
your curves and stumbling
falling into your abysses and
into your waters
getting ecstasized with your crests and waves
Swallowing your waters
And your seaweed
Kissing the sand and
Drowning of pleasure with
Your ravings and your saps
Involving me with your waves
Until falling nude at your feet and
Adhered to your belly licking salt water

---------------------------

Some nights we touch the sky
and we feed ourselves like
wild animals
in your jungle and in my madness
Sometimes we are branches with thorns
Mixture of red and green fruits
from yesterday, from today or from tomorrow
and I regret you’re who lose more
for loving me with madness
I know about your pain.
I beg your pardon
for first attending my selfish.

-----------------------------

Admitting being a bloodsucker or a rat,
even offending that beings,
is justifying the miserable
we consciously are.
But it’s delightful the multiplicity
Of pleasure with them.

----------------------------

I’ve decide to resist hunger and thirst
In a gap of my mind I am
and I avoid the lust as the temptation
the green and savoury meadow in my scope
means for the cattle.
But she comes radiant, slim and candid
the strength and stiffness break down;
she knows how to break my word
how to make me slip into her abyss
into her eternal “punishment” of fire.

----------------------------

Friend
They say time
is the best cure for oblivion
and the mistresses
the best consolation

Burning my lips
will not make me forget your kisses
nor the taste of your whole skin

Mentally I revealed myself
furthermore than what I say,
but I must not say it all;
there are secrets and silences which keep me alive.

-----------------------------

ROSEBUD

Take me borrowed as a medical sample
Make profit of my being
The rightful price is
the affection and the feverish skin and the stertors
the price of this free rent
with the great risk
is the maturity or the madness of love
Anyway
the end is sad and leaves wounds, but
it’s worth learning to live from life itself.

-----------------------------

ANGELS

They call them mistresses
In a despising way
And the “honest” women say it
in an arrogant way
They are sweetness, passion,
heat, comprehension and tenderness.
They fill and void
an existence
Sometimes they seem to carry on
sorrow and resentment
but for me, they’re angels
God put surreptitiously
on this world

-----------------------------

HERMIT

They’re not strangers for me
My insides know them
Their chilling silences and passions
Their warming, reviving fires;
And the killing ones
So I like to be lonely

I winter in what is mine
my insides understand me
though they don’t always comprehend me
Once that time has passed
I like the multiple company,
the kindness, the love and the passion
extreme and variegated
and in those days my beloved
fill me up a part of life
then comes the pause
I think on what to think about
I think on how to counterthink
It dawns and calms this dysfunction
I don’t know if the Andes
I don’t know if the bad wind
I don’t know if a tare
or a shit is what
makes me write this

----------------------------

ORIGINAL SIN

Feeling crying in her insides
in the deep darkness of her human being
carrying a being
keeps her silent, sordid and without compass
and surely she’ll feel that in the thick mist
she doesn’t sight neither a tall tree, nor peaks, nor sun nor moon
Her fear puts her sensitiveness, her happiness
and her vivacity away.

Being mother
at her age and in these times oppresses her
and silences her
Hidden she dozes the depression
Thousands of madness, tortures and sighs she exhales
To the wind of her entrails
Loving a man can’t be her guilt
the budding of her feelings
she fears they bring a child to her.

-----------------------------

A LINK

I want to be your blue prince
your pretended dream made reality
the exciting analgesic occupying a space
of your live and the place your age needs
The source and the flow of life which
calms you and fills this stage of your life
To be I want, the generator of your moans.

Take me as an experience that
enriches your life, one step
of the long ladder of
variegated affective steps

I want you to learn
To inhale me and to squeeze
my mind and my life
that several times dies
out of you

Your reality, your imagination
your instinct I pretend to be,
not your last man
your objective and your purpose.
Take me as the shooting star
that gives light, explains life and shows it
but only stays in the memory
and comes back fully and intensely
when you close your eyes

------------------------------

TORTURED BY THE VAGINA

She tortured me
with the fierceness of a furious taliban
with the cruelty of a nazi
She got me open-eyed
She opened and closed,
crossed her legs
as eastern muskets
with the coldness of a libidinous Arab
My agony was being just able to look it
but not to touch it, not to have it,
it was the end of the world.
I died of thirst and starved
For something from other time
from her (someone like her) I was born
Looking signified imagining more
and the torturous litany made my life
bitter and cruel
I didn’t received beats nor electricity
My being went on with its blood flow
grown angry for not having her
I lived my Calvary
I couldn’t die

-------------------------------

And I told them that I loved them
I looked at them, I conceited them
I rose them and made them feel mermaids
in exotic seas

