El bastón negro/The black cane

 El bastón negro

se acerca dócilmente,

como implorándome

que no de más

un paso en falso.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The black cane

draws near, gently,

as if imploring me

not to take

another false step.

La casa sola del hombre solo/The lonely house of the lonely man

La casa tiene solo un habitante

Es la persona más próxima a mí

Me acompaña a todas partes

Siento lo que él siente

Me hace preguntas en silencio

Ve lo que yo veo

Cuando riega los jardines de noche

la casa se siente más fresca

y como si yo lo hiciera

busca la luna en un cielo infinito

La casa  permanece casi en silencio

De alguna manera pienso, siento,

llego a hacerme la idea

que estoy ante mi Alter ego

Me seduce sobremanera

cuando piensa por mí

Es cautivante su aproximación

a los temas de interés mutuo

Vivir con este espejo móvil

el reflejo de lo probable e improbable

en el discutido terreno de la certeza

es compartir con el otro,

consigo mismo,

la ausencia, la atemporalidad 

de las palabras

El hombre solo en la casa,

solo piensa en el futuro

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The house has only one inhabitant

He is the person closest to me.

He accompanies me everywhere.

I feel what he feels.

He asks me questions in silence.

He sees what I see.

When he waters the gardens at night,

the house feels fresher—

as if I were the one doing it—

and he searches for the moon

in an infinite sky.

The house remains almost silent.

Somehow I think, I feel,

I come to believe

that I stand before my alter ego.

He deeply seduces me

when he thinks for me.

His way of approaching

matters of shared interest

is captivating.

To live with this moving mirror,

the reflection of the probable and improbable

in the contested ground of certainty,

is to share with the other—

with oneself—

the absence, the timelessness

of words.

The man alone in the house

thinks only of the future.

Los poetas se han quedado sin voz, la humanidad sin poesía/The poets have lost their voice; humanity has lost its poetry

 

https://letralia.com/ciudad-letralia/fechado-en-panama/2026/04/17/poetas-sin-voz/

https://muckrack.com/rolando-gabrielli

Poetry has almost always been a shooting star on the publishing horizon, yet it continues to occupy a secret, hidden, special corner in the hearts of its readers. It is difficult to find pages devoted to poets in the scarce literary supplements of newspapers. Poetry magazines have become objects of cult interest. Internet pages spread the word, but there is no lively, vibrant dialogue between authors and audiences. Some competitions, it is true, encourage and stimulate the more daring writers. It has become a genre for emotional survival, a kind of spiritual amulet in this mercantile, digital society, where life unfolds on autopilot. Poetry requires attention, a love of words, passion, curiosity, and above all, I would say, complicity. Poets have been left voiceless, and humanity without poetry. The facts do not contradict these words; they reaffirm them.

For a long time now, poets have not made the news; they do not speak out in the face of universal chaos and misery, even though poetry is an essentially humanistic genre—its very skin is humanity itself, its voice millennia-old, whose echoes still resound in the 21st century.

For publishers, publishing a poet is a high-risk economic venture, immediately and pragmatically classified as a loss of money and time. Poets have no audience, no platform; their stage is verbal clandestinity, as if the word itself had been proscribed and forgotten. It is more entertaining to waste time on a network, watch a movie, amuse oneself with a video game, chat endlessly, gamble in a casino, learn the rules of entrepreneurship, survive in this dystopian universe.

Poets such as Octavio Paz, Ernesto Cardenal, Neruda, Borges, Dalton, Benedetti, Parra, De Rokha, Bolaño, Oliverio Girondo, Gelman, Heraud, Cisneros, and so many others have disappeared from the scene, leaving poetry in a kind of aphonia. Bertolt Brecht left a formidable legacy for human commitment in any era, because humanity’s challenges repeat themselves cyclically. In his poem praising the indispensable person, he says:

There are men who fight for a day
and they are good. There are others who fight for a year
and are better. There are those who fight for many years
and are very good. But there are those who fight all their lives:
they are the indispensable ones.

The poem is well known, quoted, repeated, and has not lost its relevance—especially in volatile times.

The book, in general, is an object that may decorate a wall, but it is not part of people’s everyday lives, and it would be considered odd for someone to quote an author in a conversation or meeting—let alone a poet. Pulling out a book in a group, mentioning a philosopher, are things of the past. One must operate with programs and technologies, at the pace of algorithms, in the shortest possible time. Very soon, people with higher incomes will be able to buy their own personal robot that, in their free time, can recite a poem suited to the occasion.

