Poemas para El Domingo de Pascua / Poems for Easter Sunday

Two yellow daffodils in the rain

Nicki Giovanni (nac. 1943, EE.UU.)

Poema del Invierno

.

Una vez se cayó sobre mi ceño un copo de nieve

y yo lo amaba tanto y lo besó y él estaba feliz

pues llamó a sus hermanos y sus primos

y una telaraña de nieve me envolvió

entonces estiré el brazo para amar a todos ellos

y los estrujé y se volvieron

una lluvia de primavera y yo me paraba

perfectamente quieta y yo era una flor.

. . .

Michael Chitwood (nac. 1958, Virginia, EE.UU.)

Aquí estoy, Señor

.

El negro acanalado del paraguas

es un argumento por la existencia de Dios,

.

ese pequeño albergue

que llevamos con nosotros

.

y dejemos a un lado, junto a una silla

.

en una reunión de la comisión

que no queríamos asistir.

.

Qué bella palabra, “umbrella” [sombrilla].

Una sombra que podemos abrir.

.

Como el ala del murciélago,

con bordes de una vieira,

tirita.

.

Un parche

golpeado por los palos plateados

.

de lluvia.

Y no tengo el mío

.

entonces la lluvia me moja.

. . .

Steve Turner (nac. 1949, Reino Unido)

Para Lianne, a la edad de Uno

.

Tanto como sea posible,

sigue como eres:

con el ojo claro y abierto

y lavado limpio del miedo;

con la piel tersa,

sin arrugas del funcionamiento triste del corazón,

y los labios sin la habilidad de rencor.

Tanto como sea posible,

sigue como eres:

la primera luz de la mañana un motivo suficiente para el júbilo,

y cada cara transitaria juzgado solo del color de su sonrisa.

Tanto como sea posible,

sigue como eres.

Mira el mundo

con su misterio y ruido

pero rehusa todas ofertas de unirte al grupo.

Que seas retrasada en el mal

y avanzada en el amor.

Tanto como sea posible,

sigue como eres:

con el rostro hacia arriba

y la palma abierta,

con el tropezón de Certeza

y el grito de Esperanza ––

porque en ésto es el Reino.

. . .

Friedrich Von Schiller (1759-1805, Alemania)

Tres palabras de fortaleza

.

Hay tres lecciones que yo escribiría,

tres palabras con una pluma ardiente

y en calcos de luz eterna,

sobre el corazón de la humanidad.

.

Tengan Esperanza.

Aunque las nubes te rodean,

y la alegría esconde en desdén su cara,

lanza la sombra de tu ceño:

cada noche su mañana tendrá.

.

Tengan Fe.

Donde sea tu barco

impulsado por el deporte de la calma o la risa de la borrasca –

comprende ésto:

Dios gobierna sobre la multitud del Cielo y los habitantes de la Tierra.

.

Tengan Amor.

No el amor solamente del uno

sino de la humanidad – llama al hombre “mi hermano”;

y esparce, como un sol rodeando,

tus bondades sobre Todos.

.

Por eso, graba estas lecciones sobre tu alma:

Esperanza,

Fe,

Amor.

Pues te descubrirás

La Fortaleza cuando los oleajes de esta Vida retondan tan rudamente,

La Luz cuando hayas sido ciego.

. . .

e.e. cummings (1894-1962, EE.UU.)

oh dulce espontánea

.

oh dulce espontánea

Tierra tan frecuentemente

.

te han pellizcado / hincado

los dedos mimandos

de Filósofos lujuriosos;

.

ha pinchado tu belleza

el pulgar malcriado

de Ciencia.

.

tan frecuentemente

te han doblado

sobre sus rodillas ásperas,

apretando / presionándote

las Religiones

.

para que

concibas a unos dioses – pero

.

fiel al diván inigualable

de la Muerte (tu amante rítmica)

.

los contestas

únicamente con

Primavera.

. . .

Nikki Giovanni

Winter Poem

.

once a snowflake fell

on my brow and I loved

it so much and I kissed

it and it was happy and called its cousins

and brothers and a web

of snow engulfed me then

I reached to love them all

and I squeezed them and they became

a spring rain and I stood perfectly

still and was a flower

. . .

