domingo, 27 de septiembre de 2009


2 Poemas del Inglés

Translated by Anthony Seidman

A Mask's Confessions

I cut off an ear in order to better hear the sounds of poesy,
and in order to seem a bit like Van Gogh.
I dedicated myself to listening to all types of music until I discovered
Schumman in that urban sprawl, La Victoria.
I chewed the fat with the whores, and visited almost all
of the Lima brothels, in order to acquire a philosophy as
stringent as Cioran’s.
One night, I ran across Pessoa exiting a movie-theater,
his face was thickly whiskered. He remarked: Hey, it’s always
a good idea to set aside a few poems for posterity.
Saturday, I was off the shores of the Herradura, zipping along a chromatic wave and
Luis Hernandez surfed by me, reading Shelley and drinking an ice-
cold brew; I couldn’t make out the label on the bottle,
but I knew he was reading Shelley from that direct & easy
manner in which he did a hang-ten.
Poetry is written for your buddies.

The Secret Place of the Desert

An entire forest of sadness is an apt phrase
for the feeling of being nobody.
But it might just occur that Holderlin walks
on this silvery shore
beneath the murmur of the forest.
Many dreams would come forth like beasts to console your cheeks
just like the strange glance that resides high up
over the rooftops.
On the shore of a tree, light and shade are meanings
that have taken on their immensity, not alone but accompanied
in the open field by birds fashioned from words.
Only after having closed the road, no longer aspiring, to arrive
at the house of aspirations, in the silhouette of an absent flower,
Holderlin reclines on the tense edges of the night
which do not succeed in
touching the dream because the dream has another edge
like fingers
of blood boughs from which a dry leaf falls, one which has strayed
from the route
Here we see him smiling in a photograph of a garden
which also is a photo of many birds.
The cacti can no longer tolerate the noise, they await any
vagrant shadow in order to ask that it carry them off.
To describe this garden is no longer a mythology, the years that slice
the cemetery
gave the trees a humble abode.
The windows darken, the doors open.
On the other shore, our old words rain,
and there’s a light at the end for those who pause in order to
contemplate the silence.
Holderlin enters the fire of the perpetual forest
and there’s no room for his shadow.
From the eclipsed drowsiness of things, the rose of the winds opens.
Blind, like a tree, the old man closes his overcoat,
coughs and sets himself
into his own center. A Lady stripped of tears
on the other shore
and her leaves of gold dissolve in the water.