lunes, 28 de septiembre de 2009



José María came riding a bus, across la Oroya to Lima,
Listening to Lou Reed through his earphones
Out there the soaked mountains, the rain penetrating,
Inside of him through the bullet holeThat mix of Perfect Day
and the falling rain added nostalgia
To the crystal-clear vision outside the window
He remembered then how he used to sleep on his skin as a child
He learned Quechua, songs ever sadder than Lou’s
The mountains and their mines were no longer
A dwelling places for myths, mountains looking as Huarochiri
And smoke coming out of the chimneys
A ghost train went into an old tunnel
The rain as sepia as harp strings tingled his bullet hole, then he wondered
If in fifty years this country would still be there
This thought embarrassed him
He tuned in for a different song, something of “Pastorita”
And just when he started to get the hang of it, he fell asleep
The road wound ahead and cuddled him. “Hey, kid”, they said, “go back home.”
But his mother died. “This isn’t your language, kid.”
But he sang on the bus:I still can’t my hometown mountain. I’m a foreigner.
I’m spirit wandering along the riverI have a gun in my holster.
My heart, a tinya drum, a charango and a quena flute.
On, the river has taken my heart and I still can’t see my hometown mountain.
José María used to sing in Quechua with his wooden guitar but deep inside
In the entrails of his voice, the dancers already counted theirs steps
Death is a wound you bear since birth
Death is a spirit that keeps you company:
A feeling of nostalgia, a country
The child that sang in the river called to his mother to save him
That child feared that his heart would be taken away
That in fifty years nobody would sing their songs in Quechua
For his country had mountains and shiploads arriving at the seaports,
All was plundered, all was pillaged
The scenery of famished dogs that was announcing his arrival in town
Blended the sweet melody of his voice with the loud sound of a bullet
His friends loved him, but everybody else didn’t understand
Quechua Nor did they want to understand, “country folk stuff” they saidT
hey who now publish his books, study him, celebrate him.
José María, the day you put that gun against yourself
Somebody was playing his violin on the heights of Andahuaylas
They expected you to do so to make a legend out of you
The big cultural legend of our country. They, who spitted at your songs
You took the gun with a hand, I was born when you were saying your farewells
Three days before you sang at get-together with friends
Someone recorded your voice and the recording was a joke on death
That always sneaked behind you it is was your victory
Over an offspring of intellectuals
One day before you went shopping for huayno records in La Parada
We got drunk listening to Jilguero“I’ll see you tomorrow, you are born and I die”, you sang
You would have had a flashback, your childhood among
The indigenous folk, a class at university, or something like a broom
That would make you doubt at the beginning
But push you forward instead with unrefrainable strength later.
José María, a woman is singing on the corner of my street, she comes from Ayacucho
Will I be in her song?Will my poems be in the palm of her mud-stained hand?
José María, you used to sing rock in Quechua at the bottom of my grave
I’m writing this to sing in you.

Du solltest Hölderlin kennen
Die Liebkosung der Blume im Augenwasser seinem Schatten entrissen
Und dem Tod mit seinem Blick bewohnter Abwesenheit
Vielleicht ließen sich die unsichtbaren Zweige kappen, die uns binden
An den Nachtgesang und wir kehrten zurück
Kornelkirsche unter nacktem Sonnenfinger auf dem Grunde des leeren Sees
Der fischreich sein altes Liebesraunen murmelt

Das gelbe Heu verströmt der Liebe Wollust
Begraben im Schatten eines Pferdes
Sehr wohl hätte dieses Gras, ausgerissen vom feingeschliffenen Mond
Den Schlaf der bebenden Liebenden tragen können
Unser goldenes Gewicht in Ekstase atemlos aneinandergepresst im Wechsel
Der wortstichigen Jahreszeiten

Dein über das Meer gebreitetes Haar kann nicht untergehen
Im senkrechten Sturz der Vögel- der wie das Wort ist
Die Melancholie deines Haares im Spiegel der bauchigen Wolken
die klingen wie antike Metalle, gekreuzt in perfiden Schlachten
zwischen toten Mythen

Der Wind umweht uns mit der himmlischen Haut der Grille
die auf den Baumstumpf geklettert ist
Ein grünes Blatt fällt in sein trunkenes Scheitern ohne Sterne
Die geheimen Schwäne nähern sich im Widerschein des Straßenlichts
“Wo sind die Mythen?” – fragst du mich
Und am leeren See, im Spiegel verflossener Liebschaften,
Vage dahin gleitend im Nichtvergessen
Sitzt ein alter Mann und hält eine goldene Rute
Ruhig ganz ruhig – Da ist der Mythos -antworte ich dir

(Übertragen von Simone Zittel)

Odiseo (Canciones de un bar en la frontera, 2001)

No sé adónde voy
Ni de dónde vengo
Ni a qué viene esto
Si pienso sólo en una mujer parada
En una calle
La vida es simple
Si sólo se piensa en una mujer parada

En una calle
Yo pienso en una mujer parada
En una calle
No pienso adónde va ella

Ni de dónde viene
Ni a qué vienen estas preguntas
No se debe preguntar adónde va ella
Ni de dónde viene
Ni a qué viene esto o lo otro
La vida es simple
Si sólo se piensa en una mujer

Parada en una calle

Odysseus (Traducción de Richard Gwyn)

I don’t know where I’m going
Nor from where I come
Nor what this amounts to
If I think only of a woman standing
In a street
Life is simple
If you only thinkof a woman standing
In a street
I don’t think about where she is going
Nor from where she comes
Nor what these questions amount to
You shouldn’t ask where she is going
Nor from where she comes
Nor what this or that amounts to
Life is simple
If only one thinks of a woman
Standing in a street


Ya esta sombra 
es sólo sombra 
y no la forma alargada 
de mi cuerpo 
Igual la palabra 
es la palabra 
que se ha abierto 
como la flor 
de la Poesía 
Sólo hay dos tipos de materia 
la que tuvo sombra 
y la que nunca la tuvo 
Sólo hay un tipo de sombra 
la del olvido 


Ormai quest’ombra è 
solo ombra 
e non la forma allungata 
del mio corpo 
In egual modo la parola 
è la parola che si è aperta 
come il fiore 
della Poesia 
Ci sono solo due tipi di materia 
quella che ha avuto ombra 
e quella che non l’ha mai avuta 
C’è solo un tipo d’ombra quella 

LUNA NUOVA Plaquette Monografica Perù 2017 Anno IV Numero IV Febbraio 2017, Venezia