-------------------------------

Among the people we know
the sights crossed each other
and then she savagely escaped from them
as the rodent from the hawk
as a swift airplane from enemy missiles
She feels guilty
of loving the wrong man
Shame and bashfulness she feels

--------------------------------

They’ll know
I wanted to flay her on the floor
With a taste of skin and carpet
It’s an exotic and different dish
Exquisiteness proper of Nero and her

---------------------------------

They say woman-chasers
will come back in their next life as “women”
If my life were long
one of those whores I would like being

For a rose
A garden or a vase
Of skin and juices from life
---------------------------------

Confused and scared
she faces her life with another life in her
to have or not to have
Such uneasiness wouldn’t exist
if the rat were free
Sometimes, life prevents us from having
inopportunely and inadequately
from frisking or gamboling a life
she knows it
he accepts the risk
but reality lulls him
he weakens and decides...

--------------------------------

The tree will never know
how his sprout would be like
the germinating seed who faded
whose destiny cut short
made itself unreal, silent and painful
The dreams blockaded
Got silent in the eternity
the caresses and little bells
But it will stay recorded
forever
in your body and our consciousness

-------------------------------

THEN...

Stays the calm
the macabre quietness
of the rats who ended untouched
even though the mournful coldness
has covered an
undefined, defenseless and innocent being
A matter of calculation, he says

------------------------------

On that day everything finished
her life
your life and my life
vanished as smoke
of a wax which fades
upwards, leaving
my eyes tearful,
my chest languishing
and my soul feeling guilty.

---------------------------------

And if one day she says to you
Whose turn is today?
It’s because night has ended.

Second call and she says to you
Whose turn is today?
It’s because time has flown
And you haven’t realized

Third call
I hope when you’re
In action with her, she fails to you
It’s because she’s mad and dull.

---------------------------------

MEMORIES

LINE 80

Get on!
People who wait, people who get on, people who come down.
There are places at the bottom
They complain, it’s full and be quick.
It stop in a corner, people rows
From outwards enters a smell of smoke, anticuchos
And corns and beans.
The smashed sidewalks from Jiron Trujillo
By the fucking ruts the bus hardly
lets me write a letter after other
and the hammering ass on the hard seat and
by the cushioning that this scrap had one day
the car goes on
I perceive people on the bus stops and walking
By everywhere
Stores, a pump, a church;
A dropped and dirty flag, forgotten since National Holiday
Advertisements, signs and dirty lanes
I perceive San Cristobal Hill
With it cross and its illuminated path
Further
In bus stops, the pirañitas
Who examine the people who wait,
who walk or travel.
Red light
The collector on the middle of the street take passengers
Who are waiting for a long time.
What a bullshit is to remember such way of life.

--------------------------------

Listening her speaking through the trend of the distance,
Feeling her voice, her anguish and her melancholy
By repeating while she listens
The uneasiness of the mother
Her countenance grows pale
Happiness and “quietness” vanish
And there appears traces of impotency
For the life of the one who gives you life
Then my anguish compresses and hangs itself

My mother was like that...
I know it is that goddam carcinoma

-------------------------------

I’ve unbridledly felt like
Submitting her horizontally
Under this body
Squeezing my being with pleasure
And managing to inoculate my sap
Wherein the immensity of life blooms
And drawing like a poet
As only in dreams we know to do.

--------------------------------

I’m a rebel
I’m an unsatisfied taster
A hermit who carries a female
As heart
A scoundrel of love
A drunken and addict
Of deep passions
A plastic surgeon of smooth and lush skins.

------------------------------

FRESH BARLEY

Wide open-eyed
The bottles stayed in the box
They looked to us, they looked to me
My thirst was their answer
My spite their blue poison
My friends my sweet connivers.

----------------------------

Entering, seeing other males in line
Feeling the flow of something from oneself towards the tiles, the pawing stones
or the floor
At the end if it’s cold, a trembling in the body
and seeing raising vapor
Drunkards
Realizing that we’re
in the males’ bathroom
Oh! I’ve had forgotten it

Then he shakes it and life goes on.

-----------------------------

TURBID RIMAC

Turbid and dark
As some of my nights
The Rimac flows
Quaking and twitching
In accidents of its fickle stream
Necessary but nauseous
As its consciousness
Which takes existences away
And grows sad the coming mornings
Of future crowds
Divinely made
Stupidly romantic
With its nocturnal lullaby
Which reaches its shores
And over the Santa Rosa Bridge.

