20 de noviembre de 2011


When you meet people from different countries and you have to share a common language, sometimes, things like this happens.When you are abroad and meet people and you want to feel at home you have to share a common language but what about the rest of you. When you feel you should be jumping over the borders between two people. When you want to get closer and the confidence remains in a hole between what you said and what you wanted to say. When the language is not completely yours and a part of you dies in every convesation. When the language makes you a different person.

Now, I feel the need of being closer or trying, at least. And a friend ask me for a poem that he is not understanding, for sure. I tried to translate it. And I think I did it. Obviously, I cannot keep the shape of the poem, I just was able to translate the pictures inside (I think). 

The spanish version is this: http://tertuliasinnombre.blogspot.com/2011/11/hagalo-usted-mismo-iii.html (translator help accepted)

And, following, the english version:

You have planted demons in my body
and I'm afraid of waking them.

You left one in the pelvis
where you were a thousand men
hiding their identity,
delicacy of smoke
that I devoured groping,
ignorance and ecstasy.

And I know I should wake it,
give the fire at my will
with open eyes,
wake up with my hands
the heat of battle,
sculpt the stillness in their bodies,
be a rider in shadow.

You left one in the tongue
to kill your silence
as a meaningless bridge,
to save the words
of my shield and flag,
not to draw back with spit
the dirty intimacy.

And I know I should wake it,
plow your way of trenches,
use our voices relocated
to the detriment of the past,
blaspheme and pronounce you in vain.

You left one on the eyebrows
to change the hemispheres,
impose your blindness
in my eyes already tired,
upload your fog to my thalamus,
to come down to my trachea,
forget to scream.

And I know I should wake it,
review your walk,
repeat the speech,
bring the bishop to A4
and destroy the board.

You left one in the leg,
to be hardened,
sweat in the gym,
in showers and buses,
custom-made femme fatale,
pour out your cadence
in my footsteps through the city,
hip and whip cracking
simply walking.

And I know I should wake it
not to the devil
but the woman
that caresses her thighs,
that buys bikinis
increasingly smaller
and doesn't care about
uncomfortable bras
or light shirts.

The same that has
the lost cards from the war,
that keeps as scars
only your memory,
that notices her present
in the resurrection of her flesh,
and holds her conscience
over your sins.

1 comentario:

  1. No sé cómo me las he arreglado, pero esta es la tercera vez que escribo este comentario. Las anteriores, las dos antes de ayer, han debido obtinarse en algún destino raro del ciberespacio.
    Mi padre, noruego confeso -sí...-, después de 25 años en España reconoce haberse vuelto menos intelectual al cambiar de idioma cotidiano. Siempre he pensado que, habiendo invertido tanto en el castellano, resulta una pérdida de tiempo intentar otra lengua, sobre cuando sospecho que el lenguaje es omnipotente y continente del total de la realidad inteligible. De hecho, me da miedo perder herramientas en el diálogo conmigo mismo, y morir un poco en cada reflexión ¿es un pánico absurdo? Mi profesora de inglés de la academia demostro una total falta de sentido del humor cuando le expuse esta teoría. Probablemente una deficiencia por ser irlandesa afincada en Sevilla.