Michael Chitwood

Here I am, Lord

.

The ribbed black of the umbrella

is an argument for the existence of God,

.

that little shelter

we carry with us

.

and may forget

beside a chair

.

in a committee meeting

we did not especially want to attend.

.

What a beautiful word, umbrella.

A shade to be opened.

.

Like a bat’s wing, scalloped.

It shivers.

.

A drum head

beaten by the silver sticks

.

of rain

and I do not have mine

.

and so the rain showers me.

. . .

Steve Turner

For Lianne, Aged One

.

As far as possible, stay as you are,

with the eye clear and open

and washed clean of fear;

with the skin untracked

by the sad workings of the heart,

lips unskilled in spite.

As far as possible, stay as you are,

the morning’s first light

cause enough for joy,

each passing face

judged only by the colour of its smile.

As far as possible, stay as you are.

Gaze out at the world

with its mystery and noise,

but refuse all offers to join.

Be backwards in evil,

advanced in love.

As far as possible, stay as you are,

with the upturned face

and the open palm,

with the stumble of faith

and the shout of hope.

For such is the Kingdom.

. . .

Friedrich Von Schiller

Three Words of Strength

.

There are three lessons I would write,
Three words, as with a burning pen,
In tracings of eternal light,
Upon the hearts of men.
.
Have Hope. Though clouds environ round,
And gladness hides her face in scorn,
Put thou the shadow from thy brow:
No night but hath its morn.
.
Have Faith. Where’er thy bark is driven –
The calm’s disport, the tempest’s mirth –
Know this: God rules the host of heaven,
The inhabitants of earth.
.
Have Love, not love alone for one,
But man, as man thy brother call;
And scatter, like a circling sun,
Thy charities on all.
.
Thus grave these lessons on thy soul,
Hope, Faith, and Love; and thou shalt find
Strength when life’s surges rudest roll,
Light when thou else wert blind.

. . .

e.e. cummings

o sweet spontaneous

.

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and

poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty                  how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

Spring)

. . . . .

 


Alexander Best: “Los Hechos” y “El Buen Libro”

 March 23rd 2016_La mano sobre la pared

Alexander Best

The Facts

.

My  body’s  made  of  clay –  of   iron,  wool  and  gold – and

Mainly  of  clay.

The  body  falls  apart;   is  brave;   builds  itself  again – while  I

Sleep;   while  I – crippled – walk.

A  body’s  made  to  love,  though  not  to  worship.   For  the

Soul  must  never  be  held.   Still – I’ll

Take  care  of  my  mudcaked  ” house “,  at  least  for

This  little  while.

When  your  body’s  well,  I  love  it;   when  your  body’s  sick,  too.   Because  it’s

There  I  find  Us – for  a  time.

Oh,  of   all  the  wishes  I  might  wish,  I’d  wish  for  — —

But  the  facts  are  enough.

Forever,  You  and  I  are

Pure  as  soil,  delicate  as  dust,  magical  as  ash.

Our  body – weary,  strong  body –

Our  body’s  made   of   clay.

.

(2000)

.     .     .

Los Hechos

.

Mi  cuerpo  está  hecho  de  arcilla –  y  de  hierro,  lana  y  oro –

más  que  todo  de  arcilla.

El  cuerpo  se  desintegra;   es  valiente,  se  reconstruye  por  sí  mismo

–  mientras  duermo;   cuando – lisiado –  camino.

Un  cuerpo  está  hecho  para  ser  amado,  sin  embargo  no  lo  idolatres.

Porque  el  alma  no  debe  ser  retenida.

Aun  así  yo  cuido  a  mi  ‘casa’  cubierta  de  barro  endurecido,  por  lo  menos

por  un  rato.

Cuando  tu  cuerpo  está  bien,  lo  amo,  cuando  está  enfermo  también.

Porque  es  allí  donde  encontramos  a  nosotros –  por  un  rato.

Oh,  de  todos  los  deseos  que  yo  pudiera  desear —

Pero  los  hechos  son  suficientes.

