I don't hear, I don't hear Bach anywhere...<\/b><\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u2026while the lady was playing<\/span> with dissatisfactions.<\/span> fragile?<\/span> from my hands<\/span>\u2014<\/span> that definitive yes.<\/span> <\/p>\n ITS MUSIC<\/b><\/p>\n The score will be empty.<\/span><\/p>\n Nothing will appear in it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n As Constance will eat Roman chestnuts<\/span><\/p>\n and you will be the genius.<\/span><\/p>\n Dispassionate, not persuasive.<\/span><\/p>\n A blank line and over it, suddenly:<\/span><\/p>\n bassoon, clarinet,<\/span><\/p>\n in the hearts of girls who smile.<\/span><\/p>\n Towards an ascending space<\/span><\/p>\n (bitten by his mouth)<\/span><\/p>\n the chestnut liqueur now empty, still.<\/span><\/p>\n There are too many notes waiting for us.<\/span><\/p>\n Opaque directions that the sounds took<\/span><\/p>\n of a destiny.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Taken from <\/b>Catch and Release<\/i><\/b>, Havana, Cuban Letters, 2007, pp. 9-11; p. 23.\u00a0<\/b><\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Between one measure and another, Reina Mar\u00eda Rodr\u00edguez slides between the keys of a piano. His verses are strong beats that fly over rooftops, in \u201cthat vague nostalgia\u201d that he calls music. The Cuban poet, winner of the 2013 National Prize for Literature and the 2014 Pablo Neruda Ibero-American Poetry Prize, comes to this section for our enjoyment. <\/p>","protected":false},"author":1553,"featured_media":9488,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[72,8906],"tags":[8750,8751,8749],"coauthors":[8752],"class_list":["post-9487","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-literatura-feat-musica","category-variaciones","tag-poemas","tag-poesia-cubana","tag-reina-maria-rodriguez"],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/magazineampm.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/Reina-Maria-Rodriguez-_-portada.jpg?fit=1520%2C695&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9487","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1553"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9487"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9487\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10521,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9487\/revisions\/10521"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/9488"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9487"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9487"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9487"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=9487"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n<\/span>the last chord of Bach's fugue...<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>The fusas, \u201cthose double ticks on the pentagram\u201d<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u2014<\/span>he called them Fe\u2014with gravity<\/span>
\n<\/span>how hard it was to interpret.<\/span>
\n<\/span>The lost intensity of those semifusas\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/span>Sacred cantatas of any subterfuge<\/span>
\n<\/span>and jump out the bathroom window<\/span>
\n<\/span>toward a rainy sunday morning<\/span>
\n<\/span>(the piano still locked inside the house)<\/span>
\n<\/span>maddened by Melchor's outbursts<\/span>
\n<\/span>on its broken strings,<\/span>
\n<\/span>in a vulgar classical music program on the radio<\/span>
\n<\/span>where any hand<\/span>
\n<\/span>hits him indifferent today.<\/span>
\n<\/span>And she looking back, back,<\/span>
\n<\/span>an unfinished fugue,<\/span>
\n<\/span>one hundred and twenty-nine compasses symbolizing<\/span>
\n<\/span>the word obsession, and then<\/span>
\n<\/span>crying.<\/span>
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>I no longer hear Bach anywhere<\/span>
\n<\/span>in the version of Wanda Landowskca.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I don't hear the crowds (those dalliances),<\/span>
\n<\/span>their tares.<\/span>
\n<\/span>So to my sensitivity<\/span>
\n<\/span>those shards also corrupted her<\/span>
\n<\/span>that inadvertently overwhelm us.<\/span>
\n<\/span>All my money invested in buying those records<\/span>
\n<\/span>Gradually resounding more the nonconformity<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u2014<\/span>less devotion every time<\/span>\u2014<\/span>
\n<\/span>after an ungrateful desire for things<\/span>
\n<\/span>They do not come scratched on the plate.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Hear you come back down the arpeggio ladder<\/span>
\n<\/span>with futility, with disdain.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Noises, outrages, sarcasm...<\/span>
\n<\/span>(Smuggling in The House of Czech Culture,<\/span>
\n<\/span>which does not exist anymore, in P and 23).<\/span>
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>I used to go to concerts on Sundays<\/span>
\n<\/span>with that little gray silk dress<\/span>
\n<\/span>and the hole is getting deeper, more disgusting,<\/span>
\n<\/span>between that simple girl<\/span>
\n<\/span>and me.<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u00bf<\/span>Could it be that I was traveling through uselessness<\/span>
\n<\/span>of a feeling?<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u00bf<\/span>It will be that the theater burned under a cusp of resonance\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>The house collapsed one Sunday morning<\/span>
\n<\/span>to the corner of Neptune,<\/span>
\n<\/span>and the keys sounded without Faith<\/span>
\n<\/span>on my back buttoned to the mother-of-pearl of a keyboard<\/span>
\n<\/span>who had turned (round) the world from a corner,<\/span>
\n<\/span>on uprooted yellows<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u2014<\/span>to a key, to a button, to approximations\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/span>with that poor indifference of girls<\/span>
\n<\/span>committed to nothing<\/span>
\n<\/span>(but with something learned from that sinful vanity)<\/span>
\n<\/span>Suspecting that it would be worth very little to hold\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
\n<\/span>"For whom?" Faith asked me from the keyboard.<\/span>
\n<\/span>It was my passion, I know, tricking my fingers<\/span>
\n<\/span>of a semitone, equivocal.<\/span>
\n<\/span>
\n<\/span>In the end, I'm not complaining.<\/span>
\n<\/span>But that confusion remains, that uneasiness,<\/span>
\n<\/span>that vague nostalgia called music<\/span>
\n<\/span>against the pedals when colliding<\/span>
\n<\/span>very slowly first<\/span>
\n<\/span>(quick then),<\/span>
\n<\/span>with regret<\/span>
\n<\/span>poorly polished bronze under the skin,<\/span>
\n<\/span>corrupting there<\/span>
\n<\/span>(reverberating)<\/span>
\n<\/span>in the gold <\/span>champagne<\/span><\/i> from other images<\/span>
\n<\/span>passed through the fingers.<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u201cA misplayed delirium!\u201d <\/span>\u2014<\/span>she shouted<\/span>\u2014<\/span>,<\/span>
\n<\/span>a pain of the fusas nailed in the chest,<\/span>
\n<\/span>counterpoint, high treason<\/span>
\n<\/span>of an inordinate amount of time,<\/span>
\n<\/span>but \u201cabsolutely measured\u201d<\/span>
\n<\/span>\u2014<\/span>I said very sure<\/span>\u2014<\/span>
\n<\/span>between one beat and another,<\/span>
\n<\/span>against fear.<\/span><\/p>\n