domingo, 27 de septiembre de 2009

4



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.


río Rímac

este río es un viejo homosexual que ha inventado una furia encuentra el placer en la atrocidad y husmeando en la miasma y tropezando en la avenida una muchacha esperando un cadáver en la esquina ratas en canzonettas se sumergen en el río los adolescentes encuentran su retrato imposible y se suicidan subsiste el vacío el deseo llenándolo de una canción de vivir como un río y ver el placer en la noche muerta el orgullo escribiendo en húmedos hoteles de amor a través de una ventana donde se agitan y pululan las palabras y ver solo la imagen del deseo otorgado y tenerlo por objeto y alethéia de nutrirnos de nosotros mismos como larvas u hormigas socavando una vida cenagosa que se inflama de perder en los estíos los despojos del limo cuando la noche calcina un cuerpo frágil y dormir flagelado con el miedo y la incertidumbre lejos muy lejos donde muere el río eres el parricida uno que transita la eterna llama entras a un cine y presencias la cópula imposible estás solo nada encuentras en realidad no buscas nada las horas de la araña fuerzan su atroz pesadilla y cae la culpa como un clavecín en el río llena de músicas anaranjadas en los ojos de e. munch una bella flor como un hospital una ola insaciable hecha de ira parecías triste condenado eterno errante con tus ojos hollando una piedra rutilante en el espectro del cello entre la tiniebla lechosa un cuerpo ¿qué es? una araña tejiendo calles hidrópicas toda la noche “yo persigo el vacío, lo negro, lo desnudo” y cae una especie de herrumbre en la orilla suavemente una mujer se hunde en tu cuerpo borroso y son sus besos un canto fragante que se oculta en la bruna y caen gráciles insectos y se aglomeran en el recinto florido mientras una ciudad absorta desecha sus cabellos y sus uñas en el río para salir en televisión y de la metamorfosis brutal provienen nuestras bocas delirios gemidos como el agua de ese río donde la ciencia también desecha su viejo arrullo la misma muerte ornada de vagos sueños y cae el silencio: los pájaros vuelven a sus frondas la oscuridad se deposita en una orilla sin límites y cae la oscuridad y se abre el telón tenebrosa y cálida y un trozo de niebla le desgarra el vestido pulposo la piel convulsiva el maquillaje voluptuoso mirándose desde un espejo amarillo y saltan sus senos desarraigados que titilan y sus cabellos vuelan en el aire persiguiendo a la luz en silencio en la paz lenta como una calle escondida que atraviesa el mundo y cae mi sombra disgregada y la noche toma un cuerpo lúbrico crispado y crece la oscuridad borrando las palabras y cae mi sombra disgregada sueña el reloj: no hay nada solo un olor “humano demasiado humano” es un cuerpo torturado y proscrito: no es nada y cae mi sombra y cierro por última vez esta puerta: la oscuridad para nuestros cuerpos


        Rimac river

This river is an old homosexual who has invented a fury the finds pleasure in the atrocity and sniffing in the same and stumbling on the avenue a girl waiting for a corpse in the corner rats in canzonettas plunge in the river teenagers find their imposible portrait and commit suicide the vacuum the desire subsists filling it with a song to live like a river and see pleasure in the dead night the pride writing in humid hotels of love through a window where the words flap and swarm and to see only the image of granted wish and to have it as object and alethéia of nourishing ourselves as larvae or ants undermining a muddy life that shows off having lost the spoils of slime in the summer when night calcines a fragile body and to sleep being flagellated with fear and uncertainty far very far away where the river dies you are the parricide one that travels across the eternal flame you enter to a cinema and you presence the imposible copulation you  are alone you find nothing you really are not looking for anything the hours of the spider force their atrocious nightmare and the guilt falls like a harpsichord in the river full of orange music in the eyes of e. munch a beatiful flower like a hospital an insatiable wave made of wrath you seemed sad doomed eternally errant with your eyes trampling a shining Stone in the spectrum of the cello among the milky darkness a body what is it? a spider weaving hydropic streets all night “I chase the emptiness, the black, the naked” and a kind of rust falls on the shore gently a woman sinks into your blurred body and her kisses are a fragant chant hidden in the fog and graceful insects fall and cluser in the flowered enclosure while an engrossed city discards its hair and nails in the river to be on televisión and from the brutal metamorphosis come our mounths delirious groans llike the water of that river where science also discards its old lullabies the same death adorned with vague dreams and the silence falls: the birds return to their fronds darkness lies down in a boundless shore and the darkness falls and the curtain opens gloomy and warm and a piece of fog tears he pulpy dress the convulsive skin the voluptuous makeup looking at the reflection in a yellow mirror and the uprooted breasts jump they twinkle and the hairs fly in the air chasing the light silently in the slow peace slow like a hidden street that crosses the world and my broken shadow falls apart and the night turns into a lubricious body and the darkness grows blurring the words and my disaggregated shadow falls the clock dreams: there is nothing just a “human too human” smell it is a tortured and outlawed body: it is nothing and my shadow falls and I close this door for the very last time: the darkness por our bodies.



Translated by Robert Max Steenkist