Ríos de sangre unida

“Ríos de Sangre”: Título que se le ha dado al tristemente famoso discurso anti-inmigración pronunciado en 1968 por Enoch Powell en el que evocó la sangre en el Río Tíber de la Eneida de Virgilio (Siglo I a.C.).


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso aquellos que aún viven

en el mismísimo paritorio

del hospital en que nacieron,

agarrados al potro de la cama

donde aterrizaron al salir

del viente de sus madres,

aquellos que aún no han limpiado

su propio líquido amniótico


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso los que alardean,

como si fuera mérito suyo,

de haber nacido en tal o cual sitio

como la patata que presume

de haber elegido

el bancal donde creció


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso aquellos que mandan

policías    a pegarles porrazos

a quienes quieren votar

en nombre de una ley

que está siendo cuestionada


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso aquellos

que visten casacas

de mil setecientos

y se apropian de unos muertos

que nunca fueron suyos

olvidando a unos vivos

que debieran aceptar,

aquellos que se esconden

en su máquina del tiempo


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso aquellos     que usan el odio

para mover a las masas

en su medio digital,

en su asamblea de vecinos,

en su libro de texto,

aquellos que juegan ajedrez

con tus pasiones y anhelos


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya.


Incluso aquellos que llegaron

por accidente, como yo,

a un paisaje distinto y amable

y nunca vieron el día

de comprar billete de vuelta


Incluso aquellos que se ven

forzados a abandonar

sus pueblos y ciudades

asediados por el caos capitalista

del nacionalismo o del hambre,

aquellos que huyen

de patrias y miseria


Incluso aquellos que sueñan con caras distintas,

con horizontes nuevos, con aires inéditos


Todos somos provisionales

en esta España

y en esta Catalunya,


porque somos los Ríos de Sangre

que alimentan los Océanos de Esperanza.


Traducido y adaptado del poema original en inglés, Rivers of Blood, por el autor. Poema publicado por primera vez en ‘Contra: poesía ante la represión’. Coordinadora Anti Represión de la Región de Murcia. 2016.

Montaje fotográfico distribuido bajo licencia CC-BY-SA 4.0

Fotos: Roures: 20 Minutos CC-BY-SA 2.1 / Forcadell: Parlament de Catalunya – CC0 / Rajoy: Antonio Cruz/Agência Brasil – CC BY 3.0 / Junqueras: Govern de Catalunya CC0 / Sáenz Santa de María: Cristina Cifuentes – Flickr CC BY 2.0 / Losantos: FDV – CC BY 3.0 / Guardiola: Football.ua Кирилл Крыжановский – CC BY-SA 3.0 / Felipe VI: Casa Rosada (Presidencia de la Nación argentina) – CC BY 2.5 AR

Unite against Fascism




rich clusters,
sweet voice.

let’s think

why all
of us
have lost.

let’s show

the best
of all
our love.

But act,
let’s act.

It’s time
for no

let’s bring

more justice,
and peace.

bring back

what took
so much
to win.

The Night of Trump

I held my heart,
my breath,
my iPad.

I looked through the screen
like an agonising wizard
who casts
his eyes
on the hidden
of a crystal

How many emotions,
how much attention,
could the map
of the States

red and blue,
the numbers of colleges,
the random borders
of arbitrary plots
meant to me
what they meant that night:

an evil that no soul
will ever forgive,
a twilight that our dawn
will have to redeem.

The Flight of the Figs

Once upon a time
I was a fig

(Yes, a fig)

full of little flowers inside,
plenty of endless dreams…

I was born
in a casual tree
of those that nobody grooms,
of those that never get rain,
of those that drain you to death.

punished by birds
who picked on my white sweaty sweetness
and left me scarred,
but made me stronger.

One day,
an arrogant orange,
of a garden nearby,
called for a meeting of peers
and suggested the idea
of forming a fruital system.

(Yes, a fruital system)

The rest of fruits agreed.

So, the orange stood in the centre,
cause she was too tangy to spin.

Everyone else
came forward
in a perfect queue
that started to curl
coiling outwards
around the self-proclaimed star.

