I do not have to watch that bird
So that it stays there
Giving me beauty
I just need to see it
In my memory
And the branch does not need to be there either
If it shudders
I just have to close my eyes
so that it trembles
so that it is touch by the whisper
From Mediodía o nunca.
9.12.2010
One/ Luis Alberto Crespo
I know that turtledove
Does not sing for me
Neither is land in the language
To say goodbye
But if I closed my eyes
And went somewhere else
If I crossed into the deepest of the splendor
Promise me that we would go together to the shoreline
Of its sorrow
And you would give me to taste that teardrop flavor
The word forgetfulness has
Luis Alberto Crespo (Carora, 1941). From the book Mediodía o nunca (Ex Libris, 1989). Some of his titles are Si el verano es dilatado, Entreabierto (1984), Señores de la distancia (1988), Sentimentales (1990), Más afuera (1993), Duro (1995), Solamente (1996).
Does not sing for me
Neither is land in the language
To say goodbye
But if I closed my eyes
And went somewhere else
If I crossed into the deepest of the splendor
Promise me that we would go together to the shoreline
Of its sorrow
And you would give me to taste that teardrop flavor
The word forgetfulness has
Luis Alberto Crespo (Carora, 1941). From the book Mediodía o nunca (Ex Libris, 1989). Some of his titles are Si el verano es dilatado, Entreabierto (1984), Señores de la distancia (1988), Sentimentales (1990), Más afuera (1993), Duro (1995), Solamente (1996).
I'm back from running errands for you/ Eleonora Requena
I'm back from running errands for you
I barely zigzagged on the road and I had to open new ways
for my relief I sum up and acknowledge
I helped myself to your desires and that voice
imposed your appetences that were also
ravine of my pleasures
I'm frequent in the slight pretension of forgetfulness
and didn't stop hoisting flags and understanding defeats
take this thistle as barely sweet
as disgrace and swallow it
just like that
Eleonora Requena (Caracas, 1968). This poem is from Mandados (La liebre Libre, 2000). She has also published Sed (Eclepsidra, 1998), Es de día (El Pez Soluble, 2004), La noche sin agüeros (2007), and Ética del aire (Bid&Co, 2008). Her blog: Noctura, mas no funesta.
I barely zigzagged on the road and I had to open new ways
for my relief I sum up and acknowledge
I helped myself to your desires and that voice
imposed your appetences that were also
ravine of my pleasures
I'm frequent in the slight pretension of forgetfulness
and didn't stop hoisting flags and understanding defeats
take this thistle as barely sweet
as disgrace and swallow it
just like that
Eleonora Requena (Caracas, 1968). This poem is from Mandados (La liebre Libre, 2000). She has also published Sed (Eclepsidra, 1998), Es de día (El Pez Soluble, 2004), La noche sin agüeros (2007), and Ética del aire (Bid&Co, 2008). Her blog: Noctura, mas no funesta.
9.11.2010
My Daughter’s Fish/ Arturo Gutiérrez Plaza
A fishbowl of 20 inches of perimeter
And 5 inches of diameter
(16 ounces of cloudy water approximately),
To that comes down Alfonso’s
Universe (my daughter’s fish).
We feed him once a day.
He opens the mouth like fishes do,
Like a mime learning to bubble.
I look at him with pity,
with fake compassion
and I tell Gaby: “what a cute little fish”.
At night, when everybody is asleep,
I get up and go to the kitchen.
Alfonso remains insomniac,
He looks at me firmly
(Not just because he lacks eyelids).
He interrogates me with his huge eyes
As convex as the fishbowl that holds him.
He consoles me, grieves me
And keeps spinning around distracted
On itself.
Just like me.
Arturo Gutiérrez Plaza (Caracas, 1962). This poem is part of Principios de contabilidad (Conaculta, 2000).
And 5 inches of diameter
(16 ounces of cloudy water approximately),
To that comes down Alfonso’s
Universe (my daughter’s fish).
We feed him once a day.
He opens the mouth like fishes do,
Like a mime learning to bubble.
I look at him with pity,
with fake compassion
and I tell Gaby: “what a cute little fish”.
At night, when everybody is asleep,
I get up and go to the kitchen.
Alfonso remains insomniac,
He looks at me firmly
(Not just because he lacks eyelids).
He interrogates me with his huge eyes
As convex as the fishbowl that holds him.
He consoles me, grieves me
And keeps spinning around distracted
On itself.
Just like me.
Arturo Gutiérrez Plaza (Caracas, 1962). This poem is part of Principios de contabilidad (Conaculta, 2000).
9.10.2010
On Translation/ Mónica de la Torre
Not to search for meaning, but to reedify a gesture, an intent.
As a translator, one grows attached to originals. Seldom are choices
so purposeful.
At midday, the translator meets with the poet at a café at the intersection
where for decades whores and cross-dressers have lined up at
night for passers-by to peruse.
Not a monologue, but an implied conversation. The translator's
response is delayed.
The translator asks, the poet answers unrestrictedly. Someone
watches the hand movements that punctuate the flow of an
incomprehensible dialogue.
They're speaking about the poet's disillusionment with Freud.
One after another, vivid descriptions of the poet's dreams begin to
pour out of his mouth. There's no signal of irony in his voice.
Nor a hint of astonishment, nor a suggestion of hidden meanings,
rather a belief in the detritus theory.
"Se me aparece un gato fosforescente. Lo sostengo en mis brazos
sabiendo que no volveré a ser el mismo."
"Estoy en una fiesta. De pronto veo que el diablo está sentado frente
a mí. Viste de negro, lleva una barba puntiaguda y un tridente en
la mano izquierda. Es tan amable que nadie se da cuenta de que
no es un invitado como los otros."
"Anuncian en el radio que Octavio Paz leerá su poema más reciente:
'Vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . .'"
"Entro a un laboratorio y percibo aromas inusitados. Aún los recuerdo."
The translator knows that nothing the poet has ever said or written
reveals as much about him as the expression on his face when he
was asked to pose for a picture. He greets posterity with a devilish
grin. To the translator's delight, he's forced to repeat the gesture at
least three or four times. The camera has no film.
As a translator, one grows attached to originals. Seldom are choices
so purposeful.
At midday, the translator meets with the poet at a café at the intersection
where for decades whores and cross-dressers have lined up at
night for passers-by to peruse.
Not a monologue, but an implied conversation. The translator's
response is delayed.
The translator asks, the poet answers unrestrictedly. Someone
watches the hand movements that punctuate the flow of an
incomprehensible dialogue.
They're speaking about the poet's disillusionment with Freud.
One after another, vivid descriptions of the poet's dreams begin to
pour out of his mouth. There's no signal of irony in his voice.
Nor a hint of astonishment, nor a suggestion of hidden meanings,
rather a belief in the detritus theory.
"Se me aparece un gato fosforescente. Lo sostengo en mis brazos
sabiendo que no volveré a ser el mismo."
"Estoy en una fiesta. De pronto veo que el diablo está sentado frente
a mí. Viste de negro, lleva una barba puntiaguda y un tridente en
la mano izquierda. Es tan amable que nadie se da cuenta de que
no es un invitado como los otros."
"Anuncian en el radio que Octavio Paz leerá su poema más reciente:
'Vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . . vaca . . .'"
"Entro a un laboratorio y percibo aromas inusitados. Aún los recuerdo."
The translator knows that nothing the poet has ever said or written
reveals as much about him as the expression on his face when he
was asked to pose for a picture. He greets posterity with a devilish
grin. To the translator's delight, he's forced to repeat the gesture at
least three or four times. The camera has no film.
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