Manuel Silva Acevedo

Santiago 1942

Uno de los más destacados poetas chilenos. En los años setenta, trabajó en la Editora Nacional Quimantú durante la convulsión política y social que desemboca en el golpe cívico-militar de 1973. Permanece en el país trabajando como redactor publicitario y editor en Editorial Universitaria. Cuenta con más de veinte títulos publicados y ha sido antologado y traducido al inglés, francés, alemán, sueco, italiano, griego, rumano y portugués. En 2016 recibió el Premio Nacional de Literatura.

Ay si yo fuera Shakespeare (al modo parreano)

Cuando fui bipolar me creí Hamlet.
Cuando me abrí las venas me creí Romeo.
Cuando me volví celópata me creí Otelo.
Cuando me emputecí de envidia me creí Richard 3°.
Cuando me embrujó el poder me creí Macbeth.
Y ahora que estoy viejo y cascarrabias como Lear,
ahora que me acecha la guadaña,
vengo y me las doy de Yorick
y que Don Shakespeare me perdone.

The Soul of the earth

To my daughter Constanza

I am the mountain wrapped in a mantle of clouds
I am the naked larch tree in the rain
I am the percheron haloed by a steam of sweat
I am the rain-soaked poncho of the taciturn labourer
I am the wheat stored in a safe place
I am the train track abandonad to its own destiny
I am the rusty peso of another age
I am the buffer stop at a train station loaded with sorrows
I am the bird of prey waiting in ambush for the rain to subside
I am the rabbit pricking up its ears at the water hole
I am the flickering lantern on a cart stuck in the mud
I am the axe wedged tightly in a stump
I am the fox yawning with hunger in its lair
I am the coipo buried deep in its tunnels
I am the steaming manure in the corral
I am the solitary boat tied to the pier
I am the tool tarnished by the blacksmith’s breath
I am the yellow cock pecking away nervously
I am the gardener´s dog growling without knowing why
I am the bolt of lightning that makes the mare neigh
I am the slippery moon like a mirror of the night
I am the wild indian crouched in the undergrowh
I am the bat suspended from the chapel´s beam
I am the smoke rising slowly from the hut
I am the weathervane on the rooftop turning in the harsh North wind
I am the intermittent dripping on the porch
I am the door that opens for the guest
I am the log whimpering as it is licked by flame
I am the child scribbling his homework by the hearth
I am the bitten and crumbled bread on the tablecloth
I am the streaming bowl of soup served by the mother
I am the blush in the cheeks of young girls sharing secrets
stretched out on their backs on bales of hay in the stable
I am the sap that palpitates inside the tree trunk
I am the thunder that cracks inside the rock
I am the blood that boils the length the human body
I am the silence that nurtures and instructs the heart
I am the soul of the earth like hot embers among the ashes