Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

José Luis Díaz Granados

SILENCE AND MEMORY



I am not afraid, I am never afraid,
Because my father is here,
my father, in the living room, reading.
Coming through the door,
Putting his hat in the rack,
Greeting my mother, my father,
Listening, listening to me,
Watching over my sleep, my father.

2

Four decades ago he became a poem.
Under the orange grove and the palms
His white and proud hands
Greeted or waved goodbye
And his melancholy, rotund eyes
Looked somewhat unbelievingly
At the delirious splendor of the afternoon.

3

Now I don’t know if he sleeps in a basement
Where the sea beats, perhaps calling him,
Or if he fights a battle in crazy orbs
While his invisible face is the seed
Of a new season or a star.

4

His memory is summer and ocean
And it is clay, and snow and a city,
And it is that unique face, that unique figure,
The father I see between these letters
That I drink through my tears
While I contemplate him sleeping
And approach him with slow steps.

SILENCIO Y MEMORIA

SILENCIO Y MEMORIA

1

No tengo miedo, nunca tengo miedo,
Porque está aquí mi padre.
En la sala, leyendo, mi padre.
Entrando por la puerta,
Colocando el sombrero en el perchero,
Saludando a mi madre, mi padre,
Escuchando, escuchándome,
Contemplándome el sueño, mi padre.

2

Hace cuatro décadas se convirtió en poema.
Entre los naranjales y las palmas
Sus manos blancas y orgullosas
Saludaban o se despedían
Y sus ojos melancólicos, rotundos,
Miraban algo escépticos
El fulgor delirante de la tarde.

3

Ahora no sé si duerme en algún sótano
Donde el mar aletea tal vez llamándolo,
O si libra un combate en orbes locos
Mientras su rostro invisible es la semilla
De una nueva estación o de una estrella.

4

Su recuerdo es verano y es océano
Y es arcilla y es nieve y es ciudad,
Y es ese rostro único, esa figura única,
Ese padre que veo entre estas letras
Que me bebo entre lágrimas
Mientras contemplo su sueño
Y me aproximo a él con pasos lentos.
Close

SILENCE AND MEMORY



I am not afraid, I am never afraid,
Because my father is here,
my father, in the living room, reading.
Coming through the door,
Putting his hat in the rack,
Greeting my mother, my father,
Listening, listening to me,
Watching over my sleep, my father.

2

Four decades ago he became a poem.
Under the orange grove and the palms
His white and proud hands
Greeted or waved goodbye
And his melancholy, rotund eyes
Looked somewhat unbelievingly
At the delirious splendor of the afternoon.

3

Now I don’t know if he sleeps in a basement
Where the sea beats, perhaps calling him,
Or if he fights a battle in crazy orbs
While his invisible face is the seed
Of a new season or a star.

4

His memory is summer and ocean
And it is clay, and snow and a city,
And it is that unique face, that unique figure,
The father I see between these letters
That I drink through my tears
While I contemplate him sleeping
And approach him with slow steps.

SILENCE AND MEMORY



I am not afraid, I am never afraid,
Because my father is here,
my father, in the living room, reading.
Coming through the door,
Putting his hat in the rack,
Greeting my mother, my father,
Listening, listening to me,
Watching over my sleep, my father.

2

Four decades ago he became a poem.
Under the orange grove and the palms
His white and proud hands
Greeted or waved goodbye
And his melancholy, rotund eyes
Looked somewhat unbelievingly
At the delirious splendor of the afternoon.

3

Now I don’t know if he sleeps in a basement
Where the sea beats, perhaps calling him,
Or if he fights a battle in crazy orbs
While his invisible face is the seed
Of a new season or a star.

4

His memory is summer and ocean
And it is clay, and snow and a city,
And it is that unique face, that unique figure,
The father I see between these letters
That I drink through my tears
While I contemplate him sleeping
And approach him with slow steps.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère