{"id":3543,"date":"2026-10-17T21:52:16","date_gmt":"2026-10-18T01:52:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/?p=3543"},"modified":"2026-10-17T21:54:35","modified_gmt":"2026-10-18T01:54:35","slug":"alex-fleites-poesia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/canasanta.ca\/en\/cultura\/poesia\/alex-fleites-poesia\/","title":{"rendered":"Alex Fleites :: Poes\u00eda"},"content":{"rendered":"<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Mon\u00f3logo exterior viendo pastar los vivos<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\"><em>The mortgage of the dead is known.\r\nCarson McCullers<\/em>\r\n\r\n\r\n<em>Para Jos\u00e9 Mar\u00eda y Oilda, que, sin mirar, me ven\r\n<\/em>\u00a0\r\n\u00a0\r\n\u00a0\r\n\r\nLos muertos no saben que lo son\r\nhasta que se asoman al espejo;\r\nhasta que hunden las manos en el agua;\r\nhasta que exigen su lugar en la mesa,\r\nla m\u00fasica querida, los vencidos retratos\r\n\r\nEl azogue les devuelve otro rostro;\r\nel agua no los alivia \u2013ni siquiera los roza\u2013;\r\ny en la mesa los j\u00f3venes beben con profundidad,\r\nescuchan discos estridentes,\r\nse toman instant\u00e1neas\r\n\r\nLos muertos no sienten ya rencor,\r\nno experimentan placer\r\nsi el viento, in\u00fatilmente, intenta despeinarlos\r\n\r\nLos muertos no leen sobre el hombro,\r\nno codician la mujer del hijo,\r\nno cruzan la calle a contramano,\r\nno se arrepienten, no besan, no se dejan odiar,\r\nno sorben, ruidosos, la sopa indefinible\r\nLos muertos no pueden asentir,\r\nno se dejan querer\r\n\u2013mucho menos invocar\u2013\r\n\r\nLos muertos pierden la preferencia del color,\r\npierden la acidez del sexo,\r\nlos deseos de derribar una puerta a patadas\r\n\r\nLos muertos son inofensivos,\r\nno pueden votar, no se pronuncian en congresos,\r\nno marchan por las calles gritando soledad\r\n\r\nLos muertos los miramos vivir, enternecerse,\r\nlos escuchamos fingir que todo ya est\u00e1 dicho,\r\nlos comprendemos, con sonrisa c\u00f3mplice,\r\ndesde el fondo de los espejos,\r\ndesde el recuerdo de la calidez del agua,\r\ndesde los compases del vals que bailamos\r\ncuando los so\u00f1\u00e1bamos a ustedes,\r\ndesde los amarillos, ilegibles retratos\r\ndonde esperamos para siempre<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/pre>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Kenneth Cole Reaction<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">\u00c1lvaro me ha comprado un reloj\r\nque, dice, se parece a mi mano\r\n\r\nEs fuerte y preciso,\r\nsoporta golpes y tensiones\r\ntanto en el mar como en la tierra;\r\nno teme a los delirios del fuego\r\ny est\u00e1 tan pendiente del instante,\r\nque no le alcanza el tiempo\r\npara ocuparse de los d\u00edas que vendr\u00e1n\r\n\r\nSin duda los hijos\r\nse hacen extra\u00f1as ideas de los padres\r\nDespiadadas a veces En ocasiones tiernas\r\nEquivocadas siempre\r\n\r\nEn lo adelante tendr\u00e9 que trabajar\r\npara que, al menos para \u00e9l,\r\nesta mano, que ya es la mano de mi viejo,\r\ncada d\u00eda se parezca m\u00e1s a su reloj<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/pre>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Los peque\u00f1os cantores<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">En la ciudad, luego de la lluvia,\r\nlos peque\u00f1os cantores\r\nsalen a exponer sus rostros\r\nTa\u00f1en c\u00edtaras, la\u00fades, desvencijadas guitarras\r\ndonde cabe todo el dolor y todo el regocijo;\r\nalgunos, los menos,\r\ngolpean r\u00edtmicamente el tamboril\r\ny se hacen acompa\u00f1ar\r\nde mentidas doncellas o monos de cristal\r\n\r\nDesde los balcones y azoteas\r\nlos nobles pobladores\r\ntratan de no perderse una nota,\r\nde encontrar entre el tejido polif\u00f3nico\r\naquella melod\u00eda que les triza el espejo del pecho,\r\nla que los hace infinitamente audaces\r\ny sensibles hasta la melancol\u00eda\r\n\r\nPeque\u00f1os cantores de caras tiznadas,\r\nsobre zancos, tragando en iguales dosis\r\nhibiscos de fuego y azores de algod\u00f3n,\r\ndevolviendo las palabras concedidas,\r\nremendando versos, reparando f\u00e1bulas\r\nque