"Decidme cómo es un árbol" (Tell Me, What is a Tree Like) is a poem by Marcos Ana, real name Fernando Macarro Castillo, whom I had the luck to personally meet in Barcelona. Born in 1920, he fought in the Spanish Civil War on the Republican side. Imprisoned as a young Communist activist, twice sentenced to death, Marcos Ana was released thanks to an amnesty after 23 years. Today he is 92 and still is – as José Saramago said - “an intact, authentic, complete man”.
Moved by his personality, I decided to make a book out of one of his poems.
Edition is of 20 copies, all numbered and signed by both author and artist.
Reviewed more than once by the UWE's bulletin (University of the West of England), this book has been awarded the Birgit Skiöld Memorial Trust Award and acquired by, among private collectors, the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.
Spanish:
Decidme el canto de un río
cuando se cubre de pájaros.
Habladme del mar. Habladme
del olor ancho del campo.
De las estrellas. Del aire.
Recitadme un horizonte
sin cerradura y sin llaves
como la choza de un pobre.
Decidme cómo es el beso
de una mujer. Dadme el nombre
del amor: no lo recuerdo.
(¿Aún las noches se perfuman
de enamorados con tiemblos
de pasión bajo la luna?
¿O sólo queda esta fosa,
la luz de una cerradura
y la canción de mis losas?)
22 años. Ya olvido
la dimensión de las cosas,
su color, su aroma… Escribo a tientas:
“El mar”, “El campo…
Digo “Bosque” y he perdido
la geometría del árbol.
Hablo por hablar de asuntos
que los años me borraron
(No puedo seguir: escucho
los pasos del funcionario).
English:
Tell me about a tree.
Tell me about the sound of a river
Covered with birds.
Speak to me of the sea, speak to me
of the deep scent of the land.
Of the stars. Of the wind.
Speak to me of a horizon
without locks and keys
like a pauper's shack.
Tell me about the kiss
of a woman.Give me the name
of love: I don't remember.
(Are the nights still perfumed
with the trembling passion
of lovers under the moon?
Or is only this emptiness left,
the light of a keyhole
and the song of the stones?)
22 years. I have forgotten
the shape of things,
their color, their scent... I can barely write:
"The sea," "The land..."
I say "Forest" and I have lost
the shape of the tree.
I speak to speak of the things
which the years have erased from me
(I cannot go on: I hear
the footsteps of the guard).
All photos are copyrighted by ©Francesc Angles Consul
Moved by his personality, I decided to make a book out of one of his poems.
Edition is of 20 copies, all numbered and signed by both author and artist.
Reviewed more than once by the UWE's bulletin (University of the West of England), this book has been awarded the Birgit Skiöld Memorial Trust Award and acquired by, among private collectors, the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.
Spanish:
Decidme el canto de un río
cuando se cubre de pájaros.
Habladme del mar. Habladme
del olor ancho del campo.
De las estrellas. Del aire.
Recitadme un horizonte
sin cerradura y sin llaves
como la choza de un pobre.
Decidme cómo es el beso
de una mujer. Dadme el nombre
del amor: no lo recuerdo.
(¿Aún las noches se perfuman
de enamorados con tiemblos
de pasión bajo la luna?
¿O sólo queda esta fosa,
la luz de una cerradura
y la canción de mis losas?)
22 años. Ya olvido
la dimensión de las cosas,
su color, su aroma… Escribo a tientas:
“El mar”, “El campo…
Digo “Bosque” y he perdido
la geometría del árbol.
Hablo por hablar de asuntos
que los años me borraron
(No puedo seguir: escucho
los pasos del funcionario).
English:
Tell me about a tree.
Tell me about the sound of a river
Covered with birds.
Speak to me of the sea, speak to me
of the deep scent of the land.
Of the stars. Of the wind.
Speak to me of a horizon
without locks and keys
like a pauper's shack.
Tell me about the kiss
of a woman.Give me the name
of love: I don't remember.
(Are the nights still perfumed
with the trembling passion
of lovers under the moon?
Or is only this emptiness left,
the light of a keyhole
and the song of the stones?)
22 years. I have forgotten
the shape of things,
their color, their scent... I can barely write:
"The sea," "The land..."
I say "Forest" and I have lost
the shape of the tree.
I speak to speak of the things
which the years have erased from me
(I cannot go on: I hear
the footsteps of the guard).
All photos are copyrighted by ©Francesc Angles Consul
