{"id":331,"date":"2024-08-25T17:29:40","date_gmt":"2024-08-25T21:29:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/trasatlantica.org\/?page_id=331"},"modified":"2024-11-12T13:32:00","modified_gmt":"2024-11-12T18:32:00","slug":"eduardo-rodriguez-martinez","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/trasatlantica.org\/?page_id=331","title":{"rendered":"Eduardo Rodr\u00edguez Mart\u00ednez"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Las espirales m\u00e1s hondas<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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En las mismas horas donde todo es espanto, Antonia Eiriz navega con su pierna coja por toda la casa, pensando encontrar alg\u00fan asidero posible a tanta soledad.
Un golpe tras otro, una percusi\u00f3n salvaje para hacer danzar la muerte, la tosca muerte que se precipita sobre ella como un discurso o un espectador que llega de pronto.
Ella ha dejado sobre la mesa la taza humeante del caf\u00e9, las grandes obras, una sangrante soledad que sabe est\u00e1 all\u00ed y asoma levemente la cabeza. Ha recorrido tanto buscando el encuentro, el gesto emancipador detr\u00e1s de tantas noches ruidosas.
En las mismas horas donde ya no hay espanto, Antonia Eiriz camina con la muerte, coja por toda la casa, y sabe, una vez m\u00e1s, que la soledad es tan, o m\u00e1s persistente, que los monstruos que no dejar\u00e1n de habitarla nunca.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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La libertad guiando al pueblo<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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En un cuadro de Delacroix las tetas de una mujer gu\u00edan al pueblo. Ef\u00edmeras se levantan como el fuego, tratando de abrirse camino hacia la verdadera libertad. Todo va a caer alg\u00fan d\u00eda<\/em>, sentencian los rostros; imp\u00e1vidos, llenos de anhelos. Sin hablar dicen. Sin alejar el grito de la mano temblorosa. La libertad es un arma. Tambi\u00e9n el tiempo. Lo saben qui\u00e9nes la acompa\u00f1an y quienes desde la muerte vigilan. Ah\u00ed el ojo, el aparato represor. Ah\u00ed la bulla, el jolgorio, la osamenta que delata. Sobre ese levantamiento, navegar\u00e1n otros con m\u00e1s suerte o con m\u00e1s preponderancia. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Aire fr\u00edo<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Este helado cristal, Virgilio, esta man\u00eda de nombrarlo todo, de quererlo todo, de pensarlo todo. Volvemos sobre los huesos cansados de la noche, a pernoctar, y saber del camino como un chiste, un mal cuento dejado a la suerte.
El invierno nunca se ha ido. Tampoco la mueca y el miedo. Menos los sinsabores, la escritura, el p\u00e1nico, la isla.
Este pecho, esta patria sin nombre, Virgilio. Esa man\u00eda de volver al silencio enternecedor, a las mismas aguas.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Mercadeo e ilusi\u00f3n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Detr\u00e1s del vendedor que entona sus ojos hacia m\u00ed, est\u00e1 la aguda fiereza de la bestia. En esa mirada ha puesto toda su energ\u00eda para hacerme palidecer. Oh flor del tiempo*<\/em>, le digo. 
\u00c9l, tigre de Bengala, de Sumatra, Siberiano; ilusorio en toda su estridencia. 
Yo, tigre de Borges, de Blake, creyendo en el emblema y en el tiempo; cauto.
\u00c9ramos dos animales esperando la presa. Dos fieras a la espera de un gesto, de un cambio que llegara para transformarlo todo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

de la poes\u00eda no se vive<\/em>

<\/span>de la poes\u00eda no se come<\/em>

de la poes\u00eda\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lo o\u00ed mascullar y solo pude alejarme. Pensar en alg\u00fan que otro certamen que me llevara a volver, a mirarlo febril en toda su estatura; ac\u00e9rcame, escoger y pagar.
Volver a ser el mismo tigre, con hambre, sediento de Borges y de Blake; alejarme y repetirle: Oh flor del tiempo, de la poes\u00eda, de la poes\u00eda, de la poes\u00eda<\/em>.

*Paul Celan<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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El vendedor de carne<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Bajo el golpe seco del hombre sin pierna que pasa cada tarde frente a casa, los perros desatan su furia. Furia al sonido seco, a o\u00edrlo en ese vaiv\u00e9n de pasos que no entienden, pero que saben que la muerte estuvo ah\u00ed. Que persiste en cada paso, en cada golpe de la masa negruzca que arrastra a cualquier hora. 
Todos los vemos pasar en la ma\u00f1ana y en la tarde con su pierna sola, y lentamente ir y venir 
acompasado del ruido de las artima\u00f1as que ha encontrado para alejar un poco la miseria de lo que le falta.
Bajo el ladrido fuerte de los perros sabemos que se acerca y buscamos escondernos, no vaya a ser que la muerte persista y se quede en nosotros como un sonido; alguna furia que no termina de poseernos.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Eduardo Rodr\u00edguez Mart\u00ednez<\/strong> (Camag\u00fcey, 1980). Poet, visual artist, and editorial designer. He has published the poetry collections Sobre la arena circular<\/em> and D\u00edas de silencio<\/em>, both by the \u00c1cana publishing house, in 2016 and 2010. In 2019, another edition of Days of Silence <\/em>came out by D\u2019Mc Pherson Editorial. The novel The Summer<\/em> of the Dead<\/em> and the children\u2019s literature book Ratico\u2019s Recipes. Adventures in the Kitchen<\/em>, in 2022, as well as the poetry book An Orifice for the Fools<\/em>, in 2023, all by D\u2019Mc Pherson Editorial. He appears in the anthologies Sombras que solo yo veo<\/em>, Ed. \u00c1cana, 2010; The tree at the top. New Cuban Poets at the Door of the Millennium<\/em>, Ed. Letras cubanas, 2014 and En islotes de intimidad y silencio<\/em>, Ed. \u00c1cana, 2017. As an artist, he has participated in several photographic exhibitions, both inside and outside Cuba.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

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\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Mercadeo e ilusi\u00f3n Detr\u00e1s del vendedor que entona sus ojos hacia m\u00ed, est\u00e1 la aguda fiereza de la bestia. En esa mirada ha puesto toda su energ\u00eda para hacerme palidecer. Oh flor del tiempo*, le digo. \u00c9l, tigre de Bengala, de Sumatra, Siberiano; ilusorio en toda su estridencia. Yo, tigre de Borges, de Blake, creyendo en el […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":196861203,"featured_media":0,"parent":523,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"jetpack_seo_schema_type":"","_wpcom_ai_launchpad_about_page":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_gallery_page":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_contact_page":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_events_page":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_video_page":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_portfolio_piece":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-331","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_likes_enabled":false,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P2V8if-5l","jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":523,"url":"https:\/\/trasatlantica.org\/?page_id=523","url_meta":{"origin":331,"position":0},"title":"POETRY","author":"diceyk","date":"August 23, 2024","format":false,"excerpt":"Angela AcostaDaniel Ch\u00e1vez LanderosB\u00e1rbara Escobar AnleuIrina GarbatzkyPablo G. 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