NO CIERREN LA CASA DE LA LITERATURA

 NO CIERREN LA CASA DE LA LITERATURA

                        Indran Amirthanayagam

No cierren la Casa de la Literatura. Que ya es un referente, un ancla, puesta en el paisaje de la oferta cultural en Lima.  Llegué a la ciudad al inacer la Casa, hace tres anos. Recientemente participé en las festividades por su cumpleaños.  Me ha encantado observar cómo han crecido las exposiciones, las conferencias, los congresos, los recitales de poesía.  Es única, una casa que celebra el arte y una estación de ferrocarril que lleva pasajeros en viajes lentos hacia sus sueños.

La casa me ha dejado soñar en una ciudad más amistosa, donde las divisiones de clases y grupos están desapareciendo con cada recital, cada apuesta del arte sobre lo que nos une, lo universal en la particular agrupación de sangre y memoria, el ser humano en su gloria y su miseria, su misericordia y sus desencantos, que el artista pacifica con cada metáfora. Dejen que las metáforas sigan teniendo su espacio, sus juegos de luz en los puestos de escena.  Perú que se enorguellece de su Vallejo, su Inca Garcilaso, su Toño Cisneros,  su Watanabe y Varela, su Vargas Llosa esta ya alegrando su pueblo con su Casa de la Literatura.

No dejen que se convierta en una oficina mas para algún ministerio. Dejen que brille con la luz que emiten los artistas peruanos y sus hermanos artistas de otros lares. Desde la puerta de la  Casa de La Literatura, uno siente que esta al inicio de un viaje por el mundo. Dejen que el viaje siga y que todo Perú se quite su sombrero ante el paso de esta metáfora pacifica.

                                    Lima, el 24 de Octubre, 2012

Death of a Poet by Indran Amirthanayagam

          Death of a Poet

After the poet,

who remains?

We have to fill

absence, distract

ourselves

with words

and music

until sadness

fades, and we look

to the sky,

see his face

in cumulus cloud,

shining out

of the sun,

and think

he is not

the only one

smiling

in Heaven

beckoning us

to think beyond,

the now,

what

happened

to his body

and to our

history.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, October 6, 2012

For Toño Cisneros, a poem, Indran Amirthanayagam

                For Toño Cisneros

Who is Cisneros, he asks?

I don’t know. A poet

wont to drink and

a good laugh. He knew

Fitzrovia in the 60s,

spoke English

like a blue blood,

and had English

skepticism, eye

of the toad crouched

under a stone watching

the giant lizard come

tramping through

the bog. The stone

 has been turned

over,  frog dried

and pulled apart

by the forensic

artists; the work

will now be read

by others less gifted

in declamation, but

let us be grateful

that Toño never

belonged

to the academies,

He lived in Miraflores

and wrote, he said,

for two hundred

of his neighbors,

 who walk

in Parque Kennedy,

on Malecon Cisneros.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, October 6, 2012

Happiness Blues, Sri Lanka, A Poem

            Happiness Blues, Sri Lanka

I don’t know what to say, my friend,

I have some blues that don’t seem right,

too light and fancy free, happiness

and all that putty you poke and pat,

grinning silly, but love is the matter

with me, I have plenty and I want

to start sharing the bounty. How lucky

can a man be, used to melancholy

and raving at the Moon about family

buried by the lagoon, who will

catch the drift along with snowflakes

in this far Northern and European town

that tried to make peace back

in the viper-ridden Vanni and failed;

yet somehow, miraculously, cousins

survived and are making their way

out of the jungle, heads held high;

and throughout the planet

family is saying this effort

to settle foundation stones

of our piece of earth will continue

until the end of time; so nobody

should rest on laurels, or dream

of bitter death, happiness

has me up tonight, generous

and lively. Are you ready

for a roll? A reading

about uncivil fools who think

blood can be washed away,

bones buried in the sand,

that everybody will forget

how one hand clapped

and white vans set off

to prowl? No, my friends,

this happiness will not

be shovelled into the back

seat or stuffed with cloth

down its throat or peppered

in the eyeballs. It will not expire

before midnight. We are

about to play--the crowd

is eager and shouting—

a post-midnight set, happiness

blues, after the reckoning,

the counting of the dead.

            Indran Amirthanayagam, October 1, 2012