Para  siempre  Tú  y  Yo  somos

Puros  como  tierra,  delicados  como  polvo,  mágicos  como  la  ceniza.

Nuestro  cuerpo –  cansado,  fuerte –

Nuestro  cuerpo  está  hecho  de  arcilla.

.

(2000)

.     .     .

Alexander Best

The Good Book

.

I open the book, rather, The Good Book.

Is The Answer within these thousand-odd onion-skin pages?

No.

But it’s an amazing life-span’s read, just the same;

About folks – dead, all of ’em – who were

Rough, sweet, ignorant.

Naaah, Hollywood / Science

Can’t crack this nut – and I’m

Glad in that.

.

My

Favourite exasperating character is

Jesus:

Son of man, born of woman, had – (they say) – that

Divine spark, the same one burns in the billions of us.

He was a flesh-and-blood human being,

Like you and me

but he was more than that.  A

Deep and subtle thinker;  simple, oblique and rich in his

Word;  a vagrant who was a holy man

(such as the Hindus have).  And once he

Got known – ( those Wonders with the loaves and fish;  the

Leper and Lazarus;  not to mention

the guy walked on water ) –

He was given no peace,

Not even on Sundays.

.

The Multitude trailed him…And here and there he sought an

Evening’s quiet in high-up mountain hollows where he

Lay with his head on a stone pillow, and

Still his restless spirit wouldn’t quit.   Well…

Jesus came to a bad end, which was typical back then for

Anyone stubborn and puzzling who appeared to

Spring from nowhere.

.

People picture Jesus as a Hippy or Rastafarian, only

Jesus was more intelligent, sexy and strange than any

Social type that grew out of the twentieth century.

.

A poem is irritating if it goes on for long…but

not The Good Book.   And

Jesus’ biography is merely a few chapters in it.

Oh, there’s

Plenty to read, for three-score-years-and-ten

( or however many grains of sand remain in your hourglass. )

.

I open my heart as wide as I’m able.

I close The Good Book.

This is enough for one day.

.

(2001)

. . .

El Buen Libro

.

Abro el libro, mejor dicho, El Buen Libro.

¿Está La Respuesta en este libro de miles de páginas singulares de papel cebolla?

No.

Pero igualmente es una lectura de toda una vida

Acerca de gentes – todos muertos ya – que fueron

Toscos, dulces, ignorantes.

No, no, Hollywood / la Ciencia

No pueden abrirse paso a comprenderlo

Y me alegro de ello.

.

Mi personaje favorito, exasperante, es:

Jesús:

El hijo del Hombre, nacido de Mujer

Tuvo – dicen – esa chispa divina,

La misma que quema en miles de millones

De nosotros.

Él fue un hombre de carne y hueso,

Como tú y yo

pero él fue más que eso:

Un pensador profundo, perspicaz, simple,

Indirecto y rico en Su Palabra; un vagabundo que era

Un hombre santo (como los hindús lo han sido).

Y una vez llegó a ser reconocido

(esos milagros con el pan y el pescado; el leproso y Lázaro;

Sin mencionar que el hombre caminó sobre agua) –

No tuvo paz – aún en los domingos.

.

La multitud le seguía

Y buscó aquí y allá el silencio de una tarde donde descansar

Su cabeza, en los huecos

En la cima de la montaña,

Sobre una almohada de piedra,

Y todavía su espíritu agitado no descansaba…

.

Bueno,

Jesús terminó mal, que era típico entonces para una persona

Testaruda y misteriosa que se aparecía de la nada.

La gente se hace una idea de Jesús como un rastafari o un hippy pero

Solamente que Él era más inteligente, atractivo y misterioso

Que cualquier sujeto que germinó del siglo veinte.

.

Un poema fastidia si se alarga…pero no El Buen Libro.

Y la biografía de Jesús está en unos cuantos capítulos solamente.

Oh, hay mucho que leer, por setenta años,

o cuantos granos nos queden en nuestro reloj de arena.

.

Abro mi corazón tanto como puedo.

Cierro El Buen Libro.