Curiously, even people who have never been interested in reading poetry say in their daily lives—often marked by supreme banality—“this lacks poetry,” “it has no poetry,” “add some poetry to it.” It seems as though this kind of casual refrain were a reminder of the splendor, importance, and essential nature that poetry once had since time immemorial. Poetry is not the cherry on top.

This reflection, in these times when reading often becomes a heavy burden, arises from the fact that in the Chilean imagination—at least in my time—it was said that Chile is a country of poets. Not without reason: two Nobel Prize winners and dozens of extraordinary poets throughout its entire geography—nearly 4,500 kilometers of fine poetry. Mountain, maritime, desert, urban, social, popular poets—the full range of possible adjectives. This year, without going any further, 81 years after Gabriela Mistral received the Nobel Prize, a monument has been erected in her honor in Plaza Italia, the site that divides Santiago into north and south. The work of artists Mariana Silva and Norma Ramírez presides over that emblematic place for Chileans through “16 vertical steel prisms that combine images of the poet with excerpts from her poem ‘We Were All Going to Be Queens,’ one of the most well-known in her body of work.” There are mixed opinions about the piece; Gabriela was always immersed in controversy, and an anonymous critic even coined the following phrase in reference to the monument: “When politics fails, politicians resort to myth and poetry.”

Poetry seems to be a kind of cosmetic resource—at least it serves some purpose amid so much prosaic prose. This spontaneous note has emerged, unsurprisingly, after an interview with the Chilean National Poetry Prize winner of 2016, my friend Manuel Silva Acevedo, who at 83 tells us that he has knocked on the doors of various Chilean publishers; three refused him with different excuses about prior commitments. Silva Acevedo, with 60 years of poetic practice, a recognized body of work, and a hard-earned place in Chilean poetry, has wandered for months through the publishing market without reaching port. This is a stark example of the state of interest in poetry in Chile. The jury that awarded him described his work as a “key poetic presence in our literature, from his prophetic and multivalent poem Wolves and Sheep (1976),” as reported by Diego Quivira, the interviewer. “There are only 50 poems,” the poet notes, under the title Shards and Impertinences.

Marisol Vera, director of Editorial Cuarto Propio, puts it bluntly regarding the publication of poetry: “Publishing poetry in a country where every activity is expected to be profitable is extremely difficult, because poetry—even by renowned poets—does not generate economic returns.” Vera recalls that since the founding of Cuarto Propio in 1984, “the only (poetry) book that has covered its costs and generated income for the publishing house has been, in recent times, the work of Stella Díaz Varín.” I’m glad for the fiery Stella Díaz Varín, whom I met in the wild nights of Santiago’s bohemian scene, alongside Teillier, Barquero, Cárdenas, and Poli Délano.

Las palabras/The words

 Me fueron fieles,

no siempre,

y permanecieron

sin reproche,

con dignidad,

ausentes,

a veces,

persistentemente,

por demás

retraídas,

tal vez,

nunca perdidas

o sin voz

propia,

quizás próximas,

al silencio.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Were faithful to me,

not always,

yet they remained

without reproach,

with dignity—

absent,

at times,

persistently,

even overly withdrawn,

perhaps

never lost

nor without

a voice

of their own,

maybe close

to silence.

Q

Pessoa se acuarteló/Pessoa barricaded himself

 

Pessoa

se acuarteló

en sí mismo.

Hermético

hasta la sombra,

que era lo más

próximo a su vida.

Aún se le ve en fotografías

de la época caminando

por Lisboa dejando atrás

todo, principalmente,

así mismo.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Pessoa

barricaded himself

within himself.

Hermetic

even to his own shadow,

which was the closest

thing to his life.

He can still be seen

in photographs of the time,

walking through Lisbon,

leaving everything behind—

above all,

himself.

Piedras Rodantes/Rolling Stones

 

Los Rolling Stones, estas ruidosas

piedras rodantes, no dejan de rodar,

hacen ruido sin parar

en el centro erótico de la palabra,

viven y vuelven a agitar

polvos de estrellas.

Viejos trovadores, rockeros del pecado,

ancianos felices juegan al amor,

perpetúan el deseo  como monjes

pornográficos, no tienen, nunca,

 han tenido freno, ni buscan

la salvación espiritual.

The Rolling Stones, dirán en el recuerdo,

muchachos no dejen de tocar,

no paren aunque prendan

en llamas el mismo infierno,

las piedras son eternas

y no deben dejar de rodar.

Rolando Gabrielli2026 

.

The Rolling Stones, those noisy

rolling stones, never stop rolling,

they make endless noise at the erotic

center of the word, they live and stir again

stardust.

Old troubadours, rockers of sin,

happy elders playing at love,

they perpetuate desire like

pornographic monks, they have no—

have never had—brake, nor do they seek

spiritual salvation.

