Algunas veces me da por escribir en inglés. Es un idioma excelente para escribir poesía, pero también es muy difícil, para no caer en la excesiva sonoridad del monosílabo. He aquí mi último intento con algunas correcciones de última hora. Y su traducción debajo, of course.
The water woman
To disappear into a glass of water, this woman would have to believe in friends reunited, in ditches and provided dreams.
Her laugh would be blood, a game to lose the right constitutes a benefit, her laughter will be the cheerful grin of the tortured, the toothless mouth of a boxer on the canvas while management is falling precisely the countdown.
I thank God to have known she on Tuesday: when she looks toward heaven and count the passage of the reactors.
Specialist statutory, she has placed all her lovers in a row, plated steel, live on the pack, with the holes in the eyes and nose to see and breathe.
Then she takes my hand and I walk naked, showing at the end of the corridor, the tomb each night riding where torture is sworn.
The days pass, the band plays a Charleston, oh, mister, oh, madame, here is your table, do not forget to dance, smile in front of the cook, pheasant seems alive, but only an optical illusion, there is nothing like Southampton beaches in the fall, Paul McCartney coming to dinner tonight, has promised a bottle of Sherry and a banal speech of Ortega.
I looked long at the ocean from my room. I think of her name, I think of the pre-Raphaelite painters, the crew of Virginia is beaten to death in front of the Monitor Nortfolk doors, a hundred years later we find, in the seabed, the body of a fireman trapped in the turret, tell to my girlfriend that I'll be late, give my body to the pines seamless, bury me in Wisconsin with honors, I looked so well sprat.
My father has returned with a book in his hands, has returned with the truth abused and a Turner box where women or ships burn, my father has returned to sing to the syrens.
I read crusts and line of bees, going to fast, there is something among the rocks, please do not forget me, write me on Sunday, give me your courage, not hide from me.
I will sleep again to her feet, the wind that cut through the smoke to employees in the bilge.
Urceloy / noviembre de 2009
The water woman
To disappear into a glass of water, this woman would have to believe in friends reunited, in ditches and provided dreams.
Her laugh would be blood, a game to lose the right constitutes a benefit, her laughter will be the cheerful grin of the tortured, the toothless mouth of a boxer on the canvas while management is falling precisely the countdown.
I thank God to have known she on Tuesday: when she looks toward heaven and count the passage of the reactors.
Specialist statutory, she has placed all her lovers in a row, plated steel, live on the pack, with the holes in the eyes and nose to see and breathe.
Then she takes my hand and I walk naked, showing at the end of the corridor, the tomb each night riding where torture is sworn.
The days pass, the band plays a Charleston, oh, mister, oh, madame, here is your table, do not forget to dance, smile in front of the cook, pheasant seems alive, but only an optical illusion, there is nothing like Southampton beaches in the fall, Paul McCartney coming to dinner tonight, has promised a bottle of Sherry and a banal speech of Ortega.
I looked long at the ocean from my room. I think of her name, I think of the pre-Raphaelite painters, the crew of Virginia is beaten to death in front of the Monitor Nortfolk doors, a hundred years later we find, in the seabed, the body of a fireman trapped in the turret, tell to my girlfriend that I'll be late, give my body to the pines seamless, bury me in Wisconsin with honors, I looked so well sprat.
My father has returned with a book in his hands, has returned with the truth abused and a Turner box where women or ships burn, my father has returned to sing to the syrens.
I read crusts and line of bees, going to fast, there is something among the rocks, please do not forget me, write me on Sunday, give me your courage, not hide from me.
I will sleep again to her feet, the wind that cut through the smoke to employees in the bilge.
Urceloy / noviembre de 2009
La mujer acuática
Para desaparecer en un vaso de agua, esta mujer tendría que creer en los amigos reencontrados, en las acequias y los sueños previstos.
Su risa sería sangre, un juego en que perder la razón, una ventaja, su risa sería el rictus alegre de los torturados, la desdentada boca de un púgil en la lona mientras va cayendo con precisión administrativa la cuenta atrás.
Doy gracias a Dios por haberla conocido en martes: cuando mira hacia el cielo y cuenta el paso de los reactores.
Especialista en estatuarios, ha colocado a todos sus amantes en fila, bañados en acero, vivos en el envoltorio, con los agujeros de los ojos y la nariz para que vean y respiren.
Entonces me toma de la mano y me pasea desnudo, mostrándome, al final del corredor, el sarcófago ecuestre donde cada noche ha jurado torturarme.
Los días pasan, la banda toca un charlestón, oh, mister, oh, madame, por aquí está su mesa, no se olviden bailar, sonrían delante del cocinero, el faisán parece vivo, pero sólo es una ilusión óptica, no hay nada como las playas de Southampton en otoño, Paul MacCartney vendrá a cenar esta noche, ha prometido una botella de Sherry y un discurso banal de Ortega.
He mirado largamente el océano desde mi habitación. Pienso en su nombre, pienso en los pintores prerrafaelitas, la tripulación del Virginia se bate a muerte frente al Monitor a las puertas de Nortfolk, cien años después encontramos, en el fondo marino, el cuerpo de un fogonero atrapado en la torreta, decidle a mi novia que llegaré tarde, dad a los pinos mi cuerpo sin junturas, enterradme en Wisconsin con honores, me sentaba tan bien el espadín.
Mi padre ha vuelto con un libro en las manos, ha vuelto con la verdad maltratada y un cuadro de Turner donde arden mujeres o navíos, mi padre ha vuelto para cantar a las sirenas.
Leo en cobalto y verso las abejas, vamos a los rápidos, hay algo entre las rocas, por favor, no me olvides, escríbeme en domingo, dame tu valentía, no me ocultes.
Vuelvo del sur para dormir a los pies de ella, el viento con que cortan el humo los trabajadores en la sentina.
Urceloy / noviembre de 2009