Ésto es suficiente por un día.

.

(2001)

. . .

Traducciones al español por Lidia García Garay (2011)

. . . . .


Poems about Death: Whitman, Wilcox, Millay

Flowerpot shards_February 2016

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

To One Shortly to Die

.

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,
You are to die –
let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you –
there is no escape for you.

.

Softly I lay my right hand upon you, you must feel it,
I do not argue, I bend my head close and half envelop it,
I sit quietly by, I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbour,
I absolve you from all except yourself spiritual bodily, that is
eternal, you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.

.

The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions,
Strong thoughts fill you and confidence, you smile,
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines, you do not mind the weeping friends,
I am with you,
I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.


. . .

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

My Grave

.

If, when I die, I must be buried, let
No cemetery engulf me – no lone grot,
Where the great palpitating world comes not,
Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet,
It pays its last sad melancholy debt
To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot
Be rather to lie in some much-used spot,
Where human life, with all its noise and fret,
Throbs about me. Let the roll of wheels,
With all earth’s sounds of pleasure, commerce, love,
And rush of hurrying feet surge o’er my head.
Even in my grave I shall be one who feels
Close kinship with the pulsing world above;
And too deep silence would distress me, dead.

. . .

Edna St.Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

The Shroud

.

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine – O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!

.

(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.

.

I, tonight, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)

.

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine – O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!

. . .

Edna St.Vincent Millay

Lament

.

Listen, children:
Your father is dead.
From his old coats
I’ll make you little jackets;
I’ll make you little trousers
From his old pants.
There’ll be in his pockets
Things he used to put there,
Keys and pennies
Covered with tobacco;
Dan shall have the pennies
To save in his bank;
Anne shall have the keys
To make a pretty noise with.
Life must go on,
And the dead be forgotten;
Life must go on,
Though good men die;
Anne, eat your breakfast;
Dan, take your medicine;
Life must go on;
I forget just why.

. . . . .


Maxwell Bodenheim: poemas: “Para mi enemigo”, “Para un hombre”, “Para alguien muerto”

Arbeitslos_Unemployed Man_El Parado_fotografía de 1928 por August Sander

Arbeitslos_Unemployed Man_El Parado_fotografía de 1928 por August Sander

Maxwell Bodenheim

(1892-1954, EE. UU., poeta y escritor de literatura barata, bohemio, teporocho, mendigo, víctima de homicidio)

Para mi enemigo

.

Desprecio mis amigos más que te desprecio.

Yo mismo, lo entendiera pero ellos se pararon ante los espejos

y los pintaron con imágenes de las virtudes que ansié.

Llegaste con un cincel lo más afilado, rascando la pintura falsa.

Pues me conocí y me detesté – pero no te detesté –

porque los vistazos de ti en las gafas que descubriste

me enseñaron las virtudes cuyas imágenes destruiste.

. . .

Para un hombre

.

Maestro de equilibrio serio,

eres un Cristo hecho delicado

por muchos siglos de meditación perpleja.

Curvas un viejo mito hacia una espada pacífica,

como un sonámbulo desafiando

un sueño que le dio forma a él.

Con una insistencia suave y anticuada

colocas la mano de tu criatura en el universo

y delineas una sonrisa de amor dentro de sus profundidades.

Pero los hombres-espantapájaros girandos que están

hechos de algo que elude su vista

tengan la sencillez sorprendente de tu sonrisa.

.

Una vez por mil años

la quietud se materializa en una forma que

podemos crucificar.
. . .

Para alguien muerto

.

Yo caminaba por la colina

y el viento, solemnemente ebrio a causa de tu presencia,

se tambaleó contra mí.

Me encorvé para interrogar a una flor,

y flotaste entre mis dedos y los pétalos,

amarrándolos juntos.

Corté una hoja de su árbol

y una gota de agua en esa jarra verde

ahuecaba una pizca cazada de tu sonrisa.

Todas las cosas de mis alrededores se remojaron de tu recuerdo

y tiritaban mientras intentaron decírmelo.

. . .

Maxwell Bodenheim

(1892-1954, American poet, pulp-fiction author, bohemian, drunk, beggar, homicide victim)

To an enemy

.

