[from Gabriela Mistral’s Lagar, 1954]
Now the ballerina dances
the dance of losing all.
Everything she's owned she lets fall,
parents & siblings, country & gardens,
sound of her river, her roads,
her story of home, her face
& name & childhood games
like one who lets whatever she had
fall from her neck, her breast, her soul.
At dawn of day & solstice
smiling she dances her perfect ruin.
Her arms fling to the wind the world
that loves & hates, smiles & kills,
the land ripe for a blood harvest
night of the spent & sleepless
& chattering teeth of the homeless.
No name, race or creed, nude
through, she yields,
fair & pure, flying feet.
Like a tree, shaken, & mid-whirl,
she's a witness, turned.
She doesn’t dance the flight of the albatross
spotty with salt & larking in surf;
nor the rise & fall
of crushed cane fields.
Nor wind whipping sails,
nor the smile of tall grasses.
They won’t admit her christened name.
She left her caste & flesh
scuttled her blood lullaby
& ballads of puberty.
Unaware we toss her our lives
like a poisonous red dress
& she dances so, bitten by snakes
fast & free they scale her,
& let her fall on a beaten flag
or a garland torn to pieces.
Sleepwalking, reborn as what she hates,
knowing nothing else, she keeps on dancing
grimaces fleet & repeating
gasping at our gasp,
blocking the air that fails to brace
solitaire & vortex, vile & pure.
We are her gasping chest,
her bloodless pale, her lunatic cry
hurled at sunset & sunrise
her veins of red fever,
her childhood God, forgotten.
La bailarina
La bailarina ahora está danzando
la danza del perder cuanto tenía.
Deja caer todo lo que ella había,
padres y hermanos, huertos y campiñas,
el rumor de su río, los caminos,
el cuento de su hogar, su propio rostro
y su nombre, y los juegos de su infancia
como quien deja todo lo que tuvo
caer de cuello, de seno y de alma.
En el filo del día y el solsticio
baila riendo su cabal despojo.
Lo que avientan sus brazos es el mundo
que ama y detesta, que sonríe y mata,
la tierra puesta a vendimia de sangre
la noche de los hartos que no duermen
y la dentera del que no ha posada.
Sin nombre, raza ni credo, desnuda
de todo y de sí misma, da su entrega,
hermosa y pura, de pies voladores.
Sacudida como árbol y en el centro
de la tornada, vuelta testimonio.
No está danzando el vuelo de albatroses
salpicados de sal y juegos de olas;
tampoco el alzamiento y la derrota
de los cañaverales fustigados.
Tampoco el viento agitador de velas,
ni la sonrisa de las altas hierbas.
El nombre no le den de su bautismo.
Se soltó de su casta y de su carne
sumió la canturía de su sangre
y la balada de su adolescencia.
Sin saberlo le echamos nuestras vidas
como una roja veste envenenada
y baila así mordida de serpientes
que alácritas y libres la repechan,
y la dejan caer en estandarte
vencido o en guirnalda hecha pedazos.
Sonámbula, mudada en lo que odia,
sigue danzando sin saberse ajena
sus muecas aventando y recogiendo
jadeadora de nuestro jadeo,
cortando el aire que no la refresca
única y torbellino, vil y pura.
Somos nosotros su jadeado pecho,
su palidez exangüe, el loco grito
tirado hacia el poniente y el levante
la roja calentura de sus venas,
el olvido del Dios de sus infancias.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Lightning Rests
[from Octavio Paz’s Condición de Nube, 1944]
Stretched out,
stone made of noon,
eyes half shut where white turns blue,
smile half curled.
You almost rouse & toss your lion’s mane.
Then you stretch out,
thin streak of lava in rock,
sleeping ray.
While you sleep I stroke & polish you,
slender axe,
arrow I use to strike the night.
Far off the sea fights with swords & feathers.
Relámpago en reposo
Tendida,
piedra hecha de mediodía,
ojos entrecerrados donde el blanco azulea,
entornada sonrisa.
Te incorporas a medias y sacudes tu melena de león.
Luego te tiendes,
delgada estría de lava en la roca,
rayo dormido.
Mientras duermes te acaricio y te pulo,
hacha esbelta,
flecha con que incendio la noche.
El mar combate allá lejos con espadas y plumas.
<br>
Stretched out,
stone made of noon,
eyes half shut where white turns blue,
smile half curled.
You almost rouse & toss your lion’s mane.
Then you stretch out,
thin streak of lava in rock,
sleeping ray.
While you sleep I stroke & polish you,
slender axe,
arrow I use to strike the night.
