writings & expressions

Favio Castan has written many poems and short stories, at times complementing his art pieces as a way to fully express his that which the painting is unable to communicate.  Below are some of his poems, this is a work in progress and more will be added slowly.

Poems

Recompensa, Favio Castan 2010

El polvo se vuelve carne en primavera

No se cuantas reencarnaciones son permitidas

para mis  fantasmas de intachable conducta.

El ocio duele cuando la oscuridad brilla, mientras

que cientos de rostros anhelan la dudosa posteridad.

Sobre mis pies deambulo,

Musas menopauticas revolotean,

agridulce perspectiva sin disciplina,

desvergonzadas sonríen con impoluta dentadura postiza.

Cuando se detendrá esa adormecedora  música;

antiguo coro gregoriano de arañas depredadoras

que decoran el templo con sus presas.

Habrá que inventar nuevos sonidos.

Improvisar canciones que resuciten.

No se que hacer con tanto amarillo.

Manos de un viejo  trovador

que se extienden con desgano

para recibir un par de monedas.

I’m hiding here

in the most remote of taverns

where my senses are spreading

flying beside the blemish

The smoke of my cigarette dances with female smells

a blue and cruel tango

among endless moans and grotesques grimaces.

My reflections are getting lost

in a generous neckline

while the liquor

sores my throat

I caress another’s thighs

their pretending pleasure

juggles of flesh

as long as the sin lasts

I will be here.

Hiding away.

Pieces of indifference

are falling in the net

of one circus without tent

under a starry sky

The Van Gogh’s crows are flying

shading our thoughts

and the sensual hips

of one arrogant prostitute

offering herself

in the doorstep of any cheap motel.

There is no lure for the lost season

which drives us to confusion

between the self-portraits

and the “nature mort”,

between the palette and the landscape.

Without buckwheat,

without candelabras.

Without fruits and starry skies

that sort of environment

marked by the mediocrity and desolation.

En honor a Guillermo C. Infante

De su pluma exiliada

cuelga el esqueleto rumbero

Perturbador de síntesis y metáforas

bajo la sombra ilustrada

de una novela inconclusa

Quizás devorada

Por alguna que otra fiera

Envidiosa de la fama ajena

Y capaz de cometer

un crimen casi perfecto

son tres los inevitables testigos

de la ilustre ceremonia

Coronación carnívora

del más viejo y suspicaz

de los trabalenguas.

Retumba el suelo

Pisando suave el elefante

El más tierno de los gigantes

Mueve su trompa

ante una tumba abierta

Pensando todavía

En la sombra del hombre

O pudo quizás recordar

una antigua sonrisa de mujer

Mientras que ;

Millares de locas hormigas

Mueren ahogadas

Por las lágrimas del paquidermo

Brotando nuevos colores

Del humedecido suelo

Cuando desde lo alto

Un pez volador suspira

Moviendo las pestañas.

In my youth, even before,

 I always dreamed to be a hero

 Fighting for freedom, for the oppressed

 not only for indoctrination.

 I had the feel for it, I guess

 I had the care  and courage.

 With the passage of time

 I became a fighter of a cold war,

 for a little while

 and I could taste the risk

 Sometimes romantic, sometimes boring

 of that way of life

Now in the southwest of  Florida

 although proud of my past

 I have some regrets of course

but definitely I should confess:

That I’m really quite content

 to be an unknown writer

 and a future character

 of some books of mine not written yet

I ignore those erudite

authorities without remorse.

All discrete victims of vanity

able to perpetuate triviality.

Any message for me is valid

So long as it gets in our conscience

 without violence.

-A poem?

Even the most pretentious

and flattering of creations

Is valid in the right moment

or just to be used as therapy

for our senses.

And definitely Yes!

Poetry is the soul’s revelation

and the same time rebellion

Against the rigidity of speech and mind.

Far away from the “Arch of Triumph”

but a few steps from the Guillotine

I listened to the “Marseilles”

and I don’t know what to do.

Whether to cry or dance the Can-Can

over the old breakwater of Havana

decayed by salt and time.

I want a role to play

on this spontaneous stage.

Despite that, my script and memory

were lost long ago

because we all are; insignificant extras

or obliged spectators

of one large farce and tragicomedy

of Cuban revolution.

Reflections & expressions