Poetry
The Beast
by Astrid Cabral, translated by Alexis Levitin
Hand to hand, we’ve been battling forever.
No sooner did I slip from my wedding dress
than he cast his sharpened claws upon us.
For a decade of pure glory
I exhibited my triumph through the house:
the clothes-line decked in diapers.
Stubborn, however, he did not give up.
He simply ignored my rage as, broom in hand,
I tried to chase him out into the street.
He made a pact with time and then made camp
my patient partner telling him
that he who laughs last laughs loudest.
Meanwhile, he mobilized dozens
of dreadful lowly ploys.
He set traps, planned strategies
changed name, face, skin and clothes
wore rare and savage masks
and lay down between us in the emptiness of the bed
for shorter or for longer times
until he took control for good of the one I loved
and with his wide mouth stained with blood
laughed and mocked my solitude.
A Fera
Braço a braço lutamos desde sempre.
Mal o vestido de noiva despi
e agudas garras sobre nós lançou.
Por uma década de pura glória
exibi meu triunfo pela casa:
o varal embandeirado de fraldas.
De teimosa, porém, não desistiu.
Recusou-se a enxergar o olho da rua
que, fula apontei vassoura em punho.
Fez pacto com o tempo e se acampou
o parceiro paciente dizendo-lhe
quem por último ri, ri bem melhor.
Mobilizou no meio tempo dúzias
de terríveis malandras artimanhas.
Armadilhas armou, fez estratégias
trocou de nome, cara, pele e trajes
usou máscaras bárbaras e raras
e deitou-se entre nós no vão da cama
por breves e por longas temporadas
até que se apossou de vez do amado
e com a bocarra de sangue manchada
riu e gozou com a minha solidão.
History
by Antonio Preciado Bedoya
translated by Alexis Levitin and Fernando Iturburu
Honey flowed everywhere; but that day
they gave it to me
with a rifle
in my animal spine,
and ever since then I go
from rancor to rancor,
from war to war,
with a rifle wary in my hands.
Historia
Correteaba la miel; pero ese día
el fusil
me dieron en la línea animal
del espinazo,
y desde entonces ando
de rencor en rencor,
de guerra en guerra,
con un fusil alerta entre las manos.
New Year’s Eve
by Augusto Rodriguez, translated by Alexis Levitin and Fernando Iturburu
The year is ending
the puppets are on fire
people are burning their masks
the sky explodes
fireworks shooting through its veins
people laugh or cry
dance or remain silent
but they know that deep down
something of them has turned to ash.
Fin De Año
Se acaba el año
los monigotes arden
la gente quema sus máscaras
el cielo explota
los cohetes le atraviesan sus venas
la gente ríe o llora
o baila o calla
pero saben que en el fondo
algo de ellos se ha vuelto ceniza.
Mr. Foreigner
by Augusto Rodriguez, translated by Alexis Levitin and Fernando Iturburu
Here Mr. Foreigner,
right before your eyes,
is my country, its soil and its tears.
Here Mr. Foreigner
we are all alive and dead
with cleaned out pockets
and gigantic with stomachs of hunger.
Here Mr. Foreigner
we drown in alcohol on Saturdays
and Sundays go to Mass and watch a soccer game.
That´s how we are, pure and clear as water.
I know for you this wouldn´t be a life
but that´s how we’ve been raised,
So, please, Mr. Foreigner
don’t grimace and don´t spit
just because, here in this land,
we’ve been happy since our birth.
Señor Forastero
Aquí señor forastero
donde sus ojos ven
está mi país, su tierra y sus llantos.
Aquí señor forastero
estamos todos vivos y todos muertos
limpios de bolsillos
y gigantes de estómagos con hambre.
Aquí señor forastero
nos alcoholizamos los sábados
el domingo vamos a misa y a ver el fútbol.
Así somos nosotros, sinceros y claros como el agua.
Yo sé que para usted quizá no sea vida
pero así nos criaron desde pequeños
por favor, señor forastero,
no haga muecas ni escupa.
Si aquí, en esta tierra
somos felices desde que nacemos.
Buffalos
by Eduardo Moran translated by Alexis Levitin and Fernando Iturburu
The trees are holding their breath,
the air filled with the howling of the wolves;
for the first time, the elements are afraid,
blind, their multiple small eyes grow large.
In the green-tinted crystal of the pool
funereal branches are reflected.
And that´s exactly where we are, inside this crystal,
side by side, without a touch, motionless,
with muffled respiration. The truce is finished.
From here already we can sense
how they are coming from far off,
far from the world that we have known till now.
The clumsy hoofs,
the vast horns,
the burning hide.
Wet muzzles now are touching us.
A face leans down towards me,
a stone face without relief
like a close-up in the movies.
My armor bursts,
drops savagely to the bottom, smashed to bits.
The crystal breaks.
Los árboles contienen el aliento,
el aire saturado de quejidos de lobos;
por primera vez los elementos temen
ciegos, agrandan sus múltiples ojillos.
En el cristal verdoso del estanque
se reflejan fúnebres ramas.
Dentro de este cristal precisamente estamos,
acostados, sin tocarnos, inmóviles,
la respiración amortiguada. Terminó la tregua.
Desde aquí ya captamos
como si vinieran desde lejos
del mundo que hemos conocido hasta ahora,
las pezuñas torpes,
los vastos cuernos,
los cueros ardientes.
Hocicos húmedos ya nos tocan.
Un rostro se inclina hacia mí,
rostro de piedra y sin relieves
como un primer plano de cine,
mis arreos parten,
caen brutalmente al suelo hechos polvo,
el cristal se resquebraja.
