Chile Forum

Since we're deleting posts, can I delete some of Mr Hyre's posts















Sorry John, only kidding

Caga tranquilo, caga sin pena,
pero no se te olvide tirar la cadena.

Dudo que Neruda haya escrito eso; probablemente Inodoro Pereyra.

El Zorro wrote:Dudo que Neruda haya escrito eso; probablemente Inodoro Pereyra.

¿Qué quieres que te diga? Es poesía. Y sobre los gustos no hay nada escrito.

Hmmm.

I have been away for some time and just discovered this now.

I have always suspected that el P was or is a spook or something like it. I suspect that he let his hair down too much here and became concerned that he was compromised. Some here may recall that he knew dangerous things. From long ago, perhaps--and perhaps not, but nevertheless.

I shall miss his posts very much. Fortunately, I captured a few of the most interesting ones. (No, I won't share.)

Godspeed, el P, and be careful. I would enjoy sharing a couple of bottles of your good Chilean wine with you some time. I'll buy.

Cheers,

Gammel Skraeling

After all, there are only 27 people who care about Chile in English and they all belong to this forum, including the two who used to work for the CIA.

topic5760-60.html#p61960

¿Quién Sabe? I sure as hell don't.

Here's an English translation (by Alfred Yankauer) of the "Un Perro Ha Muerto" poem, posted by El P on the page 2 of this topic.

Does it suggest any hints? Who knows.

{source: borrowed from the Internet}

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

Good bye El P.