Las siguientes traducciones pronto serán publicadas en la traducción de Anthony Seidman de Contra natura de Rodolfo Hinostroza de Cardboard House Press.
Cardboard House Press se dedica a la creación de espacios y medios para el desarrollo cultural, artístico y literario a través de la publicación y circulación de escritura, arte y pensamiento contemporáneo de América Latina y España y a través de eventos bilingües, proyectos comunitarios y talleres. Sus publicaciones son bilingües, inglés y español, y han publicado autores de Argentina, Colombia, Chile, España, Guatemala, México, Perú, Puerto Rico y Uruguay. Su catálogo incluye colecciones de poetas contemporáneos, poetas olvidados del siglo XX y los más conocidos, como Omar Pimienta, Néstor Perlongher, Roberto Echavarren, Jotamario Arbeláez, Isaac Goldemberg y Kyn Taniya. Su lista de traductores cuenta con una alineación que incluye a David Shook, Donald Wellman, Anna Rosenwong y Clare Sullivan.
Diálogo entre un preso y un hombre sordo
George:
¿Nos alcanza el cascabel del pájaro? ¿Alinea el sueño a
muertos y resucitados a lo largo de unas paredes pegajosas?
La mujer olía a lino.
Dime, ¿escuchas ese ruido? Es como si trajeran
un preso, y ese
chirrido de cadenas es lo único que nos separa del
mundo irreal.
La mujer olía.
Y listo, aquí vienen
unas sandalias falsas en movimiento, y nos hablan de Europas
que nunca vislumbraremos, y ahora de pagodas; esas huellas
sugieren que las sandalias habían pisado tierra roja, y ¿dónde está
esa tierra roja, George? sol. ¿Recuerdalo? ¡Hay un sol afuera!
Un desierto, sin duda, algo calcificado por el sol. los
/Dice que no hay afuera/
La mujer olía a lino.
“Clang, clang”, monedas resonando contra la hojalata,
¿lo oyes?
¡No te quedes dormido! ¿Quieres
dormir aún más? ¿Jorge? Lo que sea, ese idiota clang
clang ,
esa imaginación que se sigue apagando, esas palabras que
no quieren
irse,
nos dejan más cerca de la realidad.
Realidad, escribo tu nombre.
La mujer es ese ruido. El
universo es ese ruido, ¿eh, capitán? Las esferas oxidadas
emiten ese ruido, Saturno gira sobre Escorpio y crispa los
nervios;
, también hay mar, y lluvia, y a veces se sacuden de un lado a otro,
Quiero decir
que llueve sobre el mar, caen relámpagos incitando
a aullar
como un loco. ¿Capitán?
Los cepos guardan algunos huesos, los pasillos helados
esconden barricadas de amontillado.
¿La realidad?
¿Jorge?
El pájaro en huelga se posa sobre las ramas del manzano.
La mujer olía a sándalo.
¿Has oído esa historia
del hombre que cae en un tonel y comienza a ahogarse,
al principio está aterrorizado y trata de escapar,
y luego comprende que ha vuelto al vientre de su madre?
Ese hombre
volvió a ser puro, George.
Los catatónicos deambulan por el centro de la ciudad. Multitud de estudiantes
y gente decente tirando piedras
Pero los sencillos siguen, exclamando, rezando:
“Son los Santos, los Santos, ¿no los oyes mami?”
Se estaba quitando el vestido por
la cabeza./ ¿¡Pero por qué hablas de ella!?
Te empujó con ambas manos
para arrojarte dentro del tonel.
Pero olía a sándalo ya sopa de cebolla.
Esa sombra era un pájaro, una mariposa,
¿el sueño de ese sueño? ¡Despierta, Jorge!
Reúnase usted mismo. Las vueltas del sol
no se puede ver desde aquí. Imposible distinguir la hora del día. Esa
sucia palabra, Tiempo. Habla, Jorge. Una vez sabías algo
sobre los números,
en una canción: “Dos por uno es igual a dos / dos por dos es igual a cuatro / dos por
tres es igual a seis”.
¿La realidad? ¿Es necesario robar apuestas y conducirlas
a una realidad que se desmorona?
Su.
/Dice que no hay afuera/
Te mataría, George. Pero no.
