Psalm 23
Here I fell on my knees not knowing why,
they told me I was
in the lands of the Lord.
I didn’t know if I understood well
what they said, but I trembled,
and fell on my knees not knowing the cause.
First, they smeared
oil on my forehead,
and then asked me to stand up,
pronouncing some words
I didn’t understand.
Then they invited me to the table
that was already set
to share the bread and wine
they had brought from far away
and were for me, they said.
I think they were wrong
and mistook me
for some other tramp,
or people without class,
but I ate and drank
to my heart’s content.
The white tablecloth
made me see figures in the air,
and I heard gentle voices
that, resounding in my ears,
soothed my bones.
Even so, I put on the sternest face
I had and made them believe
I was like one of those stones
that crown the hill
and are good for lying down and sleep.
Why did I do it?
They told me there was a shepherd
in the sky who cared for me,
they were very insistent.
But I, friend of the nopales
and the barrel cacti,
a maguey’s old neighbor,
why do I want a shepherd?
why do I want sheep?
I’ll have to be born again
to understand it.
The Silence in the Sky
Day unto day utters speech,
And night unto night reveals knowledge.
Psalm 19:2
The lesson of one day
moves to another day,
and the lesson of one night
to the night that follows,
so that the word will persist
and the rope that moves our world
won’t be lacking.
You pull that rope, Lord,
and you stretch it
with the knowledge that accompanies you.
Like ants doing their task,
that’s what we are, Lord. Of all the universe
very little distresses us.
We’re kept busy by the daily bread,
the duty to our children,
or this weekend’s love
which we managed to take
for a few hours from the anthill,
but the rope of your word remains.
Like sheep going down the hill,
that’s what we are, Lord.
And sometimes, excuse me for saying this,
like donkeys in heat.
They load us with sacks,
they mistreat us, they whip us,
but we know nothing more—
ours is the corn cob
and the braying.
Do you notice?
How silent
the stars seem in the sky!
The sun itself,
as it crosses the horizon,
does so with a stealth
that contrasts sharply
with its scorching puffs
that blister the skin.
Fools think
sky fell silent and that You
may have gone far away.
What they don’t know
is that You pull the rope, Lord,
and that your word of yesterday
is the same of today
which persists in that of tomorrow
and will remain the same
the day after tomorrow,
and so forth eternally, knowing no end,
even if we don’t listen.
There’s a Cosmic Stir
For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels…
Psalm 8:5
There’s a cosmic stir
when you approach.
Your footsteps are felt
on the face of earth.
In some places it begins to tremble
and birds flee in flocks
while dogs bark madly
without knowing why.
But you don’t bring war—you bring peace.
You calm
our hearts.
Your ample clothes
are of white gauze
and your imminent blinding presence
is whiter than mother-of-pearl.
Your shoulders cover
half the sky
and your triumphal breasts
may well be of a woman
because they smell like musk
and somewhat like the cinnamon
we grow in the plot.
But you’re fiercer than Behemot.
Your mouth breaths fire
like a sea dragon.
At your imminence we kneel
and keep complete silence,
for fear that you’ll get angry.
Someone moves away from the crowd—
wants to kiss your toes,
be next to your columns,
caress your ankles,
and crawls in the dust
to get to you.
You offer him your hand and smile
like it’s nothing,
and you make him stand up.
Like a bull
on its hind legs, the man
does wonders to keep standing
tries to touch you with his clumsy hooves
that don’t know what they do.
Everything is enveloped by a throb of light.
We’re on another side, it could well be,
in another place, at another hour,
in another world that doesn’t exist.
When we open our eyes,
there’s no trace of you anymore.
Translated by Juan Manuel Esquivel
Poems from Salmos sueltos (Tintanueva Ediciones, Mexico, 2022) by Evodio Escalante
Translator’s Note:
Salmos sueltos (Tintanueva Ediciones, 2022) is the most recent poetry collection by Evodio Escalante. To mention his name is, undoubtedly, to refer to one of the most renowned literary critics in Mexico and the Spanish-speaking world—author of more than twenty books, some of them essential to understanding Mexican literature—a figure whose intellectual sharpness is frequently at the center of necessary controversies. But Evodio Escalante is also a poet, and in this facet he has been praised by notable figures like Eduardo Lizalde and Marco Antonio Campos. This past November, his nearly half-century career was honored with the Premio Internacional Bonifaz Nuño.
With Salmos sueltos Escalante joins one of the oldest and richest traditions in world literature. The psalm, whether in the form of lamentation, plea, or praise, always addressed to the divine, was essential to the religious and cultural life of Sumeria, Assyria, Babylon, and even Egypt. The Hebrew people adopted it millennia ago.
Of the three poems I’m presenting, “There’s a Cosmic Stir” was the first I read; it was still unpublished when it was shared with me by Fernando Salazar—editor, poet, and recently deceased friend—who one night phoned me. He needed some poems translated into English. He didn’t mention any authors, only that he was preparing an anthology, and I blindly agreed. However, when I received the poem and saw the author’s name, I hesitated before even reading it. This was not only because of Escalante’s renown, but also because I’m not a native English speaker—not everyone approves of translating into a language that is not one’s own. But the moment I read it, I put aside my prejudices. I was captivated by the luminosity of the images, by the embrace between beauty and the terrible, and that mesmerizing rhythm—a direct flight to a zone between sleep and wakefulness. Weeks later, when I presented the first drafts, I learned the translation would only serve to assist a Bengali poet… But texts are meant to be published, so I decided to send the translated poem to Evodio. His answer couldn’t have been better; he found it to be “very accurate” and “faithful to the tone.”
Odd Psalms is not an official title yet. It’s just one possible way to translate Salmos sueltos. I’m thinking of “odd” in the sense of something separated from a set. Is using “odd” a good decision, given that it can also imply strangeness and peculiarity? Perhaps it is, since these are poems made of singular, dissonant voices that inhabit a space whose texture is close to that of the world of dreams. Evodio’s salmos have a strong taste of myth.
This oneiric atmosphere may be the reason why Escalante’s poetry exudes vivid aromas, intense colors, and rich textures—from both plants and objects, some of them typical to my country. And this Mexican flavor increases in “Psalm 23” and “The Silence in the Sky,” especially in the voice of the poetic self, where some Mexicanisms appear. I vaguely remember Evodio mentioning Rulfo while we were having coffee. It might be because Escalante has also decided to write poetry using popular language, which is still considered lacking in literary prestige by some. Since translating literature is translating culture, how important this aspect was—and how difficult it is to translate Mexicanisms! For example, como burros en primavera, whose literal translation is “like donkeys in spring.” This is a popular idiomatic phrase in Mexico used to describe someone who is sexually excited, employing as a simile the sexual arousal these animals experience during springtime. Of course, as with any translation, there were losses, and this saying was one of them—disregarding Schleiermacher’s advice to prefer the strangeness, I preferred to leave the reader in peace. Were there gains? I hope so, just as I hope these versions may be worthy of their author, of the poems themselves, and of English-speaking readers. And may these translations also serve as an invitation to the poetic work of Evodio Escalante—a rare liquor distilled from the most select thought, art, and philosophy.
Juan Manuel Esquivel
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