viernes, mayo 15, 2009

Carlos Barbarito. Poems. Translated by Brian Cole

NABOKOV




I see those who are going to carry it, greyish

and blind, under a sky of doubled weight

that bends down the branches. They are those

who are also going to carry me to myself,

on a frosty morning -

of me there will remain an apple on a plate,

which will rot if it is not peeled and eaten.

And that, what is it that remains?

A silent tremor, an abstract larch tree?

An invented butterfly,

bicycle tracks in the sand,

an abandoned nest, a nocturnal wall, a paperweight?

Naked in its white suit

it will never see the birth of a new word

between luna and rayo de luna;

they load it on to a gardener's wheelbarrow,

they carry it downhill

on a footpath, falling on dry leaves

and broken stems, past flashes of mother of pearl,

of errata, sarcasm and walnuts.







A RAINBOW OF SUCCESSIVE GREYS TO BLACK ...




A rainbow of successive greys to black:

who that strikes dead can give you life?

That one moves over the water, for what,

if being able to swim it does not swim,

and if not, it does not drown? The expected,

the unexpected, approaches,

the cock has been crowing since dawn

to announce that, despite the light,

it is still night. Who

understands, opens his eyes,

knows the why of the dry blow

of love as a whip

against the mirror? I do not

manage to give a name

to all this, a measure,

a formula; with air alone

it is not possible to make

someone breathe,

but, what else?

Now I am naked before the silence.

You are naked and the silence

lifts you up in its arms

higher than the number and over its edge;

there is no longer house, plate, shirt,

scarcely a father's ashes,

that the wind, cruel or compassionate,

already disperses.










PERHAPS ALL THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD ...




Perhaps all the light of the world

would be simply the reflection of a sun among clouds

against the dark crystal of an empty room;

maybe the one that, in search of water,

digs through the order of the diviner

and does not keep inside himself

more hope that that which is removed

and folds his coat over a chair,

and hopes every day for the arrival of the Unknown

in a house planted in the desert.

And the constant change

of the skin and plants,

the time when tentatively I kiss her, penetrate her,

the rough, empty flower vase

before the full vastness of death,

the moth's flight from room to room?

Now that the daughter of sleep is consumed

and one single bird sings

from the edge of a broad, bowed-down branch,

burns up the tear and the river

does not change into a sea, nor what I speak

into precise and pure accents.




WHAT TO BELIEVE, WHAT TO BELIEVE? - WE WONDER ...





What to believe, what to believe? - we wonder -,

if however much we undress

we still remain clothed, however much we embrace,

we still feel cold.

In the prayers of the enlightened,

in the Great Architect,

in some thesis, Nestorian or Monophysitic,

in the Nicene symbol?

The wind blows and brings only silence

to the house of the fishermen

who, when the time for fishing is past,

sleep, among nets, oakum and tarpaulins,

discarded, like them,

in a corner, in the dark.







THE RAINDROP TREMBLES ON THE END OF THE BRANCH ...




The raindrop trembles on the end of the branch.

Below, the animal hesitates between flight and staying put,

sniffs at what is given, urinates anxiously

over what is denied. What dies like this

is the leaf, stripped of its venation.

Prose and number retained in reflection

as pure as useless. A bird

that rots on the ground, before the torture.

And the bread under the ground, the stone on the plate,

shared and eaten even though nobody is hungry.

Daughter, how else can the world be?







PODRÍA DECIR ESTO FUE TODO ...




It could be said that this was all;

how easy it would be for fire,

it would burn from the meat to the bones,

how easy it would be for ice,

it would freeze even the smallest shade,

the most fleeting of reflections.

I could forget my name, (should “ni” be “mi”???)

lose my memory, take off my clothes,

exchange my language for a howl,

let the wind carry me off

to the darkest depths;

how difficult it would be then for the tree

to sustain itself without roots,

how difficult for Desire

to desire only mist, smoke, ashes.







IF WE WERE MADE OF OTHER MATERIAL. BUT NO ...

For María García Pérez




If we were made of other material. But no,

an animal on which the slightest vibration makes an impression;

under the fine cloak, tongue, sex and throat.

A chisel scrapes from the first dream

the last syllable, until the exact moment

when, naked and in urgent need,

we cease to be angels, animals.

Of another medium, another thickness.

In ice, in fire, in the air and on the ground.

In wealth and poverty, today and yesterday.

In what the key opens and in what the key locks.

Another pain and another joy. Further on

past the marks of the hoes,

the prints of the shoes,

where every act ends in a kiss, in an injury.

1 Comments:

Blogger Poetas Anónimos said...

Hola!!!Te invito a que pases por Poetas anónimos S:A, intentamos crearlo en comunidad de escritores(POESIAS, CUENTOS, ETC).
la direccion es http://poetasanonimossa.blogspot.com, agradecemos comentarios
muchas gracias.


Poetas Anónimos

2:30 p. m.  

Publicar un comentario

<< Home