Del norte pero del sur

Resulta extraño yo ser,
y en cierto modo
no ser,
ser de un lugar
en el mundo
sin siquiera haber estado allí
durante unos cuantos años,.
Extraño parece
y ciertamente lo es,
ser del Norte de ese Sur,
tan lejano y entrañable.
Es extraño y es tan fuerte,
ser y no ser
a la vez
de esa tierra de recuerdos ,
queridos y pertinaces,
ser del Norte
ser del Sur,
ser de canciones
del Darno,
ser de los versos
del Bocha,
ser del verbo
de Gravina,
ser del canto
de Moraes,
de la cuna
de Gardel.
Es extraño
y no lo es
recordar
desde tan lejos;
es extraño
y no lo es,
de repente recordar.
Soy del Norte
de ese Sur,
aun sin serlo
totalmente;
soy del Norte
de aquel Sur,
con acento de frontera,
yo soy de Tacuarembó
aun sin serlo de veras,
y no miento
cuando digo
quiero ser yo
de ese Norte,
de ese Norte
tan al Sur,
quiero ser desde hace años,
y en gran medida lo soy,
quiero ser yo
de ese Norte,
llamado Tacuarembó.

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit, octubre de 2008

Dos minutos de retraso - Two Minutes Late

TWO MINUTES LATE

“If you wanted to the job so much, you should’ve been here on time,” Dr. Peñaherrera barked at Amanda Salas with his neighborhood cop’s tone of voice. Amanda Salas tried to convince him that she had arrived five minutes ahead of schedule, but the doorman sent her to the wrong building and a two-minute delay wasn’t such a big deal after all, but it was useless. She left, upset since the commute to the center of that unknown city had taken her more than an hour. A few years later, Amanda Salas, owner of her law firm, found Dr. Peñaherra’s resume in a pile of employment applications.

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit, mayo de 2020

Talks like Columbo

Working at the Elson’s gift shop on the Fontainebleau Hilton shopping arcade. It’s quite a slow Saturday afternoon in a hot, humid day, hundreds of customers come and go elsewhere. I stop to catch a glimpse at the store or stagger through the door, startled by senseless sensor beep. The radio is on, WRLN, Folk and Acoustic Music is on the air, Jambalaya (On The Bayou) lingers in the air.

A short, middle-aged man comes in, wearing a navy blue jogging suit. He looks like Peter Falk. We exchange greetings. He sounds like Peter Falk. In fact, he sounds like Columbo. I stay where I am, management policy says I should follow customers around but I keep reading a book, sitting by the cash register.

The man in the jogging suit looks around the Murano pieces and the obscenely overpriced wooden pelican and talks to me.

“How’s Mr. Elson doing? You know I went to high school with him, in Atlanta. Back then I used to live in Atlanta, you know..”

He keeps talking for about 20 minutes. Always sounding like Columbo, or like Peter Falk in a John Cassavetes movie reading from a Columbo side.

Vinnia, the regional manager got furious when she found out I didn't take a picture of him and didn’t even ask him for an autograph either.

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit, December 2017

Once I Sang a French Song or French Song Blues

Once I sang a French song

early in the afternoon
on an open stage,
and I felt very happy
on an open stage,
in Edgewater, Chicago,
and I felt very sad
on that open stage
Once I sang Aline
and it was raining
on Granville and Sheridan,
once I sang a French song
and the wind was blowing
and the rain kept falling
Once I sang a French song
and Summer was over.

Someone said to me
you have a young heart
you have a young soul
but there was sorrow
in my exile’s heart,
that afternoon
on an open stage
when I sang a French song,
and the people applauded
despite the rain and the wind,
it sounded like me
but it was not me,
and Summer was over
when I sang a sad French song
on an open stage
in Edgewater, Chicago.

© Eytan Lasca-Szalit, June 19, 2020

You Say Goodbye, I say okay

I wrote this poem back in September 2019, almost 9 months ago and it sounds like it was written light-years ago.

You Say Goodbye, I Say Okay

Let it be your loss
what was love one day,
like a paperweight
                    you dropped,
let it be your loss,
let it be your sorrow,
what you want to get
now you say you miss,
now you say you care,
about life and love
about thought and passion,
let it be your loss.

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit, September 16, 2019

Malapropismos - Malapropisms

La cuestión es que ya le había perdonado dos transgresiones. Que se hubiera acostado con el badulaque de Bermúdez, vaya y pase. Encontrarla en nuestra cama junto al bobalicón de Müller fue un trago amargo, aunque la carne es débil, ya lo dice la Biblia. Sin embargo, cuando por enésima vez dijo implicar en vez de inferir, apolítico en vez de apodíctico y convulsión en vez de conmoción, me hirvió la sangre y agarré el Smith & Wesson. Tuvo chance de salvarse, pero va y me dice: “Ta bien, me hago harina”, en vez de me hago humo y apreté el gatillo. ¡Pero yo no quería matarla, señor juez!

© Eytán Lasca-Szalit, abril de 2020

English version

Malapropisms

The point is that I had already forgiven her transgressions a couple of times. Okay, she slept with Bermúdez, that imbecile, but I let it go. Then, finding her in our bed next to Müller, that damn fool, was a bitter pill to swallow but “flesh is weak”, it says so in the Bible. However, when for the umpteenth time she said “imply” instead of “infer”, “apolitical” instead of “apodictic” and “convulsion” instead of “commotion”, it made my blood boil and I grabbed the Smith & Wesson. At that point, she still had a chance to save herself, but she goes and says to me: "Okay, I’ll get fucked out of here", instead of “I’ll get the fuck out of here” and I pulled the trigger. But I didn't want to kill her, Your Honor!

Mid May Chicago Rain

This irreverent Chicago rain is not a pain like in Spain, but like the gentle drizzle in Paris it's kind of lame. © Eytán Lasca-Szalit, May 2020