The apple, the peach, the pear,
the lemon and even the grape
found quickly a place
in a galaxy they called
“The Juicy Way”.

They all looked so lush,
as they floated
in their glorious ether
of mechanically smooth subjects.

I want a place in this system,
I said.
I want to be an aster too.
I deserve to be there,
in harmony
with you.

The apple and some others
started to giggle
with patronising
swivel-eyed disdain.

I am sorry my love,
said the eloquent
sunny leader,
but this is a fruital system
where everything works
out of our own



Everyone wins,

everyone contributes.

The magnetic fields
of our respective masses
are already balanced.

That is why we levitate up here,
so graciously.

If we take you on,
we will have to open the floodgates of the universe.

How many more fruits
could we feasibly accommodate?

So, after this rational rejection,
I had no choice
but to become
a zero-hours planet,
also known as a comet.

(Yes, a comet)

So now,
I am a wrinkly wild comet
full of odd rugged cracks.
I am not round,
not even pear shaped,
I have no clouds,
no satellites,
no green bits,
no rings of dust,
no frozen lakes of gas…
but I don’t give a damn!

I am a prince of the universe,
planets fear my freedom,
no one knows my trajectory,
it is hard to land on my surface,
I come and go as I please.

But if someone

if someone on behalf
of that master of creation
messes about with my equations
pushing me out my orbit,
I may end up crashing
on one of their gardenly planets.

And, who knows?

If some shepherds see
my falling tail,
flying in the night
in the skies in winter,
they may grant me godly status
an invent a religion
at my place of collision.

Who knows?

I have nothing to lose.

I am a wrinkly wild comet,

I am a pirate
in an orderly show of stars
who learnt their moves
in the Youtube version
of the Book of Genesis,
in the phallic columns
of The Sun Says,
in the go-home section
of the Daily Mail.

Watch them
as they tamper
with Victorian
time machines!

Watch them,
as they sink
in the black hole
of their Brexit!

Unlike them,
I am my own choreographer.

Only infinite heavens will tell you
what I am made of!


Watch me!

Watch me as I fly!
with millions of figs like me
away from a supernova
of stupid national greed.


Copyright © 2016. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.


Originally published in Poetry Life and Times as “The fig”


Image ”Bursting at the seams” courtesy of ESA/Hubble, Creative Commons Licence International 4.0 Attribution (CC BY 4.0)

The Grapes

The grapes
don’t die
in the vineyard
with the harvest
in the summer.


They transcend
and translive
in the wine,


like the poem in the song,
like our talent in discoveries,
like parents in their children,
like a nurse in our health,
like a friend in our strength,
like teachers in our wisdom,
like rebels
and activists of the Common
in ordinary
and achievements.


But our labour,
our paid labour,
is taken away
in corporate cloaks
to private shrines
far in some islands
for cultural worship
(our cultural worship)
and power,
the power hoarded by few
that is used against the many.


And the soldier,
poor soldier,
is sent to kill and die,
sacrificed for national pride,
(or political reasons
reserved for great minds)


for whose mother?


for mother-what?


The wine
of the grapes
of the land
of the peasants
is a miracle of humanity.


Copyright © 2016. Tony Martin-Woods
Todos los derechos reservados. All rights reserved.

Inspired in the poem “La transvida” (“Translife”), published in Spanish in Los viajes de Diosa (The Travels of Goddess). Murcia. Diego Marín. 2015..


Image from Æsop´s Fable 2, “The Stag and the Vine”, in John Ashton (1882) Chap-books of the Eighteen Century (p.465). London. Chatto and Windus, Picadilly. 1882. Found in Flickr.com

A rendition of the Fable:

A Stag, pursued by the huntsmen, concealed himself under cover of a thick vine. They lost track of him. Supposing all danger to be over, the Stag began to browse on the leaves of the Vine with the intention of eating them. The movement drew the attention of the returning huntsmen, and one of them, supposing some animal to be hidden there, shot an arrow at a venture into the foliage. The unlucky Stag was pierced to the heart, and, as he expired, he said, “I deserve my fate for my treachery in feeding upon the leaves of my protector.” (adapted from translation by happychild.org.uk)