The weather report said;
“Cold front coming in from Wales”
And this is how we will continue
In my country nobody wears a crown
I suppose the mountain, the sky, the sea
Are worn by chileans instead
Enough comparisons!
I have a friend, a poet that lives in Cincinnati and he warned me…
“These days to write a letter to a Queen
Could be unbearably romantic”…
I came to London to see my girlfriend, she is a British painter
I met her in Chile, she was visiting the flowering desert
I thought she was beautiful but she went back to London…
I don’t really know why I am writing to you…
The other day we went, my painter and I
To a party at the Chilean embassy
it was to celebrate 100 years since the birth of Neruda
They invited me to read a poem
About stones that fall in love and such things…
You didn’t miss anything
It was the same groups as always
In one corner the bearded messianic artists
And in the other, the exporters of avocados to China…
And those secretaries criticising the monarchy
And celebrating the republic
Complaining that the English are cold…
I will not lose the thread…
The first time I saw you I was nine
It was 1969 and I was mesmerised
You came down Bilbao avenue in a black convertible
Next to a president with a very long nose
From one island to another
The crowd threw rice into the wind
From that moment on I began to suspect that
Time at court slips by lightly
Charming lives, endless leisure for the knights, horse racing
Letters never opened with seals from Mongolia, presents
From an Emir to her beautiful Majesty…
With an orchestra playing Purcell’s suites…
Yes, to be admired luxury must shine…
My dear Queen, I think it’s time to introduce myself
My name is Santiago and I was born in the city of Santiago
Like being born in London and calling oneself London
“Ridiculous” my painter said to me laughing this morning…
Have you guessed yet? I belong to the band of Poets of nothing
I put my whole story at your feet
Years uselessly carving away with words, unimportant gestures
Before death comes with his scythe
My task has been to laugh at him
Lifting the dress of caution…
Do you understand me?
Since I have been in London I told you, I feel good
I like the remoteness of people
I came to see my painter…
But it isn’t about her supporting me
For that reason I began to work in construction
it’s not so bad, I made a friend, Darren…
Imagine, me who has never worked before
Now I make cement, put in beams, hammer wood…
To pass the time I scrutinise
My workmates, africans, vietnamese, polish
Far away, as I am far away…
Like the court artists I would like to paint your portrait in words
Small hands, small feet, an astute gaze
With a pack of corgis at your hem
Following your footsteps in the conservatory…
Like in the abstract landscapes by Whistler
The Thames will flow veiled this winter…
The aspiration of the heart is not found here…
This morning, good Darren, my work mate
That celebrated life high on the scaffolding
Didn’t arrive on site
They found him dead on the street
Cheap gin, a slit across his abdomen…
Now I know why I am writing to you
Persevering into this sentimental loss is my objective
I propose a deal
Whatever happens stay on the throne
Let the white rose never wilt
And I will continue working in construction…
Drunk on the possibility
That my hammering could destroy all nostalgia…
Let me change my tone
It’s no longer about whether poetry can return to nature
The sky, the sea, the mountain…
Poetry has no place in the world
The challenge is to keep the mind alert
Talk to strangers queuing in the bank
About chinese painting, alchemy, baroque music
About whether Shakespeare was really a successful entrepreneur…
Today rebels use silk handkerchiefs…
No one cared if we lost our way
This letter is not a message in a bottle
Thrown into the sea, the sky or the mountain
It isn’t necessary to pretend, make or justify anything
By my confession I will be disowned, I know
But I say it so that the sea, the sky, the mountain
Lands from far away, my own country
Things that were and will return
To be inevitably adored like your crown…
So give air to the air
And me a stone to finish this letter
Like the old hunter entering the forest
It is time to free the shadows from their bodies
Can we see it?
London, Santiago, 2005-2007
Translated by Kate MacDonald
From the book Los Ingleses de Sudamérica