I despise my friends more than you.
I would have known myself but they stood before the mirrors
And painted on them images of the virtues I craved.
You came with sharpest chisel, scraping away the false paint.
Then I knew and detested myself, but not you,
For glimpses of you in the glasses you uncovered
Showed me the virtues whose images you destroyed.

. . .

To a man

.

Master of earnest equilibrium,
You are a Christ made delicate
By centuries of baffled meditation.
You curve an old myth to a peaceful sword,
Like some sleep-walker challenging
The dream that gave him shape.
With gentle, antique insistence
You place your child’s hand on the universe
And trace a smile of love within its depths.
And yet, the whirling scarecrow men made
Of something that eludes their sight,
May have the startling simplicity of your smile.

.

Once every thousand years
Stillness fades into a shape
That men may crucify.

. . .

To one dead

.

I walked upon a hill
And the wind, made solemnly drunk with your presence,
Reeled against me.
I stooped to question a flower,
And you floated between my fingers and the petals,
Tying them together.
I severed a leaf from its tree
And a water-drop in the green flagon
Cupped a hunted bit of your smile.
All things about me were steeped in your remembrance
And shivering as they tried to tell me of it.

. . . . .


Edwin Morgan: “Good Friday” and “In the Snack-bar”

Vincenzo Pastore, photogapher_Agéd man on Rua São João in São Paulo_circa 1910

Vincenzo Pastore, photogapher_Agéd man on Rua São João in São Paulo_circa 1910

Edwin Morgan (Glasgow, Scotland, 1920-2010)

Good Friday

.

Three o’clock. The bus lurches

round into the sun. “D’s this go – ”

he flops beside me – “right along Bath Street?

– Oh tha’s, tha’s all right, see I’ve

got to get some Easter eggs for the kiddies.

I’ve had a wee drink, ye understand –

ye’ll maybe think it’s a – funny day

to be celebrating – well, no, but ye see

I wasny working, and I like to celebrate

when I’m no working – I don’t say it’s right

I’m no saying it’s right, ye understand – ye understand?

But anyway tha’s the way I look at it –

I’m no boring you, eh? – ye see today,

take today, I don’t know what today’s in aid of,

whether Christ was – crucified or was he –

rose fae the dead like, see what I mean?

You’re an educatit man, you can tell me –

– Aye, well. There ye are. It’s been seen

time and again, the working man

has nae education, he jist canny – jist

hasny got it, know what I mean,

he’s jist bliddy ignorant – Christ aye,

bliddy ignorant. Well –” The bus brakes violently,

he lunges for the stair, swings down – off,

into the sun for his Easter eggs,

on very

nearly

steady

legs.

. . .

From: The Second Life (Edinburgh University Press, 1968)

. . .

In the Snack-bar

.

A cup capsizes along the formica,

slithering with a dull clatter.

A few heads turn in the crowded evening snack-bar.

An old man is trying to get to his feet

from the low round stool fixed to the floor.

Slowly he levers himself up, his hands have no power.

He is up as far as he can get. The dismal hump

looming over him forces his head down.

He stands in his stained beltless gabardine

like a monstrous animal caught in a tent

in some story. He sways slightly,

the face not seen, bent down

in shadow under his cap.

Even on his feet he is staring at the floor

or would be, if he could see.

I notice now his stick, once painted white

but scuffed and muddy, hanging from his right arm.

Long blind, hunchback born, half paralysed

he stands

fumbling with the stick

and speaks:

‘I want – to go to the – toilet.’

.

It is down two flights of stairs, but we go.

I take his arm. ‘Give me – your arm – it’s better,’ he says.

Inch by inch we drift towards the stairs.

A few yards of floor are like a landscape

to be negotiated, in the slow setting out

time has almost stopped. I concentrate

my life to his: crunch of spilt sugar,

slidy puddle from the night’s umbrellas,

table edges, people’s feet,

hiss of the coffee-machine, voices and laughter,

smell of a cigar, hamburgers, wet coats steaming,

and the slow dangerous inches to the stairs.

