OTXOTEKO, Pello:
Some poems

In the corners of the shadow

It is in the shadows where the true
essence of being resides,
the essence and the reality,
as Chinese shadows show,
only in the shadows are we given
a sign of what is hidden
behind the white sheet of the world.
But it is difficult
to observe the heart of the shadows,
it is difficult
to examine the core of the shadows.
It is necessary to taste the light
that fades,
that is reflected from the edge of the shadows
with an explosion
like rainwater that slides
from the sides of a marble statue
to gulp the juice of real borders,
to feel the character of the innermost feelings.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Search

I have become an ascetic of words
I keep looking for new water
in the world of my reality
adorned with the hope
of finding one day in my sieve
the verb I require.

But my being is sterile,
a futile fountain pours from me
in my meaningless desert.
Sentences subtly linked
a treasure of the soul
          that lights the heart
in this wilderness where I am a hermit of being,
and the memory of your image
          anchor of hope
so that you will be
the hollow of the cave
that gives rise to the echo of this cry.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Over my head translucent green leaves
          newly sprouted
under my feet hot earth, rich and bountiful
in the distance a blurry dawn, longing to break
and your caress
          as if it were live breath
challenging the boast of the beauty of nature
time, wishing to become immovable.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Bewilderment

I will walk behind the trail
of tears
bewildered
wanting to erase them
since they are a sign of suffering,
          an indication of pain,
a word of impotence
since they have my feelings bound,
not knowing that these tears
carry me down
with feelings that make my hair stand on end,
to your most complete sensual being.

And when I am lost in the meadow,
when the Sun slides across my eyes to lie on the slope,
I will follow with my gaze
the trail of the snail
as shiny as it is sticky,
like the rays of the Sun
          that are reflected there at the wrong angle,
to visit an unknown place
that may take me anywhere.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Question

Haughty spirits, you come to me shouting
for the answer that you would harvest,
the reasons for the reflection as sketchy as well defined,
leaving false reality to one side.
But I have only one answer!
I show you death as a metamorphosis of being
as if it were a cathartic chalice of the usual taboos.
Do not condemn me with malice!
Although I may not have offered you
any close model,
do not come shouting at me, please!
Just believe.
Accept in the emptiness.
Empty yourselves in nothingness!

Even in the water
the eyes see mistily,
so close them
to perceive what there is beyond,
breathe the sigh of sounds
that will may defeat desperation;
and then, once you have vanquished it
you will go along tasting
the Shadow of the moon
that joins together all breaths
the Shadow of light
that is reflected in darkness
a being beyond being
that is beyond what exists.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





My room has four corners,
three walls and a lone window,
a lone window with a little balcony.

My life has four directions:
north, south, east and west.
The four unite
in a single objective.

And within this goal
it has been a long time since I moved away
all the shortcuts
that crossed my path.

I am tired now of picking up
manure with my hands
disgusted of tasting
the cold fruits of necrophilia
repentant of having satisfied
the angels of coprophagy
          of this world.

And do you still want
to liquidize and squeeze out of me
the fiery rebel impulse
that was exhausted in my adolescence?

Perhaps you do not know that out of curds, if you strain them,
there drips a faded whey?

Why are you still kissing me
as if you wanted to drink my guts?

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





In praise of madness

To know oneself
          is to know God.

Do we know ourselves?
Do madmen know themselves?
Perhaps they are the only ones
who know themselves deeply.
Perhaps only they know God.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Eclipse

We live in eclipse.
We barely arrive
at perceiving
the corona of diffused light.
We see the firmament of our being
half veiled.
The starshine is no guide for us,
we lack the filling light of the Sun.
We endure under a mantle of deception,
under the light of gleaming imaginaries
dancing with spectral shadows
after having stumbled
onto this stage of falsehoods.

The eclipse creates something in the emptiness,
to disguise the hypothetical image of nothingness.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





The passion of the modern man

Here I am, looking at the horizon with no cove
spent and desperate,
lacking understanding,
waiting to find
in the trembling purple line
where all dreams gather
some sign of all the answers.

The night is in your eyes,
hate in your hands,
envy on your lips,
resentment in your veins.
And in this wide wilderness of earth,
you came to us
to germinate here.
When you were born, you were born with
the seed of Death,
forerunner of disaster,
if the world was wide and fertile,
our lost spirit was wider still.

Destiny has wrapped us
from birth in the cloth of negation,
and instead of blood,
it starts life without compassion.
We must not punish ourselves,
since among past regrets
the true light blinds us.
This is why it is impossible for us
to contemplate
the Sun head on
with a naked gaze.

We cannot look at the center
of the Sun, know it, taste its heart,
we cannot even clearly see
its corona;
cannot perceive the shadow of the Sun
from anywhere.

At the end of the road,
the two small hearts
of our eyes confirm
that everything is nothing but a lie.
And death itself is the only attempt
          to defeat Death.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Itzalaren ñabarduretan (Hues of Shadow), Hiria, Alegia, 2001.





