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.)

Everything arrives late even death

Everything arrives late, even our death!
It´s never satisfied or gained
the sweet possession of a hope
when desire urges us more strongly.

Everything might arrive, but it is noticed
that everything is late; the bonanza
after the tragedy; the applause
when inspiration is inert already.

The justice reveals its scale
when muted time that on earth wanders
has poured centuries in history.

And Glory, that nymph of luck,
only dances over ancient graves.
Everything arrives late, even our death!

--Julio Flórez.

Un piloto irlandés prevé su muerte. (Versión de este blog)

"Sé que deberé enfrentar mi muerte,
en algún lugar arriba entre las nubes;
a quienes combato yo no odio,
ni amo yo a quienes protejo;
mi tierra es Kiltartan Cross,
la gente de Kiltartan es la mía,
ningún final probable puede hacerles mal,
o dejarlos más felices que antedía.
Ninguna ley o deber me hizo luchar,
ni hombres de lo público ni multitudes,
un solitario impulso de deleite
me trajo a este tumulto entre las nubes;
sopesé todo, todo traje a la mente,
desperdicio de aliento el porvenir
y desperdicio de aliento mi pasado,
de acuerdo a esta vida, esta muerte."
--William B. Yeats.