los ni\u00f1os luego contar\u00e1n\r\na los h\u00famedos ancianos\r\n\r\nNo tienen nombre los cantores,\r\nni procedencia, ni paradero conocido,\r\nsalen luego de la lluvia\r\n\u2013como algunas plantas o p\u00e1jaros\u2013,\r\ny dejan en el aire de la urbe,\r\nen los viejos muros,\r\nentre boleros rotos,\r\nentre fragmentos de odas jubilosas\r\ny jirones de eleg\u00edas que no encontraron\r\na sus cad\u00e1veres amados,\r\nla evanescente y perfumada estela azul<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/pre>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Vidas paralelas II<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">Hoy un perro ha corrido a mi lado\r\npor la l\u00ednea del mar\r\n\r\nLadraba y danzaba\r\nalrededor de mis pies\r\nfingiendo una alegr\u00eda\r\nque no pod\u00eda sentir,\r\na juzgar por sus huesos visibles,\r\nlas laceraciones de la piel\r\ny la mirada inequ\u00edvoca\r\nde quien ha recibido\r\nm\u00e1s de una patada\r\n\r\nEra un animal sin nombre\r\nni mayor gracia;\r\npropon\u00eda una fidelidad\r\nque no merezco\r\n\r\nY s\u00f3lo quer\u00eda a cambio\r\nel ag\u00fcita imprescindible,\r\nun oscuro rinc\u00f3n\r\ndonde echarse a so\u00f1ar,\r\nalguien que le amoneste con cari\u00f1o,\r\ncualquier cosa que haya de comer,\r\nque pregunten por \u00e9l al llegar a la casa\r\n\r\nAl cruzar la calle, no sigui\u00f3 avanzando\r\nTuvo un instante de iluminaci\u00f3n\r\ny se dedic\u00f3 a perseguir a otro,\r\nno sin antes proferir\r\nlos que para m\u00ed sonaron\r\ncomo gru\u00f1idos de consuelo\r\n\r\nPor eso no se extra\u00f1en\r\nsi alguna vez dan con un poema\r\nque comience diciendo:\r\n\r\n\u201cHoy un hombre ha corrido a mi lado\r\npor la l\u00ednea del mar...\u201d\r\n\r\nLo dem\u00e1s ya se lo imaginan<br \/><br \/><br \/><\/pre>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><strong>Alternas vibraciones, gotitas de miseria<\/strong><\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">Quien mira a lo alto de la ciudad\r\ndescubre en el cielo su rostro envejecido\r\nTambi\u00e9n el entramado\r\nde los cables y las hojas\r\ncedi\u00e9ndose alternas vibraciones\r\n\r\nEntre ramas y holl\u00edn\r\naqu\u00ed pasaba, urgente, el verano\r\nInsectos laboriosos\r\nacarreaban polvo,\r\ngotitas de miseria\r\nque ca\u00edan como nieve\r\nsobre las cabezas\r\nde los imp\u00e1vidos viandantes\r\n\r\nSobre la ciudad se alzaba la ciudad\r\nY sobre el magma de los sue\u00f1os, versos\r\n\r\nPero lleg\u00f3 el d\u00eda\r\nque Dios se puso malo:\r\ncerr\u00f3 el negocio\r\ny se ech\u00f3 a dormir sobre su sombra\r\n\r\nNosotros, los muchachos de siempre,\r\nlos coreutas amargos, con rosas en los labios,\r\nacudimos corriendo a los templos\r\ny rompimos las puertas a patadas\r\nQuer\u00edamos que no terminara la funci\u00f3n,\r\nun trago m\u00e1s,\r\nvisajes obscenos de las \u00faltimas danzantes\r\nQue los capellanes\r\nnos devolvieran las palabras\r\ny los olores perdidos,\r\nlos a\u00f1os que cantamos\r\ndespreocupadamente entre las ruinas,\r\nfingiendo que todo daba igual,\r\nque ya amanecer\u00eda\r\n\r\nPero adentro s\u00f3lo hab\u00eda \u00e1ngeles rendidos,\r\nembrutecidos ap\u00f3stoles borrachos,\r\njabal\u00edes hozando entre las piernas\r\nde las v\u00edrgenes eternamente mancilladas\r\nY nada de la felicidad\r\nque prometiera el Padre\r\n\r\nTodo en esta ciudad\r\ndonde a veces miramos a lo alto,\r\ny los hijos se olvidan de sacarnos al sol\r\nEsta misma ciudad\r\nque nos deja vivir porque nos mata<\/pre>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Cinco poemas de Alex Fleites sobre la memoria, los v\u00ednculos y la vida urbana, recuperados \u00edntegramente del archivo de Ca\u00f1asanta.<\/p>","protected":false},"author":284226809,"featured_media":3546,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[33205619],"tags":[33206902,33206632,33205620],"class_list":["post-3543","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poesia","tag-archivo-canasanta","tag-literatura","tag-poesia"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- 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