Yo también he dormido durante muchos años,
intermitentemente. Tal vez yo esté dormido ahora, y tú
eres el que está despierto.
¡Vaya! Entonces, sí, te mataría. Capitán.
Ningun ruido. El pájaro tintineo no suena como el tintineo no suena.
Los sentidos se pudren, se pudren. Mañana tendrá lugar el examen,
Los hermosos ojos de cuarzo. ¿Jorge? ¿Tú allí?
Déjame escuchar tu voz,
un sonido vocal, cualquier cosa,
que nunca se apague.
Imitación de Propercio
yo
Oh Caesar, oh demiurge,
you who live immersed in Power, let
it be that I live immersed in the word.
Shall I sing of your power? Shall I comprise my SMO?
Shall I project slides across the nape of my contemporaries?
But your assistant approaches
insisting that I enlist in the movement,
if not, I will be abolished by the movement.
I will not be recorded in History, not in your
History, oh Caesar. 80 battalions
will burn my poems, implying that they were useless and crude.
There is no accord with Official History.
But my poems shall be read by innumerable groups of clochards
sous le Petit Pont
and they shall guide me towards Azucena’s thighs
for their temporality will prove
to be an excessive communicating thing.
Sous le Petit Pont
talking about Time without political implications,
runs the Seine, river of cherries, limpid river,
and by six o’clock, evening, things become natural,
and you shall not make it oh Caesar
that I feel particularly racked with guilt
because of the starving millions.
II
The imbeciles have renounced their Power: I
confess myself to be an imbecile.
That pragmatic and savage game
causing me to bellow and flee, in which
I have charred half of my youth
just to accept Your Reality,
oh, Caesar,
to call myself a Shakespearean bite. And thus
the time one passes on earth proves miserable
if one supposes there is no infinity
and besides
the world for which I fancied myself as mediator
never existed, and
my days will never gaze upon it.
A useless fag
according to the records of your state, Lord of Great Power,
a hysterical youth
nonsense.
I shall sing to the laughter
and the ridicule: those are certainly the immortal things,
not your power, your barbarism, oh Caesar.
I flee, chucking beer cans at America,
according to the way you understand things
rambling sous le Petit Pont
where the long-haired youths sing
the most beautiful ballads of this epoch.
III
Oh Caesar, your pamphlets keep arriving:
“If you don’t deal in politics
politics will deal with you.”
absolute blackmail.
What could a centurion do against my smile?
Threaten me with death?
And my interior kingdoms, my poems, will die, and my name
will be excluded from conversations?
Common enough.
You will believe that you have won,
Oh Caesar.
Eugene Marchbanks exits, but they will never know
which was his secret.
IV
History is the incessant search for a crystal dome
and one must watch like no else has ever watched
and your eyes are from this land, Oh Caesar
power corrupted the Idea
but the Idea remained
a flying buttress and tension over a space of air.
You have those who compose heroic songs for you
a fistful of high ranking to defend oneself against death
and you can raze it all to the ground
Man who sleeps
/Don’t dispatch
your terrorists to persuade that I sing your celebrated repressive
continuum
for tonight I shall repose between Azucena’s thighs
and we will see unicorn on the walls
and our bodies will move towards Hercules & Lyra
and the energy emanating from a strand of hair will suffice as magic
for tonight.
V
Short of harmony
—before an Albers print
yellow on yellow, two squares / knowing
there remain mediators—
short of harmony. Oh Caesar
I follow the long hair-strand of Azucena
the grace and incarnation
trapped within the St. Severin arch
dicing a hand
entering Shakespeare & Company
paper on paper
a hand pausing over a gothic page
—someplace
this is mortal beauty—
and we will make love on the paper
and not war
and her body will undulate
and she will be distanced from it all
a drop of sweat
clearly sliding down her back
until surrendering her soul.