The Rolling Stones, it will be said in memory,

boys, never stop playing,

don’t stop even if you set

hell itself on fire,

stones are eternal

and must never cease to roll.

Voy hasta donde sea/ I go wherever it may lead

 Voy hasta donde sea

que el silencio

no rompa mil cristales,

con mi viejo carro y bastón

 metálico negro.

Mi tiempo no tiene apuro,

soldado y menos la guerra,

siempre debimos ser respetuosos 

del reloj de la la historia.

Tal y como lo oyes,

el tiempo es una convención,

nadie improvisa

más allá de lo permitido

por el paso del tiempo.

Y, sí sus alas son el viento, 

nada importa más 

que la huella que ha dejado

la inmortalidad del tiempo.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

I go as far as anywhere

where silence

does not shatter a thousand crystals,

with my old car and black

metal cane.

My time is in no hurry,

a lone soldier, and even less war—

we should always have been respectful

of the clock of history.

Just as you hear it,

time is a convention;

no one improvises

beyond what is permitted

by the passage of time.

And yes, if its wings are the wind,

nothing matters more

than the trace it has left—

the immortality of time.

Ángel/Angel

 ¿Dónde está el ángel

que en tus pies vuela,

me pregunto, en verdad,

por tus pasos aquí

en mi memoria,

palabra escrita

sobre mi cicatriz?

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Angel

Where is the angel
that takes flight at your feet?

I wonder—truly—
about your footsteps here,
within my memory,

a written word
etched
upon my scar.

La verdad no tiene precio/The truth has no price

 Estimados señores:

absolutamente imposible

suscribirme a vuestro periódico,

a pesar de tan tentadoras,

casi obscenas ofertas.

Dadas las circunstancias,

lo cierto es, que la verdad,

no tiene precio. 

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Dear Sirs,

utterly impossible

for me to subscribe

to your newspaper,

despite such tempting—

almost obscene—offers.

Given the circumstances,

the truth, in fact,

has no price.

Bajo el árbol de la vida/Beneath the Tree of Life

Bajo el árbol de la vida,

fruto de las palabras,

crecerá un mundo mejor,

con fuerza y esperanza.

Eso espero, al menos, creo,

mientras veo pasar, sin apuro,

 una estación cualquiera 

del año en curso.

La guerra no cesa, sin embargo,

en la misma parte del mundo,

oscurecida  por el mal de siempre.

No me pidan más precisión,

vivimos en un mundo espantosamente,

volátil, arbitrario, caprichoso.

Decir la verdad, es un lujo.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Beneath the Tree of Life,

where words bear fruit,

a better world

shall come to be—

in strength and in hope.

So I wait, so I believe,

as I behold, unhurried,

the passing of a season

within the turning year.

Yet war does not relent,

in that same region of the earth,

cast into shadow

by the ancient evil.

Ask me not for greater precision—

we dwell in a world

fearfully unstable,

arbitrary and capricious.

To speak the truth

is now a rare grace.

La luna se deja seducir/The Moon lets herself be seduced

 La luna

cada vez más

promiscua

con la tierra,

se deja seducir

en su lado oscuro,

pero no habitar.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The Moon lets herself be seduced

The Moon,

increasingly

promiscuous

with the Earth,

lets herself be seduced

on her dark side,

yet never to dwell there.

La página en blanco/The Blank Page

 

La página en blanco

es una invitación,

oportunidad,

prueba sin garantía,

más bien, un desafío.

Anfitriona de la pureza,

es pura transparencia

a la espera de la palabra

que revela el poder

de la palabra verdadera,

que busca superar

la esperanza 

de la página en blanco.

Rolando Gabriellii2026

The Blank Page

The blank page

is an invitation,

an opportunity,

a test without guarantee—

rather, a challenge.

Host to purity,

it is sheer transparency,

waiting for the word

that reveals the power

of the true word,

which seeks to surpass

the hope

of the blank page.

¿Se Irán o no se Irán?/Will they leave or won’t they leave?

 ¿Se Irán o no se Irán?

Esa es la cuestión.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Will they leave or won’t they leave? 

That is the question.

Gabriela

 

Gabriela, tu tiempo no tenía tiempo,

llegas plena en el otoño chileno,

en cuerpo y alma, sin sombras,

para fundar la palabra.

En tu larga espera vuelves a recorrer

la patria esquiva, festeja reina en tu hora

 la fecha en la majestad  precisa,

de tu eterna huella. 

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Gabriela, your time had no time,

you arrive fulfilled in the Chilean autumn,

in body and soul, without shadows,

to found the word.

