Julio Pavanetti [Uruguay / Spain]

 

Pain and Future
 
A sharp chisel stabs into my chest,
it hurts like an arrow lashing the nerves.
The mists appear, I reject them,
turn my back on them, close the windows.
Accept the challenge and I shuffle again.
The future appears with its web of mystery,
it greets me smiling and entices me,
my pulse quickens. The pain returns
like an electric hammer, sharp and persistent.
I look away trying to ignore it.
 
The future reappears with its string of doubts,
it shows itself indifferent and covered in clouds.
The unknowns return dressed
in their frosted Greek tunics,
they walk backless along invisible paths
with their imprecisions and more water than dreams.
They parade before me biting life,
tired of waiting for it to arrive, but…
tomorrow is eternal, it never comes completely,
it was never so close nor so far.
 
 
Unfinished Voices
 
We are unfinished voices,
multiples of those wombs
forced to accompany seagulls,
to a border of fogs
already without return.
 
We are unfinished voices
born of ancient hunger,
consequence of that fear
repeated years later
in the nights of running over.
 
We are unfinished voices,
final destination of a journey
that ended up incubating accents
on the shore of other seas,
and far from our birds.
 
We are unfinished voices
of songs of solidarity,
and now, autumn trees,
we dig impermeable caves,
to rearm our scattered scraps
(the restart at open street)
and to shelter our memories
so, to safeguard them
from water, wind... and men.
 
 
I Came From a Dark Tree
 
I came from a dark tree
where ideas and words
mistreated the adagio
of Stéphane Mallarmé
and stayed quiet
 
I came from a dark tree
where seed and semantics
did not ensure dreams
their roots were not enough
to thin the fogs
sap was on the leaf’s
ready to fly
 
I came from a dark tree
that stayed alone in the dark
a 27th of June
when winter was beginning
and roses were breaking
 
I came from a dark tree
ignoring the distance
that fades the beating
plucking my existence
within anonymous looks
burying my face in my hands
when cold was rising.
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Julio Pavanetti (b. 1954, Montevideo, Uruguay): He is a poet living in Benidorm, Spain. President of the International Poetry Association “Liceo Poético de Benidorm”; Director of the International Poetry Festival of Benidorm; Associate Academic of the North American Academy of Modern Literature; Member of the Tomitana Academy (Romania) and the IWA Bogdani International Writers Association (Kosovo). Corresponding Member of the Circle of Venezuelan Writers; Member of the Spanish Professional Writers Association. He has participated as a guest, representing Spain and/or Uruguay, in various international poetry festivals, congresses and world events. He received many national and international awards. He published sixteen personal books including five published in Romanian, Italian, English, Greek and Albanian languages, three bilingual in English and Spanish, and one trilingual in Spanish, English and Arabic. Many of his poems have been translated into 30 languages.