Neil Hilborn, o por qué la poesía es tan maravillosa

She was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on. 

I want her back so bad, I leave the door unlocked. I leave the lights on.  

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And your lips are so soft I can't actually tell when we're touching,
Like braiding hair underwater,


'Cause kissing you is kinda like that:
Unhealthy,
And will probably end in disfigurement,
But baby, bring on the facial scars and lead poisoning.

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The first time I saw her... Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips...
Or the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked— when she talked— when she talked— when she talked ---when she talked;
When she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was just making her late for work... When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking... When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line. She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.

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In second grade, we did an experiment with static electricity:
We rubbed balloons on our heads and stuck them to walls.
And kissing you is kinda like that: My hair stands on end, I get shocked when I touch things,
And I want to tell you STUPID stuff,

Like kissing you is a bundle of kittens colliding with my face at point five miles an hour.

It's like being shot by a dart gun made of hummingbirds that shoots darts made of hummingbirds.

And your lips are so soft I can't actually tell when we're touching,
Like braiding hair underwater.
Or napping under a blanket filled with rainbows and clouds and your favourite books.

When you kiss me the cartoon devil and angel on my shoulders climb into my ears, lick all my neurons and start fucking on my brain stem.

And if you were a 300 pound professional weight lifter and I were a Kia Sorento you could drag me ANYWHERE with your lips.
Kissing you in patience is impossible, like peeling paint off of a wall with glittery stickers; or cooking a turkey with a lighter.

You remind me of the time when in second grade Bethany Hobcurk called me a freak-face and stabbed me in the arm with a pencil,

'Cause kissing you is kinda like that:
Unhealthy,
And will probably end in disfigurement,
But baby, bring on the facial scars and lead poisoning.
'Cause when you kiss me you are dangling me off a bridge by my belt.

You are the screen door of my childhood, all teeth and swinging, so full of holes you can never keep anything in.

You are every black eye.
You are a semi truck, and I am a turtle with two broken legs and a broken heart.

You are illegal fireworks falling downstairs together,
driving on four flat tires,
playing frisbee at night with a saw blade.

Kissing you is like falling out of a 37 story window, exploding into a cloud of robins and reappearing on the ground with my mouth full of feathers.

And when I can't kiss you I try to find the static electricity in my apartment. I dig around in wall sockets, I change lightbulbs with my teeth and I make out with the toaster.

And I know we've only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, but baby, when you kiss me, I can't remember my middle name or which one is my left foot.

So come over tonight. We'll shuffle around the apartment in our socks and we'll let our lips drift toward each other, like tectonic plates made out of kittens. 

Do not go gentle into that good night - Dylan Thomas (1947)

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

No entres dócilmente en esa buena noche. 

Laocoonte y sus hijos

Ellas, con marcha firme, se lanzan hacia Laocoonte; primero se enroscan en los tiernos cuerpos de sus dos hijos, y rasgan a dentelladas sus miserables miembros; luego arrebatan al padre que, esgrimiendo un dardo, iba en auxilio de ellos, y lo sujetan con sus enormes anillos: ya ceñidas con dos vueltas alrededor de su cuerpo, y dos veces rodeado al cuello el escamoso lomo, todavía exceden por encima sus cabezas y sus erguidas cervices. Pugna con ambas manos Laocoonte por desatar aquellos nudos, mientras chorrea de sus vendas baba y negro veneno, y al propio tiempo eleva hasta los astros espantables clamores.

                                                                                                Virgilio, Eneida

Este formidable e imponente conjunto escultórico, ubicado en los museos vaticanos de Roma, es quizás una de las mejores muestras del dramatismo y perfección técnica de los escultores helénicos tempranos. Aunque su datación es controvertida, se le presupone realización alrededor del siglo II a.C., por varios escultores pertenecientes a la escuela de Rodas. 

La pregunta es, quizás, evidente: ¿qué nos cuenta esta escultura? Con sus casi tres metros de altura, resulta imponente y no pasa desapercibida. La forma piramidal, que le aporta solidez y centra el peso en la mitad inferior, así como la ejecución espiral del cuerpo de Laocoonte, enmarcado por las figuras desproporcionadamente pequeñas de sus hijos (débiles y rotas, vencidas por las serpientes), nos cuenta una escena de dramatismo y muerte. 

Pero, ¿quién es este hombre y sus hijos? ¿Por qué sufren este horrible castigo? 

Laocoonte era hijo de Capis y hermano de Anquises, padre del héroe troyano Eneas. Era sacerdote del templo de Poseidón en Troya. Después de que los griegos abandonasen la ciudad dejando un caballo de madera a sus puertas, Laocoonte advirtió a sus habitantes que no lo metiesen dentro del recinto: 

Temo a los griegos incluso cuando hacen regalos.
                                                                                             Virgilio, Eneida

El sacerdote, furioso arrojó su lanza contra el caballo y, en su desesperación, marchó a realizar un sacrificio a Atenea, pidiendo a su vuelta encontrar el caballo destruido. 

Ésas son mentiras -gritó Laocoonte- y parecen inventadas por Odiseo. ¡No le creas Príamo! [...] Te ruego, señor, que me permitas sacrificar un toro a Poseidón. Cuando vuelva espero ver este caballo de madera reducido a cenizas.
                                                                                         Graves, Los mitos griegos

Sus ruegos no obtuvieron respuesta, y los troyanos cayeron en la infame trampa griega, convencidos y arengados por Sinón, un desertor griego que se había introducido entre sus filas.Abrieron un hueco en la muralla y dejaron entrar al fatídico presente. 

Poco después de hacer Laocoonte su advertencia, dos enormes serpientes marinas llamadas Caribea y Peribea reptaron fuera del mar y atacaron a los hijos gemelos de Laocoonte, enroscándose alrededor de sus cuerpos y dándoles muerte. Laocoonte trató de salvar a sus hijos, pero corrió la misma suerte.

Hablamos, al final, de la justicia en su versión más pura, dura y simple. La obediencia máxima a los dioses bajo pena de muerte y sufrimiento. Esa justicia sencilla y recta que los griegos entendían y dominaba sus vidas y su arte permea hasta nuestros días. 

Os dejo con la magistral versión de El Greco. 

Nunca paréis de leer. 

Y al llegar a casa, sólo queda
este vacío insoluble, irresoluble, 
este alquitrán en la punta de la lengua, 
esta tristeza dura y arenosa. 

Mago y cristal - Stephen King

" Así pasamos por delante de los fantasmas que más adelante nos persiguen en la vida; los vemos, si es que llegamos a verlos por el rabillo del ojo, sentados sin el menor dramatismo al borde del camino como pobres pordioseros. Raras veces se nos pasa por la cabeza la idea de que nos hayan estado esperando allí. Pero ellos esperan y, cuando ya hemos pasado, recogen sus fardos de recuerdos y siguen nuestros pasos, acortando poco a poco la distancia que los separa de nosotros. "

Veleta

Por momentos, convulsiono
soy
una diosa griega drapeada de seda
porto espada de bruñido acero y doy muerte a los dragones.
Soy guerrera antigua, fuerte y alta, llevo
sobre los hombros el peso de mi mundo.

Convulsiono.

Soy una medusa fuera del agua,
blanda,
inútil,
soy una fruta podrida, un rincón
polvoriento y vacío.

Convulsiono.

Ven y reconponme.