Far off the sea fights with swords & feathers.
Relámpago en reposo
Tendida,
piedra hecha de mediodía,
ojos entrecerrados donde el blanco azulea,
entornada sonrisa.
Te incorporas a medias y sacudes tu melena de león.
Luego te tiendes,
delgada estría de lava en la roca,
rayo dormido.
Mientras duermes te acaricio y te pulo,
hacha esbelta,
flecha con que incendio la noche.
El mar combate allá lejos con espadas y plumas.
<br>
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Duce's Cordilleras
[from Raúl Zurita’s Anteparaíso, 1983]
Behind Pacific coasts
absolute black
The Duce’s cordilleras advance
i. Nothing is Andes for The Duce’s cordilleras
ii. Higher but wind doesn’t pile them with snow
Abrupt behind Pacific coasts like cresting waves
fixing the final mountain height
keen gusty carving western horizons
iii. For death was snow carving western horizons
iv. For deaths piled high pulled on the water level
as if to sponge them up
v. For only they float up from the other side pulled up
face to the Andes impale the horizon
Their height uplifted mountains made of tears
carving the cheeks of the dead & all those dead
then fixed these waters final pull on us
vi. For that their cheeks are snow for The Duce’s cordilleras
vii. Like us piled up beneath them unmade
pulling up the mountains’ final height
viii. & then each on another all of us strained to see
The Duce’s cordilleras tear away from the dead
enormous absolute they rule the horizon
Las cordilleras del Duce
Detrás de las costas del Pacífico
negras absolutas
Las cordilleras del Duce avanzando
i. Nada es los Andes para las cordilleras del Duce
ii. Más altas pero el viento no amontona nieve sobre ellas
Abruptas detrás de las costas del Pacífico igual que olas
que irrumpieran imponiendo la estatura final de sus montañas
ávidas borrascosas encrespando los horizontes del oeste
iii. Porque la muerte era la nieve que encrespaba los
horizontes del oeste
iv. Por eso los muertos subían el nivel de las aguas
como si se esponjaran sobre ellos
v. Sólo por eso se levantan desde el otro lado frente
a los Andes subidas empalando el horizonte
Elevándose de su estatura hechas montañas de lágrimas que
encresparan las mejillas de los muertos y todos esos muertos
nos impusieran entonces la subida final de estas aguas
vi. Por eso sus mejillas son la nieve para las cordilleras
del Duce
vii. Igual que nosotros amontonados bajo ellas deshechos
subiendo la estatura final de las montañas
viii. Y entonces unos sobre otros todos alcanzamos a ver
las cordilleras del Duce desprenderse de entre los
muertos enormes absolutas dominando el horizonte
Behind Pacific coasts
absolute black
The Duce’s cordilleras advance
i. Nothing is Andes for The Duce’s cordilleras
ii. Higher but wind doesn’t pile them with snow
Abrupt behind Pacific coasts like cresting waves
fixing the final mountain height
keen gusty carving western horizons
iii. For death was snow carving western horizons
iv. For deaths piled high pulled on the water level
as if to sponge them up
v. For only they float up from the other side pulled up
face to the Andes impale the horizon
Their height uplifted mountains made of tears
carving the cheeks of the dead & all those dead
then fixed these waters final pull on us
vi. For that their cheeks are snow for The Duce’s cordilleras
vii. Like us piled up beneath them unmade
pulling up the mountains’ final height
viii. & then each on another all of us strained to see
The Duce’s cordilleras tear away from the dead
enormous absolute they rule the horizon
Las cordilleras del Duce
Detrás de las costas del Pacífico
negras absolutas
Las cordilleras del Duce avanzando
i. Nada es los Andes para las cordilleras del Duce
ii. Más altas pero el viento no amontona nieve sobre ellas
Abruptas detrás de las costas del Pacífico igual que olas
que irrumpieran imponiendo la estatura final de sus montañas
ávidas borrascosas encrespando los horizontes del oeste
iii. Porque la muerte era la nieve que encrespaba los
horizontes del oeste
iv. Por eso los muertos subían el nivel de las aguas
como si se esponjaran sobre ellos
v. Sólo por eso se levantan desde el otro lado frente
a los Andes subidas empalando el horizonte
Elevándose de su estatura hechas montañas de lágrimas que
encresparan las mejillas de los muertos y todos esos muertos
nos impusieran entonces la subida final de estas aguas
vi. Por eso sus mejillas son la nieve para las cordilleras
del Duce
vii. Igual que nosotros amontonados bajo ellas deshechos
subiendo la estatura final de las montañas
viii. Y entonces unos sobre otros todos alcanzamos a ver
las cordilleras del Duce desprenderse de entre los
muertos enormes absolutas dominando el horizonte
Saturday, January 22, 2011
XLIV
[from César Vallejo’s Trilce, 1922]
This piano travels deep,
travels in playful leaps.
