Poetry: Ximena Gautier Greve

Ximena Gautier Greve
Nestor the Hope 
(Mourning for Néstor Kirshner, Argentina’s President)

All my friends are weeping for a President.
Nestor the Hope has died and he should not.
The regret imposes itself like immense wave
over light-blue and white flags

And 
also pains me my Argentinean homeland,
neither by right of the blood nor soil, but of the 
soul:
the one I have loved in her snows and pampa's suns 
in 
her faraway bandoneons and neglected guitars
in her forests and jungles, mothers,
feverish malaria, serpents and wide rivers
bolas, gauchos, kerchief, labour
in her gourd yerba and metal straw,
those like from Cuyo, but with something else 
--“Sabés?”

The one from porteños and their public tragedies 
covered 
of miseries and hopeless dreams,
and 
sharp haze leaning in the shadows
against the wall window of the barrio,
the buggy and its usual delay
and pain and the rendezvous in Juramento
at Belgrano, Barrancas or the Tigre
from Retiro to La Boca, job, mooring, 
tango, brothel, fire, sex and meekness 

open 
the mouth to feed, hungry and cries
harbour, violin songs, pianola, boardwalk and harlot
because 
of this and further, I want to caress the soul
of 
all my brothers, white-cloud, blue-sky and sun,
sweetie, slang, Ché and kultrun
with air's love, in my clenched hand
to protect this open dangerous orphanhood 
that will fall upon us now. One never knows.
Let us take care of Christina. 
Condolences.
***


Under The Cobweb

Every day I check 
messages
that reels off 
incessantly 

the gossamer 
suspended beneath the 
starlit 
sky

I open 
those luminous and imperfect 
eggs
which for an instant burst, 
flooding my black and white existence 
in 
universal plasma.

Know not what I expect to find
in 
their entrails, 
why to decipher or download 
them for? 

Not know the kisses I hope or tragedies I fear,
but 
it is like I was stalking
not 
to miss the moment 

to hear intact
the howl of the last human being,
me, tied hands, sealed eyes with adhesive tapes.

Every day 
I observe 
the monstrous arachnid lay eggs 
on 
my messy world of unfinished papers,

leaves 
getting old under quotidian rain and sun,
amid misleading altruisms and shy selfishness,
wagging the Stock Exchange’s inconsequence
toward 
family high risk quotes.

Someone 
has to assert the absolute 
Impossibility of re-encounter or return:
On all this monstrous dimension’s planes 
of 

superimposed and equivalent parallel worlds, 
every thought, not being lineal nor circular, 
opens 
on each gorge of the spirit
a new ambush that dries rivers 
and 
moistening the green visions of basilisks 
and 
phosphorescent serpents 
sinking into the matrix mud that fertilizes 
the virgin arachnid's plethoric abdomen
whose eggs repopulate the net.

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