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Nooks

Of the

Soul



Bastian St. Claire




Copyright © 2018 Bastian St. Claire

All Rights Reserved





Contents



Preface 9

Dedication 13

That is why I write 15

I don't know them and they don't know me 20

... and you did not come back 22

The Path 25

Here 28

Off 30

As Maria Elena said 33

Sleep continent 36

My Eve 38

Carousel 40

Guilty 42

Worldview 44

The road to light 47

See you sleep 49

Sedentary 50

In these moments 52

Creation 54

It's still today for me 56

When forgetfulness remembers you 58

Same 59

Sidereal Garden 61

Mental holiday 63

When you marry me 65

Chess 66

Squeegee child 67

In the vineyard 69

Cemetery 70

The five cardinal points 73

Insecurity 74

My temple 77

You're right Matilde 80

Workshop 82

Daisy flower 83

Could I go back converted into snow? 85

Yours 88

There are no martyrs of green 89

Bipolar 92

Hands 94

Compost 96

Lifting 98

Although it's true 100

Arm wrestler 102

That day 103

Why will I dream you 105

Emoji 106

Globalized misery 108

Fabric chests 110

Reconciliation 111

Regretful 113

Why doesn't the stars shine? 114

Declaration 116

Memory 118

Ex 120

Ab aeterno 122

Feather 123

Modern things 125

It's cold 126

Winner 128

Song 129

Lost bullets 131

Men and ghosts 132

Horizon 133

Solitaire 134

... and where did I leave the feeling? 135

Holidays 137

Match 139

Lifetime 141

Initiation 143

Gueridón 145

The blazon of Poetry 146

... and I can not 148

Good luck 149

Matology 152










Preface



The book you have in your hands, originally were two called "Midnight Voices" and "Poetic Audit". Both written in Spanish. Many poems in those books fell by the wayside when translated into English. The reason is that they did not have translation or they lost the irony since I used idioms and very Argentine words that could not be translated. Others could only understand it the Argentines, so they would not contribute much to the readers of the other places of the world.


It isn't just a selection of poems from two published books, no. My first book of poems for the Anglo-Saxon readers deserved more. I composed verses for this particular work and I'm very happy with the result. Likewise I have included some short stories and songs that I never included in the previous works in Spanish.


For that reason, I thought it appropriate to baptize this new son with a new name. "Nooks of the Soul" alludes to word, which I see as the path, the key that opens the way to the depth of the soul, those nooks that we all have inside and that we usually protect so that nothing and nobody will hurt us.

A word, a verse, a sensation that word produces at a certain moment can touch the heart of a lady or soften the rudest knight. On the contrary, a word that hurts closes the door of any heart.

That's why the door is green in front cover, because I have hope that my poems open their soul and penetrate to the most intimate part of their being.


This work is very eclectic for the simple reason that this server it is too. Throughout twenty years (or something more) I was writing the poems that make up this work. The seasoned reader will can appreciate different stages of my life. You can basically see the mood I had for those dates. That is how they can read verses full of life and others where you can see my slaps without faith when I tried to keep me afloat.

My verses doesn't have a common thread because I was adding poems with the unorthodox method of my caprices. Therefore, there are some worthy of being published and others not so much, but they represent moments or memories dear to my feelings and for that reason I included them. Outside were poems with less luck, papers that will not be seen by other eyes than the astigmatic ones of always and that if I find them because I have boxes and boxes that sometimes work as cardboard coffins where feelings die that once I had.


Another subject. You will notice that at the end of some poems there is the * sign and a text. This is because sometimes I remembered when wrote the poem and in others has had the manuscripts with written dates, something not very common in me since I am quite distracted and enemy of that type of ordering with dates, places, etc. In other cases, I explain what was the trigger to compose this or that poem was.

All poets have a "trigger", something that shakes us, hence we write. Although we are conscious or not, this always happens. No one started writing or reciting because he wanted to work. In we all it works as the exhaust valve of that boiler that works night and day and that we all have.

The sign * collects dates and moments that marked me and were the cause of the stories verses. I pray that those details makes the most pleasant reading and the useful for to know me a little more.


I'm happy with what I brought here and I hope to share a little bit of those feelings and that happiness with you, dear reader. And if he feels represented or rousing in at least one verse, I'm satisfied.


Dedication



First of all, I want to thank God because I see the spiritual threads that move so that everything goes well. Some use the phrase "the planets were aligned" to explain the inexplicable, I only call it "God".

To my family and friends for your help. To those who support my work with a "like" in my fan page.

To Emmaflow Suarez, a new friend that I would have liked to know better.

To Sofia Jannok, a great singer and activist whose voice pacifies my storms.

