Category: Argentina

August 15th, 2005 by Luis Benitez

Afar, the large polite world of language
here, the wide serenity of things
in the ocean’s bottom where it lives
how could it be considered otherwise?
In this art in which it exalts
if the first to pick up the chisel
united in words the brilliance of the humble color
the trace of what was seen the wide serenity of things
one half is night the other half is deception Read more of this article »

Posted in Argentina, Poetry

February 29th, 2004 by Carlos Barbarito

ESTA ES MI VIDA, PARECE DECIR…



Esta es mi vida, parece decir la hoja

que cae desde la rama

o la piedra que rueda por la ladera.

Poco; ninguna fe

digna de ser alabada o combatida,

ninguna música de esferas,

ningún cielo resuelto en llamas.

Bajo los pies la futura ceniza

que sobrevendrá a la última distracción,

la penúltima blasfemia;

toda luz se apagará,

y a caballo de las olas

vendrá un pez de cobalto

a morder sin piedad el sexo y los párpados.

La hoja siente a su modo

como a su modo siente la piedra,

pero únicamente quien tiene manos

encuentra blandura en la carne

y dureza en los huesos.

Es verdad: ningún hombre es visible.

El día ya no dura,

la boca ayuna a un lado de la sal;

en la aparente sanidad, abjuración y vileza;

sólo abulia, demora:

aceite que permanece y no hierve.
THIS IS MY LIFE, THE LEAF SEEMS…



This is my life, the leaf seems to say

as it falls from the branch

or the stone that rolls down the hillside.

Not much: no faith

worth being praised or attacked,

no music of the spheres,

no sky bursting into flames.

Under my feet the future ashes

which will supervene at the final distraction,

the penultimate blasphemy;

all light will go out,

and on the horse of the waves

a cobalt fish will ride in

to bite without pity the sex and the eyelids.

The leaf feels in its way

as in its way the stone feels,

but only someone with hands

finds softness in the flesh

and hardness in the bones.

It’s true: no man is visible.

The day does not last,

the mouth fasts at one side of the salt;

in the apparent healthiness, abjuration and vileness;

only lack of will-power, it lingers on:

oil that stays there and does not boil.



(Translated by Brian Cole)

 
 



Otros son los muertos. Flotan

en el silencio del mediodía, nostálgicos

de la saciedad y la sed. Se alejan,

no se alejan. Tienen ojos que no usan,

manos que no acarician, por gusto

o temor, la pétrea materia verdinegra.

Otros llevan lámparas apagadas,

visten raídos capotes, esgrimen escudos rotos.

Nos abrazamos y es luz, retamas hasta el horizonte,

asentado presente. Entonces,

es la respiración de cada hierba

apretada contra otra hierba

o solitaria, lo que se manifiesta,

nos alcanza y atraviesa,

torna de a poco y de nuevo madera

a lo que era apenas aserrines dispersos en el aire.
(Grosmont Castle: The Great Chimney)



The dead are not like us. Suspended

in the midday still, they miss

satiety and thirst. They wane,

yet stay. Their eyes are set aside,

their hands do not caress, eager

or fearful, the stony mossy stuff.

They carry extinguished lamps,

threadbare raincoats, broken shields.

We hug and all lights up, broom as far as one can see,

a settled present moment. We feel

each grass blade’s breath

pressed against another blade

or by itself:

it catches up to us and pierces through,

then slowly turns back into wood

that which was sawdust scattered in the air.



(Translated by Ricardo Nirenberg)

 
√ǬøCU√ɬÅL ES LA MEDIDA, LA TABLA…



¿Cuál es la medida, la tabla,

el esbozo? En la sombra, el instinto;

en la luz, la herrumbre

que migra de cuerda en cuerda.

Creo, no creo: se peina

en la penumbra, después del deseo

y su conclusión;

brevedad,

infinito: el agua es confusa,

baja espesa hacia un centro inmóvil,

la belleza se hace y se deshace

mientras espío lo que queda del mundo

a través de su última voz, áspera y profunda.

¿Cuál es la cábala,

la melodía, el arco

ahora que todo se apaga

y en lo que cae, rueda y se trastorna:

pronto nadie, pasado, periferia?
WHAT IS THE MEASURE, THE TABLE…

What is the measure, the table,

the outline? In the shadow, instinct;

in the light, rust

that migrates from cable to cable.

I think, I don’t think: it combs its hair

in the shadow, after desire and its conclusion;

brevity,

infinity: the water is confused,

it falls thickly towards a still centre,

beauty is made and unmade

while I spy what remains of the world

through your last voice,

harsh and deep.

What is the cabal,

the melody, the bow

now that everything dies away

and in what falls, rolls and overturns:

soon no-one, past, periphery?



(Translated by Brian Cole)

Copyright (c) Carlos Barbarito 2001; trans. copyright (c) Brian Cole 2001.

Posted in Argentina, Poetry