Negativa a lamentar la muerte, por fuego, de una niña en Lóndres.

Nunca hasta que el hombre hiciera
al pájaro bestial y las flores
la paternidad y toda oscuridad que enseña a ser humilde
dijo en silencio que la última luz
y la hora detenida
vienen del mar que tropieza sostenido por arneses

Y debo entrar de nuevo a la redonda
Zion que hay en la gota de agua
y a la sinagoga en la espiga de maíz maduro;
He de dejar que la sombra de un sonido rece
o esparcir mi semilla salada
en el más bajo valle de arpillera, para que llore.

La majestad y fuego en la muerte de la niña.
No habré de asesinar
la humanidad de su partida con graves verdades
ni habré de blasfemar las estaciones del aliento
con ninguna otra
elegía de inocencia y juventud.

Profunda, con los primeros muertos, yace la hija de Londres,
arropada con amigos eternos,
los granos más allá del tiempo, las venas oscuras de su madre,
secreta junto al agua impasible
del galopante Támesis.
Tras la primera muerte, no hay ninguna.

"No vayas docilmente hacia esa buena noche", por Dylan Thomas

No vayas docilmente hacia esa buena noche,
Lo viejo debe arder y delirar cuando su día termina;
enfurece, enfurece contra la muerte de la luz.

Aunque en su final los sabios saben que la oscuridad es justa,
porque no han atrapado relámpagos en sus palabras, ellos
no van docilmente hacia esa apacible noche.

Hombres buenos, tras su última ola, gimiendo por lo brillantes
que sus frágiles actos hubiesen podido danzar en una verde bahía
enfurecen, enfurecen contra la muerte de la luz.

Hombres salvajes que atraparon y cantaron al sol en pleno vuelo,
y que aprenden, muy tarde, que lo lloraron mientras se iba,
no van docilmente hacia esa apacible noche.

Hombres sepulcrales, al borde de morir, que ven con vista cegadora
que los ojos ciegos pueden resplandecer y ser felices,
enfurecen, enfurecen contra la muerte de la luz.

Y tú, mi padre, allá en la triste altura,
Maldice, bendíceme ahora con tus feroces lagrimas, te pido.
No vayas docilmente hacia esa buena noche.

Pregnant woman

In me your young weight, my son
This bliss of making you each day
Your measure biting on my side
Your word that remains silent
Your heart of light inside my darkness
Your hands on my divided flesh
The color of your eyes and hair
The air of your kiss and your smile.

Like a tree of blood, of my blood,
all this new life, of my own.

But, my son, who listens, who
awaits you? Who stands within the threads
of the next monday or within the dark
rumour of an unborn march or within
the blind spiral of the days
that are still undergrounded?
Who?

There are men between war and death.
A wind of guns sweeps the world
my son, I love you, right now, right from the deep,
sprouting from my flesh onto men just like a god,
like a flower so pure that I don´t want
to see your skin withered, that your smile
falls apart, that your bone flies
turned into ashes, that your blood
drowns into stone forever.
No!
I will dress myself with fists, even my soul!
I will put together swords out of my milk!
I will sharpen my screams until they cut!
I will place my peaceful life next to other peaceful lives!
I will place my peaceful hands next to other peaceful hands!

For you to be born!
For you to come and give your stroke!

--Juan Gelman

À propos du chemin, by José Manuel Arango.

Il n'y a pas un chemin, dit le maitre.

Et s'il y avait un chemin,
personne ne pourrait le trouver.

Et si quelqu'un par hasard le trouvait,
Il ne pourrait pas l'enseigner aux autres.

French, at last.

From today on, this blog goes from bragging about being bilingual to the more fulfilling attitude of showing off a literature repertoire in three languages. And French isn't just another language under the sun. Its native speakers will not allow you speak it clumsily.

With it comes an magnificent cast of poets and writers that just makes you afraid of loosing much in the translation. A cast that would push you to make a pact with the devil only to honor so many wonderful pages.

Perhaps because what I wrote above, the basic interface will still be English.

However, it´s a happy enough excuse to promise, as before, one more language. It could be German.


Serve yourself, reader.

Undesirable, by José Emilio Pacheco

"The guard won´t let me in.
I transgress the age limit.
I come from a land that is no more.
My papers are not in order.
I lack a stamp.
Need another signature.
Don´t speak the language.
Have no bank account.
Failed the admission exam.
They canceled my place on the company.
They have unemployed me now and forever.
I lack of any influence whatsoever.
And our lords say it is time
for me to shut up and sink in the trash."
(Indeseable).

José Emilio Pacheco

It was before and regardless of that sweet and sad poem by Julio Florez which stated: "glory, that nymph of fortune/only dances over ancient graves", that we noticed how the death of artists is somehow balanced by a renovated interest on their work. In fact, it is so obvious that there´s no one left to point it out, not to say someone who opposes to such a trend. Not even this blog makes a difference by publishing living and poor poets.

But there are some other blogs and institutions that may have been involved in a much worse case of necrophilia. La Grulla de Hermes, for instance, seems to be fully devoted to produce a zombie crisis, since it shakes its wings almost exclusively to promote recently dead writers. Furthermore, it has just landed on José Emilio´s shoulder like an ominous bird, while he´s sick, who knows if seriously.

Now, if I was him, I would be in panic.

Well, lets translate one or two of his poems. Just in case. (Born in Mexico in 1939)

XII. Crowd by César Vallejo.

"At the end of the battle,
and lifeless the combatant, a man came to him
and said: "Don´t die, I love you so much!"
but the corpse, alas!, kept on dying.

Two came by and repeated
"Do not leave us! Courage! Return to life!"
but the corpse, alas!, kept on dying.

Twenty, a hundred, a thousand, five hundred thousand men came to him,
clamoring: "So much love and nothing to do against death!"
but the corpse, alas!, kept on dying.

Millions of individuals sorrounded him
with a common prayer: "Stay, brother!"
but the corpse, alas!, kept on dying.

Then, every man on earth
came around him; the corpse looked at them sadly, moved;
it stood up slowly,
hughed the first man; started walking..."
--Spain, remove this cup from me. (España, aparta de mí este cáliz.)