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Proclamación de Amores

June 10, 2020/ Cesar Galan

Abelard and Heloise

I

Abelard to Heloise 

Have the winds of fortune taken you?

Heloise, you have vanished like dew;

The wicks to the candles are cut.

The monastery gates firmly shut.


Heloise in my dreams you appear,

In every lament of my tears.

Heloise, you are meadow blooms;

You are plumes and fine perfumes.


Blessed I was when your lips I did kiss;

When from your fragrance I drank to bliss.


Condemned I am to die,

Alas without seeing you. Ay!

Come to me, Heloise, in dream hues

Ushered by lutes, my muse.


One eve when cupid flew,

You came into my view;

A whole quiver he used

And the following I mused:

Attar of rose, the finest eaux,

Your hair of willows,

 eyes of primrose.

A symphony I composed.

Now, all sillages my love;

A lament so lachrymose.


Heloise, my lover,

The moon is falcate.

I would your lips cover;

My heart still palpitates.


Heloise, Heloise,

I wish to kiss your lips.

II

Destiny to the Lovers 

Lovers in dreams,

Forget your laments.

Come bathe in moonbeams;

Come dream in harmony,

In perfumes of melody.


Come to the clovers,

dressed in purple, like emperors;

Come dream, oh lovers,

of lavenders.


Poets are just whisperers,

 whispering the rose verse,

Weaving words as a curse.

They wander the groves

In order to find doves.

They wander the meadows,

So they find adagios.

They wander the streams,

To find the crowns of queens.

Poets are just whisperers,

Who their lament makes ornate.


Come lovers to the moonlit glades,

To the kingdom of naiads and shades,

Your laments in ambrosia drown;

Leave your wine, pour it to cascades.


You will wear the half-crown.

A diadem for the lovers far,

For incomplete by nature you are.


The lilacs and the lavenders

  have enchanted the air.

The moths dance in the papavers.

Pierrot comes riding on white mares.

Lovers come dream in this glade of cares.

III

Heloise to Abelard

Nor hawthorne nor rose

have as vicious thorn

As this destiny of prose.

My heart is condemned

And will not mend.

Miserable death.

My tired breath.


Come to me, my Abelard,

Come to me, my heaven starred.

Oh, how miserable my fortune

To have smelled the perfume,

And then be forced to the gloom.

To have seen the lilac bloom;

Now in frosts of doom.

My beloved, my astrolabe.

Is this to be my fate?


Abelard, I was your queen heavenly,

Held like the moon in reverie.

Cassiopeia, queen of Ethiopie,

Riled the king of the sea.

Being careless in her vanity,

She ensured a life of tragedy.

Yet, me, alas me,

Have I riled the fates three?

To be condemned to agony.

Is there no cure to this malady?

Our story would be too tragic

 To adorn this galaxy.


The sky once uttered prophecies,

Now they pray apologies.

Tell me sun, what do you do?

When the moon abandons you.


The zodiacs pity my damnations,

And yet in multitudes of constellations,

None equate my misery.

Every tear I shed for thee

Is yet another star in an infinity.


My plea amongst a starry sea:

Abelard, come again to me!



Proclamación a Antínoo

I

Ven a mi, rey Antínoo

Te ha robado de mi el destino.

llévame en tus brazos;

Te he llorado un rio.

Y junto a tus brazos

Tomaremos la luna a lazos,

Con tu fino lino alzaremos mástil,

Con velero nocturno sobre el cantil.

Viajaremos hasta el fin;

Porque te quedas taciturno.


Tómame en tus brazos

Apolo taciturno,

Tómame en tus brazos

Dios taciturno.


Quiéreme Antínoo.

Quiéreme como si el sol a la luna le perdiere;

Los ojos no mienten,

Son chocolates a calor solar,

Se han derretido,

Nunca me han mentido.


Y las Musas

Euterpe, y Erato

Ay me han condenado.


Quiéreme como el lirio al canto de los ríos,

Como el acanto al libre capitel bríos,

Quiéreme como si el marzo de lluvia careciere,

Como si el rio de lagrimas dependiere,

Quiéreme como si el sol insistiere.

II

Como el rey, al castillo le quiere;

Quiéreme Antínoo

Que tu risa es divina,

Y tu canto ilumina.


Eres elegancia, la ánfora mas fina;

Tu fragancia, arias de tierra Melina.

Quiéreme que de flechas cupido me hiere.

Quiéreme y el rosal con flor persistiere

Y así el invierno perdón le prometiere.


