“My father’s cherries”, by Belén Juárez Jiménez – Librujula

Belen Juarez Jimenez (Paris, 1965) lives in Granada and is a professor of Microbiology at the University of Granada. He has always combined his scientific and teaching activity (more than 40 articles in high-impact international magazines) with his literary and artistic side. Currently, she is coordinator of the Clinical Microbiology area of ​​the Ars Pharmaceutica magazine. In relation to his literary side, he has participated in various anthologies and poetry conferences and collaborated with multiple national and international literary magazines, as well as in various local newspapers. He took his verses to the Instituto Cervantes in El Libano and Bahreim. She has been editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Ficciones, co-director of the radio program The Return of the Keycolumnist for the magazine Andalusian Legacytranslator of poetry into French and illustrator in the book The Blue Nights of the Soul (Euro-Arab Foundation). Likewise, he has been a member of the jury of the Armilla International Poetry Contest (Granada) in various calls. He has collaborated with his illustrations in various Visual Poetry publications. To date he has published two books of poetry Banishment in Angles Painting (Becoming) and Yesterday Night (Alhulia, “Major Words”).

MY FATHER’S CHERRIES

To you, Dad

There is no greater pain

than not being able to stop time

When you know the future…

YO.

Time is a cradle of anxiety,

a rhyme of threads of light,

diamond of life that is hidden

after the flesh that is born, that dies, and that…

ask.

Cradle at the wrong time

on the back of the hours, tearing

the mind sunk in a neon silence

that flashes the infamy of suffering so much.

Here is the damn face of a god

that plays with the pieces of my being,

that made me an adult and more of a child if possible,

and where my crying implores,

sweating death between my palms,

It was a child’s game

for the one who created life.

II.

Maybe a daring angel,

a spiteful angel,

a god disguised as an angel,

angels we invented,

a banished angel,

malevolent of emotions,

perhaps an angel who baptizes with love

all the questions of our eyes.

And today I am,

like an infinite drop among a multitude of oceans,

one more hug from that angel’s resentment,

sensing the august revenge,

I begged him not to raise his sword

against the very creation of what they say is

Lord of the Universe acquaintance.

It crossed me…

It pierced my belly, my fists and my feet,

without letting myself die, without letting myself get down,

clapping my wet eyes,

forcing me to live,

with the disgrace of being a daughter of the wind,

with memory intact,

with the force of reproach,

and the awareness of knowing that I am my father’s daughter,

of my father… whom I will never see again…

III.

He gave me the blood,

the garden of my happiest years

where I grew up,

playing with my insects.

So many blue eyes on his face,

a sky at the height of my curls,

the soft touch of feeling like a girl forever,

and I understand,

I understand that my memory is controlling me

against life,

drowning words,

like a dolphin without foam

gushing my greetings against him Magnificent

against him powdery mildew

than white or pearl gray

pretend eternal beauty…

twenty years,

and my forces that cannot

mistreat me more…

IV.

He who was my father begged

with closed fists

against the only spring that

slipped from his time,

see your girl again

before closing my eyes forever,

before closing his laughter, the moon of his tears,

the mantle of his love, the wrath of his hours.

The afternoon happened,

and the spears of the sun invaded my windows,

the lead of that sunset, of gray metal,

shook my hope,

the hope that was denied to me,

the hope that believers speak of,

that hope they say about the good god,

and that I never deserved with so much evil,

that he marked my chest with whips.

V.

And I keep crying…

Now I’m still crying

I get the aroma of rapilla flower

– forget-me-not– insisted…

my father told me with a flower in his hand

–forget-me-not–

while the blue of his gaze,

It keeps bringing back sadness to me,

as a seasonal delicacy of mangoes and avocados

that will never mature or die in my memory.

Twenty years after that dizzying day,

I keep seeing between his hands,

those last cherries that he asked me for,

the last drops of life that he asked me to savor,

the only ones he took towards silence.

– God of others,

I’m crying and

I can’t even control anymore

my contempt for you,

you took it from me without deserving it,

without asking me.

– In this world of fools that you allow,

of beautiful souls that you do not allow,

you no longer deserve

not even the title of God.