Reviví caminos en minutos / Jesús Montoya

I Relived the Roads in Minutes

I relived the roads in minutes, bags of trash, eyes, hands. I relived damp roads, empty, imperiously empty. I relived the roads where youth was a glance and nothing more. I relived the roads and sang my undernourished will in silence. I relived roads and felt the accident, the bus, the week’s broken money, I felt the crowd churning, spitting my reflection, I felt the absence of those who loved me and I relived more roads without calling attention to myself, pointing at the sun with a flower, with a hand caressing my shout. Long live the street, the night, the poem, the eternal curse.




{ Jesús Montoya, Las noches de mis años, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2016 }

Imagino el futuro desde las calles / Jesús Montoya

I Imagine the Future from the Streets

I imagine the future from the streets
cold and hideous like beautiful years
coming to find me on tiptoes,
years kept at sea,
years of foam,
years in the shape a wave
that cross the streets
where I suddenly need
to write and write until I break;
because I always want to write when I can’t,
because the poems open up
like scars on my hands
when I think I’m a filthy
seer who walks like a blind man
without realizing he can’t even see,
because I always seem to be standing on the heights
and I never remember my falls,
because I know my past and its own distance
and I still love it.
I imagine the future,
I imagine its brevity on my skin,
a caress,
a melody hidden in the breeze.
I imagine the future
and I despise it.
I imagine the future
and I only imagine it,
so I won’t have to remember it.




{ Jesús Montoya, Las noches de mis años, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2016 }

Escriba, escriba / Jesús Montoya

Write, Write

Write, write,
write and don’t be nervous, don’t get hung up,
without any hands.
Write from memory against the morning light,
write about the afternoon at night,
night is the mother of poetry,
of eyes.
Write where the moon would be in your poem.
Write the years and the shades that insist on bending
like smoke on the corners.
Write against sleep from sleep;
write a girl a kiss and a hug for your
friends.
Write because the mountains are also
falling from your eyes.
Write desperately,
write calmly,
Get moving with your legs.
Sit down and go and find yourself and tell me why
you still believe life ends where this poem begins.




{ Jesús Montoya, Las noches de mis años, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 2016 }

Y alguien susurra / Jesús Montoya

And someone whispers

And someone whispers:

You should write from ignorance.
You should write devoid of any curse and desire.
You should write like swimming in dreams
like painting eyes
like inundating seas.
You should write under a dead tongue.
You should write with broken ties
with the body tattooed with stars
with bare feet
with a brilliant malediction.
You should write poisoned by parties.
You should write as if begging that someday.




{ Jesús Montoya, Primer viaje, Maracaibo: Movimiento Poético de Maracaibo, 2014 }

Oh, mancha del lloriqueo universal / Jesús Montoya

Oh, stain of universal whimpering

And not being able to leave.
And not being able to say what I’m saying now.
And not being able to even scream.
And not being able to even stop continuing.
And not being able to accept or renounce.
And not being able to scorn.
And not being able to at least burst.
And not being able to desire or stop desiring.
And not being able to forget.
Reinaldo Arenas

Oh, stain of universal whimpering.
Oh, broken body.
Oh, fleeting matches.
Oh, heartbreaking feeling of relief.
Oh, vagabond heart.
Oh, magic mirror of my chest.
Oh, marginal street.
Oh, Virgin of delights:
break my entire head
with the most blessed hangover you’ve got
I’m letting myself get lost just enough
no one will see my eyes again
I never opened them under the sea
and the waves are cold
and it’s the same things
always the same things
livid
transparent
since forever
forever
as ever
tracing this delicate repetition
if I’m going to hallucinate I’ll do it
from an elemental and farcical light
from a puerile and strident light
from an enamored and hoarse light
enamored and slutty like my voice on the sidewalks
whispering huge kisses
sweeping aside everything that happens around me
under the filthy spark of the stars
you will be my love
don’t abandon me in the night
and burn my hands during the day
now and forever
with the same fire
facing the crowd
facing the people heading to work on the streets
I stroll backwards through life with a tear falling from the sun
and I’m so stupid
and I’m so banal
and I’m so mundane
spinning in the unknown patios of cities
where my loves are lost
I sleep with my head leaning on their trips
cackling to myself
betraying myself in my own illusion
drawing lines on myself with the weeping of roads.

Oh, sparkling sea.
Oh, midnight prayer.
Oh, Mérida faggots.
Oh, sweet mother who waits for me.
Oh, cold and pale body.
Oh, harmonic laughter.
Oh, girl with big eyes.
Oh, mountains of the south.
Oh, crazed poet
if your face has filled
with tears again
it’s not from shame
learn that you are minimal
and that you’ve shed
your skin like a snake does
let me show you
let me explain
let me sing to you
the smallest reflection
from the puddle of my face
murky and yellowish
learn how to come back once and for all
and forget authentic departure
only within is the shade that kills you
only within the roses are furiously white
highway ruffian
prince of the binge
love of my loves
boy of my dreams,
sing with me,
sing my first trip.




{ Jesús Montoya, Primer viaje, Maracaibo: Movimiento Poético de Maracaibo, 2014 }

Escucha mi canto / Jesús Montoya

Listen to my song

Listen to my song, brother, it’s cheerful and mediocre and filled with all my visions. Feel the movement of the shadows, listen to my song. We’ve fallen vertically to embrace the rain, listen to my song. From now on you’ll know what binds me to the world, sing with me. We have named the body, not the soul. Sing, fortune is the kiss that kills us. I see the universe clearly when I close my eyes. Tell me if you see it. We’ve come to trace the golden time with white teardrops. We have formed the same circle. Tear my eyes out. Don’t stop listening to me. I will be stripped of my own hands like a criminal. I will never again laugh tangled in the fog. Brother, wake me when you start to dream. If I write that poetry is a flame, it’s because everything is shutting down.




{ Jesús Montoya, Primer viaje, Maracaibo: Movimiento Poético de Maracaibo, 2014 }

He decorado la traición de la belleza / Jesús Montoya

I have decorated beauty’s betrayal

I have decorated beauty’s betrayal.
I have made ignorance my behavior.
I have believed all the secrets,
because everything remains.

The words are choking me. I will never again lack this impossible oath to curse them. I know I live because I sing. I still possess the frightening laugh. I won’t hide anything. I feel tormented, shining, shining. Open your chest. I’m not acting. Look at me, I’ve kept the sea in my eyes forever. Let me inflate my consciousness in space. The horizon is marvelous. I’m not faking it. No one will come and spill their hands on my body because no one is listening to me. No one will edge the limit. No one will grow by embracing my words. No one. Listen closely to what I tell you: the words are burning me. That’s what freedom is like, shining, shining. Every day I feel myself disappear a little bit more. Silence, silence. My misfortune is terribly alien and its story is fleeting. Silence, silence. The birds sing and announce my departure.




{ Jesús Montoya, Primer viaje, Maracaibo: Movimiento Poético de Maracaibo, 2014 }