VI
To raze Power to the ground
Power is required: I will seek the Tao & Utopia
Oh Caesar
don’t sic your attack dogs on me
perhaps I won’t reach the other margin
perhaps the
contemplation of beauty perturbs me
and I remain trapped once again by a body
sensitive to the virtue of a river
what were they if not the meadow’s dew
what were they if not the verdure of the ages
and lived out their days miserably on earth
My lover awaits me
by the Porte de Lilas
we will hitchhike to Salzburg
Mozart ignites the stars
we will roll around on oat fields
once again making love will be a miracle
among two or three others
and the Swedish girls with long thighs
the Nordic winter
singing things
lubricous para siempre
discovering the sweetness of Acapulco Gold
our own sweetness
beloved nature
stealing fruit
selling trinkets made by our own hands
traveling until summer
or autumn
the alchemical deserts
beautiful words in foreign tongues
and we will camp out beneath the stars
orphic rites / dreams
spume of young and mortal seas
where your lords don’t
Oh Caesar
require that we sing in praise of your Power.
VII
The quotidian can prove as beautiful as heroism
without leaving one’s house one may know the whole world
the movement of amino acid and the heavenly bodies
traversed by energy
conceiving
how the universe assembled from on high
by way of incessant change
and an apple once again is an apple
bitten by the blonde beauty
paradise is taken
dripping
and we will not reach the other margin
mediators between the world of reality and the world
of dreams
still, in contemplation
goats grazing among the rhododendrons
a town of dirty chimneys below
and a hand brushing against oneself can hasten ecstasy
avant-garde
of a world we glimpse
shredded by Power
which advances on its own self and grows from its own self
yesterday and today
in its nature there is something malignant
for now and forever.
VIII
Oh, Lord of Great Power
my poetry will end with me
mortal animal
made by a mortal animal
but it will be read by the youth so young
that they will believe it was an old man who writes
for them
not deteriorated by barbarism and power
crystal-clear
better
they wait in large groups for the Metro at 6 o’clock
androgynous and beautiful
the night was love and marijuana
they arrive form the North and the East
who needs a fatherland?
insults do them no harm
semblances of dawn
Oh Caesar
ignoring power.
IX
I will not sing praises of your undertakings, Caesar:
there is only one singer for the ascent
and a thousand for the descent
discover among your people the chosen
and let it not be late
bludgeoned dead
wizened mute
inside & out
a crossroads
nailed to an inverted cross
eyes which looked upon the dispute over Power
and accepted the horrid mélange
while we, the thousand strong
from the East and the West
un rêve, a vision
of a pulsating History which closes and casts us out
the time of the Power
our time is diaspora
the Idea trudges the earth and rumbles
like a barrel
the germ of what is old lives in what is new &
vice versa
and the final undertaking takes on defined forms
the bottleneck
opens towards the infinite
and we will not sing, Caesar, of temporary powers
but rather of the total dialogue
or rien du tout.
X
Facing Normandie
the tide withdraws 13 kilometers
and the flooded road
to Monte St. Michel rises
a rêve, a vision
Azucena
washes her long legs humming songs of the Goliards
waits
an endless delay
but the sea withdraws and maybe we will
reach the other margin
no longer the story of Power but of harmony.
millions of utopists march silently
N.S.E.&W.
stone embedded in the blood we weep
oh stones raised
by love
maybe we will reach the other margin
the sea has withdrawn and Azucena
awaits
tireless and lithe lover.
XI
Beneath the sign of Scorpio
cycle of truth and putrefaction
with the option of suicide within the ring of fire
to putrefy and beget anew.
Celebration of Lysistrata
War, he sung, is toil and trouble
honour but an empty bubble
and that summer we stretched out on the beaches of Spain
incandescence of eyes
I took a shell and place it over my sex
told it to stay still and to my friend that Turner light
which erases us scoops us off the planet
fleeting smoke of azure
I stood up and stretched between three whitewashed walls
of lime plaster and I thought
and I turned over again in bed
he was asleep
and I saw:
boots a kepi a correhuela flower
a weapon somewhere
a cluster of arrows crossing the room
but his body was like a rainbow
putrefied from the violence
no way of telling what slept with him
make love not war
make love to me
not war
I repeated in his ear
he promised, made an oath
but he doesn’t know and he slept indefinitely
II
Never ending
still beginning
fighting still and still destroying
I advised and said It is not heroism
I do not love that breed of heroes
1.83 meters tall 21 years old in good health believes in Hell’s Angels
he wrote and said: “Marga, the military life is for me;
comradery
is a treasure. I feel more like a man in your arms—etc.”
