To an artist (A un artista)

I think I owe it to my Dad to not say that much about who inspired this poem, only that I know exactly what he meant and how he felt.  Reading this I feel a strong connection between him and I.  I can just picture him writing and admiring his subject.  From my Dad’s book The celebrated afternoon (La tarde festejada).

To an artist (A un artista)

He used to carry with him

sad stories and hopes

but he knew how to take refuge

in his confidence.

He loved women

with goatish impetus

and loved every human being that caught

the radiant humour

of his exasperated adolescence.

The fire of his grey eyes

melancholic in occasions

used to seal the deal that led

to the plenitude of love.

He vibrated like a fragile cane

in adverse winds.

The privilege of his voice

and his miraculous and agile fingers

discovered torrents of music

in the guitar, companion

of his bohemia and his dreams.

He sang like a mystic prays,

chin up and eyes closed;

while with his hands he followed

the itinerary of
an imaginary score…