To finish, a thank you (I want you to take it as a literary hug) for everyone that reads this because you have already acquired the book or borrowed it (or pirated it), your eyes are here and now and that is very valuable for me. Eternally thank you.



That is why I write



There are many things for which I’m not good. I dance pretty badly because, unlike people who have a trunk and limbs, I have trunk and roots. For the same reason (to be hard and wooden), I was bad in football and my wise parents wanted it me clarify at an early age. Hence, while my friend Edgardo had the immaculate official shirt from “Independiente”, I didn’t have the shirt of “River Plate” which was fan but that my mother dressed me like referee. Of referee! To make matters worse was in the time in that they wore all black so it seemed an “All Black”, but in scrawny version.


I dressed as a referee and with badly face.

I wanted to play instruments and fell in love with the guitar… and I the guitar abandoned me. I wanted to touch a string and touched three, a disaster. This romantic story didn’t work, and thinking it well about it, was the first love disillusion of my life.

As any child, I used to fell in love all kinds of art, and I disenchanted so fast as if I was a womanizer mariner who conquers someone every weekend.

One day fell between my small fingers a comics magazine called “El Tony”. My father would buy those magazines when together we were going to a library called “Pyramids” to practice the millennial Phoenician technical of the 2 × 1.


Comics magazines that I still retain.

That way, I knew those comics and many others, such as “D´artagnan”, “Fantasy” or “Interval”, for example.


Making memory I think it was to my nine years, in 1985. I don´t have good memory, in fact I am just the opposite. I simply remember it because that year, my natal province, Mendoza (Argentina) suffered the second worst earthquake in its history, and when we runed away aimlessly in car, my father took magazines to make more bearable the tragedy.

I used to laugh with “Pepe Sánchez”, awkward Argentine intelligence agent or “my girlfriend and I” comic where the pet, a German Shepherd, thought funny things. Also fascinated me the Sumerian Warrior “Nippur de Lagash” and his giant friend Ur-el or “Gilgamesh, the immortal”, based on the homonymous Sumerian epic.


At school my teacher had taught us to trace. So I used that technique to copy the heroes and villains as a hobby.

At the next photo you´ll see one of my works traced on the cover of a cassette of Talent MSX, computer which my brother still retain. It was to my eleven years I think.


Those was the time I started to drew freehand my characters and bubbles with my own dialogues thus creating my small stories.


Thus, “not wanting to wanting to”, as says the “Chavo del 8” (mexican tv series), I met the love of my life: writing. And here I am, with forty-something writing all kinds of material. Without the spelling errors of child, but with the same love and fascination. With that happiness that gives to travel a road with tempting shortcuts and Satanic tolls, without losing my joy of child. Boy who met a magazine and there started to walk.


I don't know them and they don't know me



In some remote place

of this blue marble

a stray bullet stops being

and find a body,

an establishment waste

wraps with newspapers

that he can't even read

and children are deprived of crying

dying before being.


In any place of globe

a teen doesn't carry comics

but an AK or a bomb

and in another nook

far or near, ¿what's matter?,

a baby learns to pronounce "coke"

before "dad" or "mom."


Somewhere hidden

(or not so much)

disused consciousness

uses guns in a soulless way

abandoning his humanity

on behalf of deities

that don't know it.


In the shadows of my neighborhood,

of your neighborhood,

any a neighborhood,

where barbarism reigns,

someone make love to a woman

without asking for permission,

they hit her, nibble their boobs

they throw it against the floor

and black boots trample

her dignity again

at the time of reporting.

I don't know them

and they don't know me,

but I know they are there,

they must be, even if it's sad

but the system would collapse

and they want it that bad.

I don't know them

and they don't know me,

Nevertheless any hidden place

and the helpless

that I imagine there must be

is the center of the planet

when this soul thinks of him.


* One autumn day of 2017 watching Russia Today.

... and you did not come back



I put a carpet on the door

to leave the key under

like in those bad films of January

of budget too low,

although I confess that my hut

twenty-five hours is open

in case you come back as a prodigal wife,

but the doorbell does not sound.

As last choice that a salesperson touches,

some creditor,

a gang of Jehovah's Witnesses

or better a mailman

that bring a pump package,

invoices with taxes

or a love letter

converted into a document letter.

Today I wait anxiously

to those poor people, but good

whom rich people, but evil

doesn't spill them money or food.


But that someone hit, please!


Let the wood resound,

you applaud as in the field

or you throw the door down

as they do with the narco.

Enter for the backyard if you can

jump the fence

or by the skylight

which I purposely leave open,

but your presence is requested

in this your ex abode

where neither Feng Shui equilibrate

and I hit Chi while I lucubrate

and that I'm not violent,

it's my unhinged soul

of so much fighted fight,

of so much tried try.