In your long انتظار you walk again

through the elusive homeland; reign, celebrate your hour,

the moment in its precise majesty,

of your eternal trace.

Si te encuentras/If you find yourself

 

Si te encuentras

con este poema,

no olvides,

la poesía eres tú.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

If you find this poem,

don’t forget,

you are the poetry.

Mis amigos, los poetas malditos/My friends, the accursed poets

Mis amigos, los poetas malditos,

lo dieron todo por la poesía,

no tengo palabras para explicarlo,

siguieron su feroz instinto día a día,

no tranzaron por ningún momento

con sus ideales, su  vida, su poesía,

no se hicieron querer por el poder,

como dijo Enrique Lihn sin anestesia,

no fueron bufones, ni diplomáticos,

ni adictos a los premios de ocasión,

ni oficiales o a becas  internacionales.

Fueron poetas que no se escondieron

detrás  de las palabras, dijeron

lo que pensaron, lo que corría

por sus venas, fueron fieles a su tiempo,

a sus sagradas palabras que acompañaron

paso a paso sus días, los años intangibles

 de unos sueños inconfesables.

Les agradezco haber compartido,

el rayo misterioso de la poesía.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

 

MY FRIENDS, THE ACCURSED POETS

My friends, the accursed poets,

gave everything to poetry.

I have no words to explain it.

They followed their fierce instinct day by day,

never compromising, not for a moment,

their ideals, their lives, their poetry.

They did not seek the favor of power—

as Enrique Lihn said, without anesthesia.

They were not buffoons, nor diplomats,

nor addicts to occasional prizes,

nor officials, nor seekers of international grants.

They were poets who did not hide

behind words; they said

what they thought, what ran

through their veins. They were faithful to their time,

to their sacred words that walked

step by step with their days,

the intangible years

of unconfessable dreams.

I thank them

for having shared

the mysterious lightning of poetry.

Las palabras/Words

 Las palabras

que nombran

y fundan,

son las indispensables.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

WORDS

Words

that name

and found,

are indispensable.

Amor de calendario y otros poemas/Calendar Love and Other Poems

 

Amor de calendario, 

¿cuál es tu prisa,

por dar vuelta

la hoja?

Infancia

En el fondo del patio,

una luna inmensa,

perdida,

con mi infancia.

El silencio

Clava el clavo,

el corazón de la madera,

del árbol.

Una voz atrapada

entre las ramas.

La espada

La fuerza

de la espada,

es cortar, cortar,

hasta el mismo

filo.

Círculo

Un círculo tiene

un adentro

y un afuera.

Letra muerta

Si no me escribes,

el amor seguirá

siendo letra muerta.

Aire, aire

¿Son pájaros?

¿Son hojas?

Vienen por nosotros,

ramas de un mismo vuelo

y de raíz de un solo tronco,

el aire, el aire.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Calendar Love

Calendar love,

what is your hurry

to turn

the page?

Childhood

At the back of the yard,

an immense moon,

lost,

with my childhood.

Silence

It drives the nail,

the heart of the wood,

of the tree.

A voice trapped

among the branches.

The Sword

The strength

of the sword

is to cut, to cut,

down to its very

edge.

Circle

A circle has

an inside

and an outside.

Dead Letter

If you don’t write to me,

love will remain

a dead letter.

Air, Air

Are they birds?

Are they leaves?

They come for us,

branches of the same flight

and rooted in a single trunk—

the air, the air.

Sin novedad en el frente/No news from the front

 Sin novedad en el frente.

Nuestros abuelos y padres,

vivieron las dos grandes

guerras mundiales.

Y esta tercera en curso,

que puja por nacer,

nos pertenece.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

No news from the front

Our grandparents and fathers

lived through the two great

world wars.

And this third, now unfolding,

straining to be born,

belongs to us.

Fieles/Faithful

 Fieles,

mis versos

perros,

me ladran

cuando

no los encuentro.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Faithful,

my verses,

dogs,

bark at me

when

I cannot find them.

Las velas/The Sails

 Las velas

siempre deben

estar desplegadas,

aunque no haya viento.

Rolando Gabrielli2026

The sails

must always

be unfurled,

even when there is no wind.

¿Dónde está el poema?/Where is the poem?

¿Dónde está el poema?

¿Dónde comienza

la palabra.

Quién escribirá,

leerá por primera vez

el poema.

Quién se deslumbrará

en el fuego de la palabra?

Rolando Gabrielli2026

Where is the poem?

Where does

the word begin.

Who will write,

who will read for the first time

the poem.

Who will be dazzled

in the fire of the word?