tenía un corazón
que todavía lo tiene
pero éste ya no late
y los químicos conservantes
dejarán de funcionar
y así se convierte un cadáver
en polvo tóxico
salpicado de alma disociado
De “La Universidad Desconocida”
Roberto Bolaño
tal vez mañana empiece de nuevo.
Translation of the poem by David Leo García, from the Spanish as published at Tenían viente años y estaban locos.
Tell me a color. Green. Another. Green.
A part of a house. Air.
A question. The question. A writer.
Mystery. What do you associate with a bird?
Mystery. And with a bird?
Infancy. And with grass?
Infancy. Tell me a color.
I don’t know. A country. Almost all of them.
A disease. All of them but mine.
What it’s come to here. The…you know,
the…what am I going to tell you, you know,
the same thing as always.
A string instrument. The pentagram.
A part of the body. Lungs.
A part of a house. Deterioration.
A reason to live? One, desire.
A disease? Disease.
A famous quote? ‘Of course’.
A reason? To die. A reason
to die? Not one, maybe. Desire.
Just a personal note here. I think this might be one of my favorite poems ever. Every time I read it, my head generates two distinct voices, and it becomes this wonderful conversation and each member has a drastically different personality. I imagine the questioner’s facial expressions as the questioned rattles off his replies in a sardonic tone. Check out more of David Leo García’s poetry, I find it extremely rewarding.
”Pienso en casos como el de Luna Miguel, agitadora poética, poeta agitada, joven estelar y estrella joven, a quien apenas he visto en mi vida.”
(Source: estandarte.com)
via: estabanlocos
Translation of Layla Martínez’s untitled poem, from the original Spanish. The poem belongs to the unedited El libro de la crueldad (The Book of Cruelty).
We denied
the demented transit
of the birds in heat
until they crashed
against the glass
of the window.
The hysteric flight
of the praying mantids
until they were devoured
by cruel children.
Since then
we’ve only managed to walk
from one side to the other
with dilated pupils
like recently run-over
animals.
al menos no tengo
las manos que se proponen
en hacerse dueños del mundo.
yo era el bronce
de tu piel
en el verano
y he llegado a ser la palidez
en las plantas de tus pies
en el invierno.
los fragmentos
de recuerdos —
un costado de ti
la naríz y un sólo ojo
pequeñito y marrón
flotan en el aire
a la deriva.
y si una vez
veo a la mujer de pelo largo
castaño y de ojos oscurados -
vuelvo a pensar en ti.
es bella.
La gente que no hace ruido al dar dos besos
no lee,
no sufre,
no dice “quiero desgastarte” ni se
fija en los osos encarcelados.
via: estabanlocos
Translation of a poem by Sandra Martínez, posted in it’s original Spanish at Tenían viente años y estaban locos.
Dissection of a heart.
Look at the birds that are behind the crystals
with open eyes,
dissected.
All the helpless animals.
All the birds without any shelter.
All dissected.
All our eyes,
our souls
and hearts.
All dissected.
By the force of gravity.
Dissected,
our unbeating hearts unfind themselves in the displays.
Let me rub the skin
[of your hands.
Sandra Martínez (1995, Valencia) studies Fine Arts in secondary school. dansemoileau.blogspot.com
via: estabanlocos
Translation of a poem by Rodrigo Olay, posted in it’s original Spanish at Tenían viente años y estaban locos.
AMERICAN DREAM
How many times I dreamed of not being different,
I wanted to be just another one in the group
and wear the basketball team jacket
so a flexible electric cheerleader,
with long hair so new and blond that it hides
her shoulders like recently rained upon wheat fields,
would accept between the smiles of other cheerleaders
my nervous proposal against some lockers
and come with me to the annual dance
where all the boys rent limousines
and dress in tuxedos and dance really close
in the old gym surrounded by balloons
and after seeing that they’re not the King and Queen of the dance
they ask whispering to each other solemnly if you want to come
get some fresh air, and run to the bottoms
of the iron bleachers, in the football field,
and then she gets her prom dress dirty
but it doesn’t matter now, or maybe better to take
his parent’s car to some high-point
(although only she knows what’s going to happen)
from which they can see the city and give each other
very slowly and very softly, with closed eyes
with the force of vertigo, a meticulous kiss
(the first for both of them, but they do it so well
that we pity them) and looking at themselves they have
all their adolescence overflowing in their eyes
and dying they jump into the backseat.
Rodrigo Olay (Noreña, Asturias, 1989) studies Spanish Language at the University of Oviedo.
Un poema o algo así.
Recitado y entrevista de la maravillosamente enferma Luna Miguel.