I put his right hand on the rail

and take his stick. He clings to me. The stick

is in his left hand, probing the treads.

I guide his arm and tell him the steps.

And slowly we go down. And slowly we go down.

White tiles and mirrors at last. He shambles

uncouth into the clinical gleam.

I set him in position, stand behind him

and wait with his stick.

His brooding reflection darkens the mirror

but the trickle of his water is thin and slow,

an old man’s apology for living.

Painful ages to close his trousers and coat –

I do up the last buttons for him.

He asks doubtfully, ‘Can I – wash my hands?’

I fill the basin, clasp his soft fingers round the soap.

He washes, feebly, patiently. There is no towel.

I press the pedal of the drier, draw his hands

gently into the roar of the hot air.

But he cannot rub them together,

drags out a handkerchief to finish.

He is glad to leave the contraption, and face the stairs.

He climbs, and steadily enough.

He climbs, we climb. He climbs

with many pauses but with that one

persisting patience of the undefeated

which is the nature of man when all is said.

And slowly we go up. And slowly we go up.

The faltering, unfaltering steps

take him at last to the door

across that endless, yet not endless waste of floor.

I watch him helped on a bus. It shudders off in the rain.

The conductor bends to hear where he wants to go.

.

Wherever he could go it would be dark

and yet he must trust men.

Without embarrassment or shame

he must announce his most pitiful needs

in a public place. No one sees his face.

Does he know how frightening he is in his strangeness

under his mountainous coat, his hands like wet leaves

stuck to the half-white stick?

His life depends on many who would evade him.

But he cannot reckon up the chances,

having one thing to do,

to haul his blind hump through these rains of August.

Dear Christ, to be born for this!

. . .

Another thoughtful poem for Eastertime…

https://zocalopoets.com/category/poets-poetas/alice-walker/

. . . . .


Judas Iscariote: dos ángulos poéticos

Don Tyson

Judas Iscariote

.

Judas,

hijo de Simón,

uno entre los doce.

Dicen que

estuvo motivado por la avaricia;

que fue un insatisfecho

– ¿o quizás no?

El traidor de Cristo,

el instrumental del diablo

– ¿o utilizado por Dios?

El premio de su fechoría: suicidio

y una tumba en un campo de sangre.

Judas:

vilipendiado;

maldito para siempre;

aborrecido por todos

excepto Dios

– que lo mandó.
. . .

Daniel Thomas Moran

La última cena de Judas Iscariote

.

Judas hizo lo correcto;

esperó que completaron el postre;

que el Salvador de Humanidad

acabe su trozo de pastel – y café.

.

Sabía que su Maestro

no estaría para nada contento – en absoluto.

.

Mientras sus hermanos tontos

compartían un vaso de oporto,

él – cuyo nombre habría llamado traido – dijo:

Declinaré, pero gracias.

.

Judas fue correcto

pero odiaba los adioses largos.

Yo te veré en el jardín más tarde

– hay un cuate en el pueblo que me debe unas monedas.

.

Y El Señor habló:

Mañana tendré un largo día.

Entonces, déjenme relatar un chiste más,

pues demos el día por terminado.

.

Y Jesús se inclinó en sus codos y preguntó:

¿Han oído ustedes el cuento del hombre que piensa que ha visto a un fantasma?

. . . . .

Don Tyson

Judas Iscariot

.

Judas,
son of Simon,
one of the twelve.
it is said
he was driven by greed,
a malcontent,
or was he?
the betrayer of Christ,
a tool of the devil,
or used of God.
the reward for
his misdeed,
suicide;
a grave in
a field of blood.
Judas, vilified,
forever accursed,
hated by all
but God,
who sent him.

. . .

Daniel Thomas Moran

The Last Supper of Judas Iscariot

.

Judas was right
to wait until after dessert.
If only for the Saviour of Mankind
to finish his coffee and pie.

.

He knew his Master
would not be happy
about any of it.

.

While his dimwit brothers
shared a glass of Port,
He, whose name would
be called betrayer, said
He would pass, thanks.

.

