KHÔRA

El beso de la sabiduría Soy un filósofo errante, pobre en bienes, rico en anhelo, vagando en busca del fulgor de la sabiduría. Porque la sabiduría es el beso de los besos, un beso divino que guía mis pasos hacia la luz de un saber que transforma. Aplícate, aprovéchate de mi humilde pensamiento, pues la sabiduría no es saberlo todo, sino hallar el saber que cambia la vida. No tengo palabras perfectas para plasmar mi sentir, pero en mis versos dispersos he encendido un destello de la luz de mi pobre pensamiento. The Kiss of Wisdom I am a wandering philosopher, poor in possessions, rich in longing, roaming in search of the glow of wisdom. For wisdom is the kiss of all kisses, a divine kiss that guides my steps toward the light of a knowledge that transforms. Apply yourself, take advantage of my humble thought, for wisdom is not knowing everything, but finding the knowledge that changes life. I have no perfect words to express my feeling, but in my scattered verses, I have kindled a spark ...

  Joy’s trick is to supply Dry lips with what can cool and slake, Leaving them dumbstruck also with an ache Nothing can satisfy. - Richard Wilbur             There's a parable in the Gospels - the Parable of the Hidden Treasure - where a man stumbles upon a treasure buried in a field. Overcome with joy at his discovery, he goes and sells everything he owns in order to buy that very piece of land. It’s quite a striking parable, both as a depiction of the Kingdom of Heaven and as an illustration of that irresistible impulse that comes with finding something of immense worth. It speaks rather well to my recent, unwavering admiration for the British author Zadie Smith. I recall listening to a podcast featuring one of my favourite poets, Christian Wiman, where he made a profound observation about joy. He referenced a remark by Zadie Smith, who once noted that people often mistake joy for an intensified form of pleasure - a notion she found somewhat abs...

      Lately, I have been turning over the concept of hypocrisy—a thorny and, it must be said, rather unfashionable subject. In particular, I’ve been pondering whether there might be space for what one might term a kind of “healthy hypocrisy.” Admittedly, this is an unlikely notion, and one that seems to teeter perilously close to oxymoron. Yet, in its more redeeming guise, could such a paradoxical posture allow for a certain moral pliancy, a flexibility that might avoid the brittle rigours of absolute consistency? It’s an unsettling thought, but perhaps worth exploring.      Who holds the moral authority to issue reproach? Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. My musings have been prompted, in part, by a return to Luigi Pirandello, particularly his exploration of masks and faces in the phenomenology of theatre. Of all his works, Uno, Nessuno e Centomila strikes me as especially apposite. “You will learn at your own expense,” Pirandello writes...

          Europe's borders are currently experiencing an unprecedented influx of migrants—individuals compelled by necessity to seek new opportunities. It is difficult not to feel sympathy for these men and women, to marvel at their extraordinary courage as they endure the relentless dust and scorching heat of the desert, only to face the unyielding hostility of the sea—a sea that rises against them with the fury of Poseidon himself. Their journey is one of unrelenting peril. The desert does not rest; the sea does not relent. For those who endure and arrive, integration often begins as a triumph. Yet there lingers an undercurrent of unease.      Recently, a growing chorus of anxious voices in the United Kingdom has lamented that their culture is slipping away. It is easy to understand the apprehension fuelling these anxieties. After all, the story of immigration has long been one of adaptation, of cultures fusing, blending, and at times, clas...

  I hear you in faint whispers Trapped in a space of noise, yet, I hear you in faint whispers. Too many seductive voices, none of which are real— still, I find myself in your call. Should I go deaf to these piercing cries? Should I surrender to their summons? My ear’s filters grow weak, I pray you don't chastise me for yielding to their loudness. I will remain attentive, but I will not respond just yet, until I find the one true voice, the one that calls in whispers. Let me hear it once more, for I am made whole in your call.   In the Grip of a Sublime Smile She has a shy appearance, A calmness veils her, yet a fragile mirth lingers near. To hear her speak is to strain one's ear, Her beauty is a secret, softly whispered. Visible only in shadows, she moves with grace, Her aura, a gift divine, unmatched by mortal hands. The goddess of Olympus finds no place for her, For she surpasses their glory with effortless grace. The Theoi Agoraioi whispe...

                                            The Sigh that Beckons The clock plots its haste, as morning wanes into night, Like a child surrendering to the gentle pull of sleep. I sighed softly, fading into absence. As nocturnal birds whispered secrets to the dark, The sleeping soul bid its farewell to the waking, And in the quiet repose of my body, I drifted into dreams. Let me wake once more, to hold my dreams in memory, Lest I yearn only for sleep's tender embrace. In the quiet dawn's first light, the waking soul bade farewell to the sleeping, And in that fleeting instant, I sighed into presence.   Love is promised In your presence, I veil myself from your sight, Yet i linger, just beyond your reach. In your nearness, I find my distance, And wonder: how far must I journey to reach you? This path to you weighs heavy upon my feet, Yet in my distance...