------------------------------

IN THE VEINS

He cultivates the folklore
as few or no one does
He adores the dressing
we weaves them and shows them with
roncadora, dances and dressing.
His cacicazgo makes him much
lover of his ground
of his Andean blood.
His varayoc only tells
about his ancestors and his mandate and
how he loves his ground and its customs
and that his voice is authorized.
Proud he wears his dressing of bayeta
On nights hat and poncho
Walks by the streets
Wáchuco and picsha
Down the streets, up the streets
he crosses the main square
bordering the old basin
with the rod in his had
He greets when going and coming
the friends of yesterday, today and always
he walks with the wind of the Andes
and with the Llampa de Huaylas forever.

* To the great folklorist and better friend, Jose Gonzalo Malca Landavery.

--------------------------------

Thanks
for accepting living
with the punishment God sent to you: Me.

--------------------------------

SET MAKE-UP MAN

I felt something
slightly going over,
which traced the curves of my face
falling upon my cheeks
of he-goat
it relieved me of the transpiration
of my marked forehead.
Only then
and being my eyes closed to the world
but opened my ears
by the tight breathing of my proximal being
I perceived my itching lips
outlined by a brush
Then
it seemed to me having felt
or imagined feeling
what the milksops or mollycoddles,
who swarm as rainbows
or as neon lights
on the great metropolis,
feel.

-------------------------------

POLICE-WOMAN

How green olive you look
and “green” they say you are.
Little and graceful you look
You’re green in the time and your space
easily you bush
before a flirt or a kiss
which passes flying
from a “rude boy” lips on his right mind
or if I look so much to you
Angry your voice breaks down
as well as your structure of fiber and sensibility
The uncertain and tremulous whistler started to whistle
among crowd, confusion and
troops of scraps of smoke and lights.
With children you break down of love
and many would like touching your heart.
-----------------------------

When the “youngster girl” dances
among old women
she knows what she’s shaking
The delight she has
And the joy she stirs
Unbearably
And impiously
She shows it and carries it
Sweetly she looks herself
She unties her hair
And on her rhythm
Her hands and her breast reel
Quaking and stammering willingness
That pair call for us scarily.

------------------------------

SHELTERED

As an exile produced in my insides,
Cause by a woman from outside,
In the penumbra of your lighting and thunders
And in the gale of your affairs
My life has got sheltered
In your unknown inwardness.
Away from my land I feel
From my wife and children
And in this daring and whipping metropolis
With toxic gases and cement
Life seems to end but I keep on breathing
Sometimes, days smell like death, like life, like indifference, like meanness and madness.

-----------------------------

I straightly cross by your world
your beam of light and your din
Nocturnal stertor
floods me.
I die with the midnight rainbow
And I call for and shout
And I neigh as a melancholy
of the steppe loneliness,
uncontrollable and immeasurable of my happy loneliness

------------------------------

Wandered of your life and my life
deserter of my uneasiness
trader of dreamy trifles
hurts me the metal honey and the
croaking of folkloric birds,
where a long time ago
a train passed
one which today tries in this fogs
to grave my emotions.

--------------------------------

GONE LIGHT

Nostalgically
The letters and the landscapes appeared
monochromatic and loquaciously
beautiful and intimate
word by word
to write these verses
with the light of a candle
which projects thousands of shadows
on the floor, on the walls
in my mind and in my ample memory
I walk quickly, I write in the dark
in the tenebrae of the physical
but in the lucidity of the human mind
After the blackout everybody goes to the doors
to see what thousands of millions of years ago
inspired homos, made them fall in love and live.
I keep quickly writing
hoping light isn’t coming yet
until running out this nostalgic inspiration
of my childhood in my beautiful Caraz
where some nights life went away

------------------------------

It’s like a perfume of the mermaid from a quiet sea
Who with her whistles stops,
Calms and disorients my passion
But she looks like the highland violin drawn
by the bow and the bristle
and seems to slightly and professionally rub your skin
which granulates by feeling
the cornice of my tongue
and the valley of my lips
and the breeze of my breath.

------------------------------

It’s also a pleasure
A drink, music and memories, dreams
And light-years projections
Inner voices
Sounds of times ago

--------------------------------

The breathing of a hundred people separates us
Of your breath and the lash of your vapors
The music in my ears
Enlarges and stretches me out to you
I attach myself and evoke you
With your image in that reflection.

--------------------------------

Nights like this
Will surely come back
Music, wine, beer,
Gin, Inca Kola, bread with sausage
Mixed and folkloric
In the drowning of my thirst and my lonely Saturday

-------------------------------

Let them know
Nobody can’t take away from me
The pleasure and the special meaning
Of reading a book
Under the light of a candle or a chiuchi*

*Kerosene burner used in the highlands

-------------------------------

Silently you go ahead more and sure
At the end
Envy has no time nor space

I’ve lived so much
And about all that I’ve scarcely written
The same distance between our bodies...

