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.
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.
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.
Translation of the poem Todo lo demás by Cristina Fernández Recasens, see also: Jaume Pujadas’ video rendition.
”And if I had that dream, everything else didn’t matter.”
- Roberto Bolaño
I don’t have a house, don’t have money, don’t have a job.
I don’t have a trade, nor a profit.
I don’t pay in, don’t improvise, don’t travel.
I don’t invest, I live in the desert,
I don’t go to any concerts.
I don’t pay taxes, don’t contribute,
don’t make deposits, don’t invoice, don’t inaugurate.
I don’t publish, don’t debut, don’t win
any prizes.
They don’t recognize me,
don’t know me,
don’t award me,
don’t deserve me,
don’t interview me,
don’t memorize me,
don’t need me,
don’t praise me,
don’t quote me,
don’t visit me,
don’t greet me,
don’t post me,
they ignore me.
I have a dream,
I have one dream.
And everything else.
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites
impávido
se desliza por las tuberías
de un aterrador presente
llora por pura inercia
a veces lo hace por afición
partiendo de la base
de que
partirme es posible
soy cobarde y serpiente sólida y mírame estoy a tiro
a solo dos pasos de escalar
fearless
it slips through the pipeworks
of a terrifying present
it cries out of pure inertia
sometimes as a hobby
assuming
that it’s
possible to crack up
i’m a coward and a solid snake and look at me i’m ready
just two steps to climb
*****
poema por: Marcos Rivas
Sonríe de alucinada felicidad… Pues ese padre va solo. A nadie ha encontrado, y su brazo se apoya en el vacío. Porque tras él, al pie de un poste y con las piernas en alto, enredadas en el alambre de púa, su hijo bien amado yace al sol, muerto desde las diez de la mañana.
He smiled in hallucinatory happiness…. as this father walks alone. He’s not found anyone, and his arm is resting on thin air. Because behind him, standing on a post and with his legs up, snared in barbed wire, his well-loved son lies facing the sun, dead since ten in the morning.
Luego todo se convirtió en una sucesion de hechos concretos o de nombres propios o de verbos o de capitulos de un manual de anatomia deshojado como una flor, interrelacionados caoticamente entre si.
Then everything became a succession of concrete facts, or proper names, or verbs, or chapters in an anatomy textbook -pages plucked out like a flower’s petals - chaotically interconnected.
Chaos Theory
On the surface
of my human skin
there are remains
of saliva, kisses, caresses, bites,
sperm,
licks,
cuts, wounds, blows, sores,
sweat, scars,
scratches, blood, scabs, bruises, lesions,
slices,
slaps
veins, blisters and burns.
I don’t need piercings or tattoos,
my body
is a map.
Anna Gual (Vilafranca del Penedes, 1986) is the author of the book Implosions, where this poem comes from.