Later zazens mindful oxidation,
nailed with ten horizons.
It’s coming. Squeezing under tunnels,
yonder, under painful tunnels,
under vertebrae spacing out, per usual.
Other times its trumpets go,
slow asias yellow with brio,
go to eclipse,
& crack the fleas of insectile nemesis,
dead by now to thunder, harbinger of genesis.
Dark piano, Who do you ogle
while deaf, you hear me,
dumb, you deafen me?
Oh mysterious pulse.
Este piano viaja para adentro,
viaja a saltos alegres.
Luego medita en ferrado reposo,
clavado con diez horizontes.
Adelanta. Arrástrase bajo túneles,
más allá, bajo túneles de dolor,
bajo vértebras que fugan naturalmente.
Otras veces van sús trompas,
lentas asias amarillas de vivir,
van de eclipse,
y se espulgan pesadillas insectiles,
ya muertas para el trueno, heraldo de los génesis.
Piano oscuro ¿a quién atisbas
con tu sordera que me oye,
con tu mudez que me asorda?
Oh pulso misterioso.
This piano travels deep,
travels in playful leaps.
Later zazens mindful oxidation,
nailed with ten horizons.
It’s coming. Squeezing under tunnels,
yonder, under painful tunnels,
under vertebrae spacing out, per usual.
Other times its trumpets go,
slow asias yellow with brio,
go to eclipse,
& crack the fleas of insectile nemesis,
dead by now to thunder, harbinger of genesis.
Dark piano, Who do you ogle
while deaf, you hear me,
dumb, you deafen me?
Oh mysterious pulse.
Este piano viaja para adentro,
viaja a saltos alegres.
Luego medita en ferrado reposo,
clavado con diez horizontes.
Adelanta. Arrástrase bajo túneles,
más allá, bajo túneles de dolor,
bajo vértebras que fugan naturalmente.
Otras veces van sús trompas,
lentas asias amarillas de vivir,
van de eclipse,
y se espulgan pesadillas insectiles,
ya muertas para el trueno, heraldo de los génesis.
Piano oscuro ¿a quién atisbas
con tu sordera que me oye,
con tu mudez que me asorda?
Oh pulso misterioso.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Waking
[from José Luis Borges’s El Otro, El Mismo, 1964]
Waking
The light comes slow, an ascent
from dreams to the mutual dream
where things regain their seemly
& usual place & present
melds with the vague past,
overwhelming & vast:
the secular migrations
of bird & man, the legions
spoiled by carnage,
Rome & Carthage.
Also comes the daily history:
my voice, my face, my fear, my luck.
Ah, if death, that other waking,
would grant me time without memory,
my name & all I’ve been!
Ah, such morning would be oblivion!
El despertar
Entra la luz y asciendo torpemente
De los sueños al sueño compartido
Y las cosas recobran su debido
Y esperado lugar y en el presente
Converge abrumador y vasto el vago
Ayer: las seculares migraciones
Del pájaro y del hombre, las legiones
Que el hierro destrozó, Roma y Cartago.
Vuelve también la cotidiana historia:
Mi voz, mi rostro, mi temor, mi suerte.
¡Ah, si aquel otro despertar, la muerte,
Me deparara un tiempo sin memoria
De mi nombre y de todo lo que he sido!
¡Ah, si en esa mañana hubiera olvido!
Waking
The light comes slow, an ascent
from dreams to the mutual dream
where things regain their seemly
& usual place & present
melds with the vague past,
overwhelming & vast:
the secular migrations
of bird & man, the legions
spoiled by carnage,
Rome & Carthage.
Also comes the daily history:
my voice, my face, my fear, my luck.
Ah, if death, that other waking,
would grant me time without memory,
my name & all I’ve been!
Ah, such morning would be oblivion!
El despertar
Entra la luz y asciendo torpemente
De los sueños al sueño compartido
Y las cosas recobran su debido
Y esperado lugar y en el presente
Converge abrumador y vasto el vago
Ayer: las seculares migraciones
Del pájaro y del hombre, las legiones
Que el hierro destrozó, Roma y Cartago.
Vuelve también la cotidiana historia:
Mi voz, mi rostro, mi temor, mi suerte.
¡Ah, si aquel otro despertar, la muerte,
Me deparara un tiempo sin memoria
De mi nombre y de todo lo que he sido!
