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Montobbio Santiago, TAXI, PALABRAS Y POET (three heads)


[ Yellow Taxi (From the walls of Brussels, 2011) . Photos of Marzia Poerio]

1.

EL QUE NOS Taxisti
llevar hoy a mi madre ya mí on a per diem
rehabilitación en el asiento delantero y takes to de lado suyo
a poetry book Lumen publisher:
Journey to Love by William Carlos Williams.
These days I'm sitting, because my mother
has fallen and badly broken arm and had surgery and is difficult even
their movements and so
helped him in and out, open and close the door .
But this time I do not dare that the driver
empty seat in front. Because poetry,
even in the worst moments,
always be respected. Poetry can not touch. Tocársele
can not even a comma, not a sigh.
William Carlos Williams is a poet I like, and this driver
has all my sympathies. But I'm saying is general.
Poetry is always sacred and can not infringe it.
In truth as it is more pure life. ***



2. MANA

SOURCE WORDS
and distill my substance.
life is a spider. I do not know why I say,
because life is mostly the source,
those words. But in the verses appear
unthinkable things.
I stop a moment and I'm in a cafe.
look through the large windows. (What luck.
This is a good coffee).
I say clean, simple words. It is a very deep desire and true
this that I have
and as I said. Now drink coffee,
rest. It will only be a while.
source
well again with his words. Each time
them assault me, I guess. Life is this spider and I said I thought
not make much sense.
silent after I weave my words
and I do not know if I say it-the end
of death is pending. ***



3.

POET TO A TRUE ALL TIME SHOULD
be poetic, Borges says in a book of Dialogues.
I think adds that he does not know if this is possible or whether it simply
bearable. In these days of March and being
all my time.
Continuously, without rest.
soul and hand work is a way of saying,
because art is a destination and not a job.
The soul, hand, heart and eyes
intertwine fingers
verses and see them in the corners and
guess beyond the windows and
tree and cloud and bird
well at all times, which is poetic.
life can have this intensity, this mystery. March
These days are the minutes
that they raised. The poems are,
not lie.