Residence on Earth (New Directions Paperbook) (18 page)

A day in mourning falls from the bells

like a trembling vague-widow cloth,

it is a color, a dream

of cherries buried in the earth,

it is a tail of smoke that restlessly arrives

to change the color of the water and the kisses.

I do not know if I make myself clear: when from on high

night approaches, when the solitary poet

at the window hears autumn’s steed running

and the leaves of trampled fear rustle in his arteries,

there is something over the sky, like the tongue of a thick

ox, something in the doubt of the sky and the atmosphere.

Things return to their places,

the indispensable lawyer, the hands, the olive oil,

the bottles,

all the traces of life: the beds, above all,

are filled with a bloody liquid,

people deposit their confidences in sordid ears,

assassins go down stairs,

it is not this, however, but the old gallop,

the horse of the old autumn that trembles and endures.

The horse of the old autumn has a red beard

and the foam of fear covers its cheeks

and the air that follows it is shaped like an ocean

and a perfume of vague buried putrefaction.

Every day down from the sky comes an ashen color

that doves must spread over the earth:

the cord that forgetfulness and weeping weave,

time that has slept long years within the bells,

everything,

the old tattered suits, the women who see snow coming,

the black poppies that no one can look at without dying,

everything falls into the hands that I lift

in the midst of the rain.

Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado

debo decir “ Sucede.”

Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,

del río que durando se destruye:

no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,

el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.

Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día

se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche

se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?

Si me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con

cosas rotas,

con utensilios demasiado amargos,

con grandes bestias a menudo podridas

y con mi acongojado corazón.

No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado

ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido,

sino caras con lágrimas,

dedos en la garganta,

y lo que se desploma de las hojas:

la oscuridad de un día transcurrido,

de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre.

He aquí violetas, golondrinas,

todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece

en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola

por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.

Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes,

no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula,

porque no sé qué contestar:

hay tantos muertos,

y tanos malecones que el sol rojo partía,

y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,

y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,

y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.

If you ask me where I have been

I must say “It so happens.”

I must speak of the ground darkened by the stones,

of the river that enduring is destroyed:

I know only the things that the birds lose,

the sea left behind, or my sister weeping.

Why so many regions, why does a day

join a day? Why does a black night

gather in the mouth? Why dead people?

If you ask me where I come from, I have to converse with

broken things,

with utensils bitter to excess,

with great beasts frequently rotted

and with my anguished heart.

Those that have crossed paths are not memories

nor is the yellowish dove that sleeps in oblivion,

they are tearful faces,

fingers at the throat,

and what falls down from the leaves:

the darkness of a day gone by,

of a day nourished with our sad blood.

Here are violets, swallows,

everything that pleases us and that appears

in the sweet long-trained cards

around which stroll time and sweetness.

But let us not penetrate beyond those teeth,

let us not bite the shells that silence gathers,

because I do not know what to answer:

there are so many dead,

so many sea walls that the red sun split,

and so many heads that beat against the ships,

and so many hands that have cradled kisses,

and so many things that I want to forget.

Color azul de exterminadas fotografías,

color azul con pétalos y paseos al mar,

nombre definitivo que cae en las semanas

con un golpe de acero que las mata.

Qué vestido, qué primavera cruza,

qué mano sin cesar busca senos, cabezas?

El evidente humo del tiempo cae en vano,

en vano las estaciones,

las despedidas donde cae el humo,

los precipitados acontecimientos que esperan con espada:

de pronto hay algo,

como un confuso ataque de pieles rojas,

el horizonte de la sangre tiembla, hay algo,

algo sin duda agita los rosales.

Color azul de párpados que la noche ha lamido,

estrellas de cristal desquiciado, fragmentos

de piel y enredaderas sollozantes,

color que el río cava golpeándose en la arena,

azul que ha preparado las grandes gotas.

Tal vez sigo existiendo en una calle que el aire hace llorar

con un determinado lamento lúgubre de tal manera

que todas las mujeres visten de sordo azul:

yo existo en ese día repartido,

existo allí como una piedra pisada por un buey,

como un testigo sin duda olvidado.

Color azul de ala de pájaro de olvido,

el mar completamente ha empapado las plumas,

su ácido degradado, su ola de peso pálido

persigue las cosas hacinadas en los rincones del alma,

y en vano el humo golpea las puertas.

Ahí están, ahí están

los besos arrastrados por el polvo junto a un triste navío,

ahí están las sonrisas desaparecidas, los trajes que una mano

sacude llamando el alba:

parece que la boca de la muerte no quiere morder rostros,

dedos, palabras, ojos:

ahí están otra vez como grandes peces que completan el cielo

con su azul material vagamente invencible.

Blue color of exterminated photographs,

blue color with petals and walks to the sea,

definitive name that falls upon the weeks

with a steely blow that kills them.

What dress, what spring crosses by,

what hand endlessly seeks breasts, heads?

The evident smoke of time falls in vain,

in vain the seasons,

the farewells where the smoke falls,

the precipitous events that wait with a sword:

suddenly there is something,

like a confused attack of redskins,

the blood’s horizon trembles, there is something,

something is surely shaking the rosebushes.