Down the river

In this life we are passing by,
renting, without waking

Charles Wide (1883-1958)

I would like to be
a mailman on a bicycle
who delivers stardust
to all corners of the earth.
But often
the doors are closed
and the tenant asleep.
One must wait a long time before the door.
Wait a long time at the door of life.

This reality is a wait,
and in this period of waiting
we open our eyes step by step.
Waiting in this life
becomes anguish,
a kind of anguished river, alive and changing.
Insatiable, we go upstream,
and the fast and hard swimming
is but a long wait
that leads us
to the end of the waterfall.

As we approach the waterfall
we are hit in the face
by splashes of the rupture
that guarantee us the path to the fall,
but without ever explaining
how high, how tall.

The mailman on a bicycle
is lost today,
and the stardust now
cannot be delivered.
We will no longer find
the doors closed
and tenants will be awake.
One must repent a lot when waiting for a long time.
One must be greatly distressed when asking about the unknown.

Perhaps you would tell
a drop of water
that has escaped from the fall
and ended up hanging from a green ash leaf
that finally, one way or another,
it will have the same end
as all the drops that in the waterfall?

How to hold the rays of the Sun?
How to hang them on a warm breath of steam?
Let us dream of open wings,
let us dream with all our heart,
taste the wind at the break of dawn
and with the calm of simplicity
become rays
in the dead of winter,
on this side of the river
that is dusk.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.





Truth is a hollow.
An infinite and empty hollow;
and time stretches out in that hollow,
it cures and unites with nothingness.
We go through
a stout door with a golden frame endlessly,
we enter wider hollows
without realizing that it gets smaller by the moment.
We like to open new entrances,
even though our heart turns over
when we hear the click of unknown locks.
Different sounds, laughter and cries
intoxicate us in the new hollows
and we do not realize that in these wide spaces
we are surrounded
by denser and deeper hollows.
Forerunners of the dragging of stones by oxen
and model of madness.
And the more insignificant
our intelligence,
the better it carries out its duty
and the better it fills the emptiness of existence.

To seek, to find
and to submerge oneself in nothingness.
To swallow nothingness by the mouthful!
The way back,
which must be travelled backwards,
will always remain,
we will face silence,
we will strip our existence
of the notes used in the melody of life
and taste the chance to know
the juice of the true music;
we will remove from our hands
the marks of lunar shade that create nothingness
and we will realize
that only from this interior corner
can the hollow of Truth be perceived.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.





On the other side

We love the other side,
the hidden dusk of the day,
the secret dawns of the night,
our lover,
the heartless smoothing beyond the shore
and in our wanderings
we take note of the damp breath of our cool ash grove
that declares that we live to live.

We love the other side,
we love
the other side of the shore
where it is impossible for us to curse love.

The desperation of the orphan
in search of someone to help him cross the border,
but the barge has no
rudder on its stern.
We have cursed love
on this side of the river.

Everything is, finally,
delirium,
more that that,
it is nothing but the reinforcement of delirium.

But, when all is said and done, we all
want to be on the other side,
in spirit, by nature, in action and in our souls.
We all see the damp breath
of the cool ash trees on the other side,
unable to determine
if we truly hate it
if we truly love it
not knowing
if it is or is not a heartless smoothing.

And is it not perhaps paralogical
to desire the other side transparently,
without knowing where we are,
which side we are on,
at this very moment?
Unable to know
where, how, since when and from where
is our side of the river?

Logic of this type
evoke the lysis of the same logic.
The lysis of paralogic:
PARALYSIS!!!

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.





Questions in the worldly well

But is there something
above all physics
and below all metaphysics?

Yes, at least one lost group of beings!

And among these beings, the king is a biped
who calls himself rational.

Only the rare one knows who he is
          and where he is going.
But he mistakes his wife for a coat rack.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.





Ecstasy

Offer me your chalice
that I may taste you passionately,
that I may drink
with damp heat
the sweet juice of your Grail.
So that your lips become,
from the edge of my lips
overflowing manna,
a sticky yellowish liquid.

I want to close my eyelids,
open my mouth, sate myself,
and I will shout
to the depths of your entrails.
I want to turn my being into an echo
within your hollow,
and upon emptying my entrails,
transform my own ravaged being
into a new being, whole and complete.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.





Answer

What cannot be found,
nevertheless exists.
The fact of being unfathomable
explains why we can?t find it.
The unfathomable is that which cannot be fathomed,
and it cannot be fathomed because it has no bottom;
the bottomless pit has no bottom,
a bottomless pit is something infinite,
and something infinite leads us to emptiness;
emptiness is unfathomable
and what is unfathomable
cannot be found,
whether it is there or not
whether it exists or not;
emptiness is infinite in character,
impossible to find;
nothingness
arisen ex Deus.

ADAM was born to us
to end finally in NOTHING.

© Otxoteko, Pello. Arnasa galduaren ondarea (Legacy of Lost Breath), Elkar, San Sebastian, 2003.


© Translation: Kristin Addis