Que delirio.

Me tienes en cadenas de prosa

Este eterno martirio

Moribundo vuelo de la mariposa

Reacio fallecimiento de la rosa.


Quisiera ser los vientos llaneros

Para que con mis suspiros te desvistiera.

¡Y los actos de amor que te cometiera!

¡Los versos de miel que te vertiera!

III

Quisiera ser los vientos,

Y por fin besarte.


Quisiera ser la luna,

Y el rostro iluminarte.


Quisiera ser las eneas,

Y así el verso susurrarte.


Quisiera ser valiente,

Y alfín mi corazón darte.

IV

¿Como floreciere el campo?

Si de amor cediera el espíritu.

Si de corazas se desvistiera

Hasta solo quedar desnudo.


En piel tímida y rosa

Y después vestirse de prosa.

Florecieran los campos.

Y bajo umbelas me amarías,

Y bajo manzanos te besaría.


Que tonterías.

Que tonterías.

V

Un día quise ser los vientos

Porque tus labios

Anhelaba besar.

Quise ser la luna

Para tu ceño iluminar.

Quise ser las eneas

para susurrarte mi verso.


Pero tu fuiste reacio

Remiso e indeciso.

Se dicen mil versos

En lo que nunca se hizo.


Y esos finos rizos,

Alborotadizos y cobrizos.

Son la memoria de un verso

Calenturizo.


Vive María 

Vive María con piel amarilla

Su piel una ardiente mezcla de arcilla;

Llora María, la hija de Lucía.


Llora con piel febrisa

¿Aún no cicatriza?

Pero mira como ríe Lucia,

ríe ríe, en el dies irae.


Confusa e ilusa la pobre María.

Vive María con poca alegría;

Quien diría que Lucía la amaría.


Se siente indeseada.

Mírala,

Con cara empapada

Llorará

Totalmente atada,

Anclada

…

Vive María con su madre de tal.

A María le dice cosas del mal.

Sale María al trabajo del día

En esa joyería de la esquina vacía.


Mira María cadenas de plata.

Mira María esclavas de oro.

Mira Lucía como la ata

Y la mira como un simple imploro.


Lucía del alta se viste de plata

Hasta uno diría que nada le falta.

Lucia la madre llena de ira

Pero mira mira como la mira.


Se dice que reza pero que crudeza,

Se dice que besa, pero solo deshuesa,

Se dice y se dice pero que diablesa.


María que vive en constante pobreza

Esconde dinero pues su madre es tiesa.

Larga vida a la reina Lucía.

Lucía que se enyesa y entiesa.


Ira Ira a la Reina Lucía.


María empaca sus cosas.

Llora María.

Se fue María.

Cesar Galan is a bilingual Mexican writer from Chicago. He takes inspiration from the natural world that surrounds him. In his works, you may hear the songs of rivulets and trees, as well as the melodies of the birds and the breeze. Oftentimes, Cesar will weave natural and mythical motifs into his works.

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Friday Lunch Blog

Friday Lunch! A serving of contemporary essays published the second Friday of every month.

Today’s course:

How to Kill a Cat, or How to Prepare for CATastrophe

March 10, 2023/in Blog / Meghan McGuire
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The Night I Want to Remember

December 16, 2022/in 2023ws-migration, Blog / Sanaz Tamjidi
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From Paper to the Page

November 18, 2022/in 2023ws-migration, Blog / Annie Bartos
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Midnight Snack

Take a bite out of these late night obsessions.

Tonight’s bites:

Point Break & Top Gun Are More Than Homoerotic Action Movies

March 3, 2023/in Midnight Snack / Michaela Emerson
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Mending the Heart and Slowing Down: Reintroducing Myself to Mexican Cooking

October 7, 2022/in Midnight Snack / Megan Vasquez
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The Worth of a Billionaire’s Words

September 23, 2022/in Midnight Snack / Kirby Chen Mages
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Amuse-Bouche

Little bites every third Friday to whet your appetite!

Today’s plate:

On Such a Full Sea Are We Now

March 17, 2023/in Amuse-Bouche / Jemma Leigh Roe
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The Russian Train

February 24, 2023/in Amuse-Bouche / Cammy Thomas
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Still Life

October 31, 2022/in Amuse-Bouche / Daniel J. Rortvedt
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School Lunch

An occasional Wednesday series dishing up today’s best youth writers.

Today’s slice:

I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

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Seventeen

April 14, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Abigail E. Calimaran
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