Blue color of eyelids licked by the night,

stars of unhinged crystal, fragments

of skin and sobbing vines,

color that the river digs smashing on the sand,

blue that has prepared the big drops.

Perhaps I go on existing on a street that the air makes weep

with a determined lugubrious lament so

that all the women dress in dull blue:

I exist in that distributed day,

I exist there like a stone stepped on by an ox,

like a witness without doubt forgotten.

Blue color of the wing of a bird of oblivion,

the sea has completely drenched the feathers,

its degraded acid, its wave of pallid weight

pursues things piled up in the corners of the soul,

and smoke beats in vain against the doors.

There they are, there they are,

the kisses dragged through the dust next to a joyless warship,

there are the vanished smiles, the suits that a hand

shakes calling to the dawn:

it seems that death’s mouth does not want to bite faces,

fingers, words, eyes:

there they are again like great fish that complete the sky

with their vaguely invincible blue matter.

Tejida mariposa, vestidura

colgada de los árboles,

ahogada en cielo, derivada

entre rachas y lluvias, sola, sola, compacta,

con ropa y cabellera hecha jirones

y centros corroídos por el aire.

Inmóvil, si resistes

la ronca aguja del invierno,

el río de agua airada que te acosa. Celeste

sombra, ramo de palomas

roto de noche entre las flores muertas:

yo me detengo y sufro

cuando como un sonido lento y lleno de frío

propagas tu arrebol golpeado por el agua.

Woven butterfly, garment

hung from the trees,

drowned in sky, derived

amid squalls and rains, alone, alone, compact,

with clothes and tresses torn to shreds

and centers corroded by the air.

Motionless, if you withstand

the raucous needle of winter,

the river of angry water that harasses you. Celestial

shadow, dove branch

broken by night among the dead flowers:

I stop and suffer

when like a slow and cold-filled sound

you spread your red glow beaten by the water.

Ni el corazón cortado por un vidrio

en un erial de espinas,

ni las aguas atroces vistas en los rincones

de ciertas casas, aguas como párpados y ojos,

podrían sujetar tu cintura en mis manos

cuando mi corazón levanta sus encinas

hacia tu inquebrantable hilo de nieve.

Nocturno azúcar, espíritu

de las coronas,

redimida

sangre humana, tus besos

me destierran,

y un golpe de agua con restos del mar

golpea los silencios que te esperan

rodeando las gastadas sillas, gastando puertas.

Noches con ejes claros,

partida, material, únicamente

voz, únicamente

desnuda cada día.

Sobre tus pechos de corriente inmóvil,

sobre tus piernas de dureza y agua,

sobre la permanencia y el orgullo

de tu pelo desnudo,

quiero estar, amor mío, ya tiradas las lágrimas

al ronco cesto donde se acumulan,

quiero estar, amor mío, solo con una sílaba

de plata destrozada, solo con una punta

de tu pecho de nieve.

Ya no es posible, a veces

ganar sino cayendo,

ya no es posible, entre dos seres

temblar, tocar la flor del río:

hebras de hombre vienen como agujas,

tramitaciones, trozos,

familias de coral repulsivo, tormentas

y pasos duros por alfombras

de invierno.

Entre labios y labios hay ciudades

de gran ceniza y húmeda cimera,

gotas de cuándo y cómo, indefinidas

circulaciones:

entre labios y labios como por una costa

de arena y vidrio, pasa el viento.

Por eso eres sin fin, recógeme como si fueras

toda solemnidad, toda nocturna

como una zona, hasta que te confundas

con las líneas del tiempo.

Avanza en la dulzura,

ven a mi lado hasta que las digitales

hojas de los violines

hayan callado, hasta que los musgos

arraiguen en el trueno, hasta que del latido

de mano y mano bajen las raíces.

Neither the heart cut by a sliver of glass

in a wasteland of thorns,

nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners

of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes,

could hold your waist in my hands

when my heart lifts its oak trees

toward your unbreakable thread of snow.

Night sugar, spirit

of crowns,

redeemed

human blood, your kisses

banish me,

and a surge of water with remnants of the sea

strikes the silences that wait for you

surrounding the worn-out chairs, wearing doors away.

Nights with bright pivots,

departure, matter, uniquely

voice, uniquely

naked each day.

Upon your breasts of still current,

upon your legs ofharshness and water,

upon the permanence and pride

of your naked hair,

I want to lie, my love, the tears now cast

into the raucous basket where they gather,

I want to lie, my love, alone with a syllable

of destroyed silver, alone with a tip

of your snowy breast.

It is not now possible, at times,

to win except by falling,

it is not now possible, between two people,

to tremble, to touch the river’s flower:

man fibers come like needles,

transactions, fragments,

families of repulsive coral, tempests

and hard passages through carpets

of winter.

Between lips and lips there are cities

of great ash and moist crest,

drops of when and how, indefinite

traffic:

between lips and lips, as if along a coast

of sand and glass, the wind passes.

That is why you are endless, gather me up as if you were

all solemnity, all nocturnal

like a zone, until you merge

with the lines of time.

Advance in sweetness,

come to my side until the digital

leaves of the violins

have become silent, until the moss

takes root in the thunder, until from the throbbing

of hand and hand the roots come down.