¡Ah, si en esa mañana hubiera olvido!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Piedra del sol
[excerpt from Octavio Paz’s Piedra del sol, 1957]
. . .
oh, life to live & lived already,
time that repeats like an ocean swell
& retires without showing its face,
what was wasn’t but is
& silently spills
swiftly to disappear:
here on this afternoon of stone & saltpeter
armed with invisible steel
you ink my skin with indecipherable
red marks & those wounds
cover me like a suit of flames
I burn but endure, I search for water
& in your eyes there’s no water, they’re stone,
& your breasts, your belly, your hips
are stone, your mouth tastes of dust,
your mouth tastes like poisoned time,
your body tastes like a stopped-up well,
a mirrored passage repeating
your dried-out eyes, a passage
that always returns to its beginning,
& you lead me, blind, by my hand
through those neverending galleries
to the circle’s center & you levitate
coruscating, then jell to an axe,
like light that flays skin, compelling
as gallows for the doomed,
flexible as a whip & willowy
as a weapon that’s moon’s Gemini,
& your sharpened words gouge
my chest & unpeople & evacuate me,
one by one you strip my memories,
I’ve forgotten my name, my friends
grunt among pigs or rot away
in a ditch, devoured by sun,
I’m no more than a great wound,
a gap that no one crosses,
a present without windows, a thought
that returns, repeats, reflects
& loses way in its own transparency,
consciousness lanced by an eye
that watches itself watching until it drowns
in clarity
. . .
. . .
oh, life to live & lived already,
time that repeats like an ocean swell
& retires without showing its face,
what was wasn’t but is
& silently spills
swiftly to disappear:
here on this afternoon of stone & saltpeter
armed with invisible steel
you ink my skin with indecipherable
red marks & those wounds
cover me like a suit of flames
I burn but endure, I search for water
& in your eyes there’s no water, they’re stone,
& your breasts, your belly, your hips
are stone, your mouth tastes of dust,
your mouth tastes like poisoned time,
your body tastes like a stopped-up well,
a mirrored passage repeating
your dried-out eyes, a passage
that always returns to its beginning,
& you lead me, blind, by my hand
through those neverending galleries
to the circle’s center & you levitate
coruscating, then jell to an axe,
like light that flays skin, compelling
as gallows for the doomed,
flexible as a whip & willowy
as a weapon that’s moon’s Gemini,
& your sharpened words gouge
my chest & unpeople & evacuate me,
one by one you strip my memories,
I’ve forgotten my name, my friends
grunt among pigs or rot away
in a ditch, devoured by sun,
I’m no more than a great wound,
a gap that no one crosses,
a present without windows, a thought
that returns, repeats, reflects
& loses way in its own transparency,
consciousness lanced by an eye
that watches itself watching until it drowns
in clarity
. . .
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Proem
[Octavio Paz’s Proema from Árbol adentro, 1976-1987]
Proem
Sometimes poetry is body vertigo & cheerful vertigo & fatal vertigo;
the stroll with closed eyes at cliff’s edge & the rodeo in the submarine gardens;
the smile igniting the rules & the sacred commandments;
the descent of words parachuted onto the sands of the page;
despair that boards a paper boat & floats,
for forty nights & forty days, the sea of nighttime anguish & the rock of daytime anguish;
self-idolatry & self-execration & self-dissipation;
guillotining of epithets & burial of mirrors;
recall of newly cut pronouns in the garden of Epicurus & the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute's solo on memory’s mezzanine & the flame's tango in thinking’s subterrane;
the myriad migrations of verbs, wings & claws, seeds & hands;
the nouns, bony & root-bound, planted on waves of language;
love to the never seen & love to the never heard & love to the never said: love to love.
Syllables seeds.
Proem
Sometimes poetry is body vertigo & cheerful vertigo & fatal vertigo;
the stroll with closed eyes at cliff’s edge & the rodeo in the submarine gardens;
the smile igniting the rules & the sacred commandments;
the descent of words parachuted onto the sands of the page;
despair that boards a paper boat & floats,
for forty nights & forty days, the sea of nighttime anguish & the rock of daytime anguish;
self-idolatry & self-execration & self-dissipation;
guillotining of epithets & burial of mirrors;
recall of newly cut pronouns in the garden of Epicurus & the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute's solo on memory’s mezzanine & the flame's tango in thinking’s subterrane;
the myriad migrations of verbs, wings & claws, seeds & hands;
the nouns, bony & root-bound, planted on waves of language;
love to the never seen & love to the never heard & love to the never said: love to love.
Syllables seeds.
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