It was like that (misaligned

and with the chakras at war)

that I redrew the fairy tale

without fairy or moral.

It's enough with to know

that I put a key to the doors,

I hired an alarm, I put bars,

I turned on the lights

and I didn't wait for you anymore.

All that without grudges,

without low blows nor mad,

using that elusive alibi

to wish you good and not bad,

that's why in those magical wake up

I understand why you left

and more importantly and sad

because you will don't come back.



The Path



I have that dubious virtue

to take over roads

I'm just discovering them

and I already feel that they are mine,

I didn't even fly them

but I would go to the Rainbow that I wish

without GPS nor money

and with the security of arriving,

but GPS does not allow journey.

Neither the rose of the winds

nor the stars, not even the sails,

maps and other inventions

there isn't the route

that I took,

my glasses glide to the heaven

fluttering with the faith

that I had to my eleven

in an attempt to have close

the star of Bethlehem.


There he passed the star

or it was a convenient mirage

maybe my astigmatism or some "ism"

that convinces me of my reason

and in that diaphanous universe

with which God gives me a hand

myopia or my reluctance

don't see the lighting

and I realize that I do not own

not even bad tenant

of the routes that I'm proud of

saying that I bought.

I regret, I confess

and in a "mea culpa" I decide to return

with the unconsciousness of not knowing

if I didn't even take off.


The divine truth is simple

I don't even reach for the toll

I don't have the money for the trip

nor for the baggage surcharge.

If fluttering is because I try

if I rise and flight

is by blessing

and if it sets my wings on fire

it isn't because I lack the wisdom

some divine punishment

nor that I don't deserve the kingdom

but to understand

that on earth is my mission. 


Here



When I become detached

of those ties

that forced me to play

to the hangman without wanting it,

I discover that I less weight

and it's not like I've been dieting, no,

I'm not good at that.


The planets align

and it just happens.


It happens when I take off

of those existential doubts

that are now trinkets,

and in any sewer

I throw some ideal

that it was not so ideal

to continue.

Pass if my mind leaves behind

foreign philosophies

and she applies one that,

even if it says some lie

It has the virtue of being mine.

It happens when I confess,

I apologize and I forgive myself,

(all at the same time)

but more than everything happens

when the must be

matches the systematic order

of the vision that I effort for to see.


If that happens, I'll unlink

of those paper ties

that like a blind knot

they managed

to prevent me from seeing.

I find that the Aconcagua

It's not that high

and that the sky is just there

God is just there ,

the universe is just there .

So (without dying) I go to heaven

and I greet Saint Peter

and to some other demon

that (as usual) crosses me in the middle;

I raise my hands

since the sky is just there

understanding that the Earth

is just here.


Off



... and one day I pressed the button less spent.


I started thinking about that option

when I watched those football matches

without football,

the passionate fans

without passion

and the ball that

doesn't get stained,

but it deflates with each stone

from the grandstand.


I had been deciding

with those films of many x

where they fuck and suck

but they do not talk about love

or match

and of happiness nor dreaming,

that doesn't integrate

the TV programming.

I was already beginning

to define the decision

with those hollywood films

of many boobs, shots and explosions

but zero art, culture and script.


But the drop that filled the glass

(or the cup because I live in Mendoza)

it was that curious teacher

that taught oriental arts,

yoga and even mantra songs

in those channels that every TV listing has

and that nobody longs.

Those invisibles channels that are there,

repeating futilities 24 hours

and that the CEOs put as vice

with the macabre idea

of increase the price.

There, in that maquila of the idiot box,

there was the mencionated teacher

whose words without sponsor

and neurons in commodatum

had an idea (and very bad)

to practice acupuncture to a poor cat.


Incredible but real. And literal.


The tender cat watched the camera

maybe hypnotized or sore

for the needles that nailed him

or because it thought

the same that we who watch him.


That day I pressed the little red button,

the gleaming one, the least spent

of that satanic remote control.


And I turned it off.



* watching a channel that Directv catalogs as "entertainment" and that I had the displeasure to find.


As Maria Elena said



...who knows, maybe we live

in a world of reverse,

as Maria Elena used to say,

or to the worst, the planet

is fine as it is.


It seems to me that the planets

are still playing your game

but the horoscopes get along well.


The thing is that is the left

who fight for rights

while losing bullets

they find their place in peace,

misused word if there are

and that today creates those big little ones

"Collateral damage"

that dress the innocent

whit scarlet shirts

inside macabre bags

with hermetic anonymous form

that fill those foldered chronics

that the intelligence files

will always hide.


We're all tenants

in the world of the reverse

while the rulers promise

that will do us good.

They want to help us out there

to end poverty


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