Judas was right, but
He hated long goodbyes:
I’ll see you in the garden, later.
There’s a guy in town
who owes me money.

.

The Lord spoke:
I’ve got a long day tomorrow.
How about one more joke,
And we’ll call it a night.

.

Then he leaned onto
his elbows and he asked:
Did you hear the one
about the guy who thinks
he’s seen a ghost?

. . . . .


Jorge Valdés Díaz-Vélez: “February Song” and “Living Nature”

Fotografía © Flor Garduño_Photograph © Flor Garduño

Fotografía © Flor Garduño_Photograph © Flor Garduño

Jorge Valdés Díaz-Vélez

Canción de febrero

.

sobre el pecho del cielo, palpitando

Jaime Gil de Biedma

.

Leve y triste la tarde se retira

contigo hacia el crepúsculo y las horas

empiezan a doler en los distantes

repliegues de la sábana. De pronto

la noche ha regresado y es difícil

no pensar en tu boca momentánea

o en las altas comarcas de tu cuerpo

en lienzos de algodón por alabanza.

Ahora que no estás, vuelvo a mirar

el rayo que dividen tus pestañas

y el estremecimiento de tu espalda

moldeándome los brazos, la sonrisa

de tu sexo en los vértigos del labio,

el instante fluvial de tu alegría.

A lo lejos respira el mar, asciende

la blanda superficie a su clausura

bajo un raso de líquidos vitrales.

La noche sin tu piel crece más honda

por las calles donde asperjas la lluvia.

En silencio te diluyes, muchacha,

con las últimas brasas que se apagan

contra el pecho del cielo, palpitando.

. . .

February Song

.

on the breast of the sky, beating

Jaime Gil de Biedma

.

Slow and sad the afternoon retires

with you toward twilight, and the hours

begin to languish in the distant

folds of the sheets. Soon night has returned

and I can hardly avoid thinking

about your fleeting mouth

or the high regions of your body

aggrandized on cotton canvases.

You are not here now; I see again

the beam that your eyelashes divide

and the shiver up and down your back

reshaping my arms for me, the smile

of your sex in vertigos of lips,

and the flowing moment of your joy.

Far away the sea breathes deep, climbing

the soft surface towards its closure

beneath a clear sky of liquid glass.

The night without your skin grows deeper

in the streets where you spatter the rain.

In silence you dissolve, my beloved,

with the last embers that extinguish

against the breast of the sky, beating.

. . .

Naturalezas vivas

.

Duermes. La noche está contigo,

la noche hermosa igual a un cuerpo

abierto a su felicidad.

Tu calidez entre las sábanas

es una flor difusa. Fluyes

hacia un jardín desconocido.

Y, por un instante, pareces

luchar contra el ángel del sueño.

Te nombro en el abrazo y vuelves

la espalda. Tu cabello ignora

que la caricia del relámpago

muda su ondulación. Escucha,

está lloviendo en la tristeza

del mundo y sobre la amargura

del ruiseñor. No abras los ojos.

Hemos tocado el fin del día.

. . .

Living Nature

.

Sleeping, night is with you,

night as beautiful as a body

open to happiness.

Your warmth under the sheets

is but a hazy bloom. You flow

toward a secret garden.

For an instant,

you seem to fight away

the angel of the dream.

I call you in the embrace and you turn back.

Your hair is unaware of

lightning that shifts its waves with a caress.

Listen,

it’s raining in the sadness of the world,

and in the grief of nightingales.

Do not open your eyes.

Thus ends the day.

. . .

Versiones al inglés de Christian Law y Sue Burke

. . .

Jorge Valdés Díaz-Vélez was born in Torreón, México, in 1955. He is considered to be a foremost poet in Ibero-American contemporary literature. He has written more than 15 books of poetry published in México, Italy and Spain, and has been included in several anthologies from Europe, North Africa and Latin America. Winner of México’s National Poetry Award Aguascalientes, Díaz-Vélez has also won the Latin- American Award Plural, and Spain‘s International Poetry Prize Miguel Hernandez-Comunidad Valenciana and the Ibero-American Poetry Prize Hermanos Machado.

. . . . .