I made love to a Hindu; his arms were cool
and his tongue most sweet
we rolled in the hay
the wild birds surrounded us
chirping and he spoke of the constellations
again
and on Silver Street they insulted us: I opened his shirt and I kissed
his Hindu chest: “Impregnate me,” I murmured “before
he returns”
& I awaited him on a long night of weeping
calling myself a whore a hooker
or the US dog tag: “At 23 hours and 10 klicks
from Da Nang…”
III
If the world be worth thy winning
Think, O think it worth enjoying
& several of those magnesium lights swung
over the beach
and I saw: we were among 5,000 who were sleeping or
making love
or smoking in silence
only the waves plac roar plac roar
and Antoine: “You had better get dressed, they’ll be here shorter.”
I folded up the Acapulco Gold and hid it beneath my slip
I laughed: creeping shadows: I laughed
& the din / furi / buses / jeeps / soldiers /gases
and an imbecile shouting:
“Who is Russell? Grab Russell!”
We handed them flowers and smiles
And the pure chant of Giovinetta
We were stunned watching the flares splutter down
two dragged me off & I felt his hand tremble
on my thighs
“Do you want to?” I said
“Not now” he said sweating
I laughed: “No never” and he struck me with the back of his hand
IV
Lovely Thais sits beside thee
take the good the gods provide thee
but Spring has yet to end
the Youth without cunning
Don’t trust anyone over 30
Water-blue eyes
and the sailboats were made of crystal
aerial meadows of Mars & Etoile
I took her by the waist and said our bodies are gardens
let us pluck beauty from the world
let us use this merciless dialectic
startled by the sports in winter
that white was in the flowers and the bougainvillea were
bloody
the fragile roe deer fears the earth
and you neared the doors of la Cité
the guards stripped you & you asked Have you seen
my lover
displacing ourselves within a parenthesis of air
lilacs grow in Dachau
oh see oh see
and to no isolate one’s self to meditate
someone hummed the Fergus song at night deserters
US Army
War is good business $ invest your son
I won’t shut up not even my finger
O my Youz!
Problems of Brabantio
O thou foul thief! Where hast though
Stow’d my daughter? Damn’d as thou
Art thou hast enchanted her.
Shakespeare
A wave of migratory birds flew over your forehead
girl from the orange trees was you
nothing is true except for exile
a band / some music / seashells
I more dead than alive
kicking horse skulls across the beach
& it called unto me
the watch will last all night
I will not seek sleep beneath the stars
counting the chords of the crickets
as such: ba bek brak bek
Nobody: my name is Nobody
I amble about and I lose myself on the planet
the borders are closed
I say América América
my memory is not the memory
nothing suffices there is no past
dust off old news place there one’s finger
spawn and die.
II
& my tribe circumcised the skulls
ingested aphrodisiacs
herbs to glimpse the great beyond
the shadow of a car something
you don’t hear me come stronger than the night
you haven’t found some names crossed out on the wall:
Palmyra
Byzantium Babylonia Texacoalt
Jerusalem O Jerusalem
& there were virgins in
the walls
blue tresses copper belly
flowers consumed during the feast
a tongue an odor
thus sang the poets
lost syllables babbling dead tongues
races crossbred
& one Power triumphed over another Power
one tongue slew another tongue
the conquistadors danced the sweet canticles of the enemy
my head stammers
girl from the orange trees was you
I washed floors in Amsterdam
I praised the technique
Oh Most potent, grave and
reverent signiors
The Earth is one.
III
There were no countries
Anatolia Brittany Pomerania
incessant migrations
slow waves of birds / flooded landscapes
we are all Black / Jewish / Homeless
no God is worth so much
The doors will not remain shut
we will drag away the totality a force
the meadows will not die with me
I have left behind a voice a call
the oranges of Wesselmann
the sun’s ovule
Mater dolcissima.
IV
Vigilar me adormece
América América
tiras 21 piedras al mar
Yom Kippur esta mañana
niña de los naranjos fuiste tú
civilizaciones hundidas
no hay pasado no tengo memoria
ni amo ninguna tradición
todo renace al amanecer
los cielos han girado
yo no No me reconozco
nadie tiene autoridad
una serpiente no es mejor que
un camello
Un hombre que otro hombre
He hablado Amor
Esselentíssimos signores
el llamado profundo en la noche
arrancado de sueños
perezosos.
Traducido por Anthony Seidman