--------------------------------

The mirror of your silence
reflects everywhere

And one day
those who only walk
accompanied by the
pleasant quietness
walking alone, spilling
pleasure I didn’t feel long ago
freedom for looking, for touching
Finally, the “tempests” pass
and nature
stands upright

--------------------------------

THE FAREWELL

I know the farewells
hurt or kill
Then
Why do I have to say goodbye?
I leave in silence or
cunningly
among the bustle of the crowd
I put myself on other side
of the crystal
being able to see your pain
you being not able to hear and
see my wailing
but it has to be like this
We both have to understand,
we were a marvelous and
sweet link in
our lives...
Thanks for everything.

-------------------------------

NOSTALGIA WITHOUT TICKET

I know about that day
of waiting the bus
which fills at midnight
to travel to the land
Hours passes,
passengers are scarce and
some of us want
to arrive to the land
to feel the family
to dance and drink.
Midnight
Eight passengers
Eight wishes, eight longings, eight nostalgias
What a shit I know about that disgust of them
Forty free seats
It’s no profitable, they say
It seems I won’t see the family
This weekend
I hope they believe me
-------------------------------

THE WIFE

Inexhaustible
but the human has a limit
tiredness weakens the body
At night
She closes her eyes to the consciousness
She’ll complete the reality with dreams
She’s great
But she’s also human

-------------------------------

How it hurts!
Alas! How it hurts!
How it costs to forget you
to take you away from me
from my mind and my skin
It seems as if yesterday
I was all for you
the nectar of your life or
the wild tree
of your florid fields
Now you torture me with your other love
I look like a wailing
on the shores of the sea
with a taste of salt water
and dried seaweed
of melancholy from the Andes
and puna’s coldness.

--------------------------------

We the poets
are (like) feathers
of liquid ink

Sometimes
a night of love
supplies all the ones in which I don’t see you.

-----------------------------

SEDUCER IN TURN

Some do their best dancing
issuing flowers and flatteries
expressing wishes and dreams
What a shit!
It’s their matter
Finally she calms my night.

-----------------------------

That one is a sucker like me
who believes in what’s not true
who supposes what’s not true
and thinks he’s what he’s not
and like a dumbshit I wait what
maybe, never comes
as the night hoping being day
as the river hoping being sea

Night dies
each dawn
and stars again at dusk
or wakes up while the day is already sleeping.

----------------------------------

I don’t deny
sometimes I liked
going concerts
and lonely imagining,
thinking, dreaming
with no one besides me fucking me
caressing me or licking me.

---------------------------------

Due to the lack
of a goddam pen
I don’t know where
the verses went to
those which flowed
when I was seated in the car
Where should they go?

---------------------------------

A good huayno
with a good music band from Ancash
and surely the Jesus’ spirit
stays in a corner of the spree
looking and listening:
if he’s not already dancing.

---------------------------------

SOME COINS

Looking, only looking
Feeling, being a witness
Crossing thoughts
Imagining satisfactions and wandering
Touching, asking and
saying I’m going to decide, I’ll be back
Feeling the wounded pride
in front of gaudier and stuck-ups
Many souls get out of the supermarket like that
Only some coins in the purse
and the mind distracted and tortured.

-----------------------------

Since the sun saw you
each day in Caraz
stars earlier
as a prelude it breaks at dawn
as musical soliloquy of birds it lulls
And the moon glances through your window
and filters through to see you sleeping.

------------------------------

PARALEL

Losing the self-esteem
putting up with, sharing the wind.
For hours caressing the breeze and
covering oneself with it
hurts and finally
as love it wounds.

Respect and resignation
fill her and made her “happy”
but with balls of male she accepts
cries inside her infinity
deep and unknown humanity.

She does know about happiness
she recognizes it and values it
She doesn’t want the breeze to leave her beach
and as a fierce beast
she protects the what’s not hers
and forces to meet
what will never be met for her,
God knows why.

-----------------------------

IN THE LIMBO

And you asked
And I answered
You asked
and I looked for and elegant exit
and you insisted
wanted the true
and I, in the defile, in the slaughter
plotting answers
and you accepted
and got convinced.

Then I came back to life
I felt my being getting oxygenated
frisking in the bed
and with caresses and mourning
and trembling your body
you accepted my caresses
and my turbulence.

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MEMORIES OF A RAT - poesia

memories of a rat - introduction - exordium

poemas