Traductor invitado

MAI SCHWARTZ TRADUCE A NÉSTOR PERLONGHER



THE POWDER


In this seductive solitude
–of course, you were alone!–
in this erect, intolerable inertia
it’s her, it’s him, forever one by one, that which glitters
she, her gossamer tameness or her dress
he, his habit of slashing sabbaths, the mucilaginous membranes of the sabbaths
patio walls striped by a light struck at a strange hour
the terror ashen, already stained, slick on those searches through the slag
sore after sore, the traces of horror in the soil of charm
quickly broken
that recurrent destruction of a mirror
in the head of another mirror
or those dialogues:
“Now I won’t be your last ever faggot,” he says
that she says, or she says, or he
who’d said she, or if he’d said to her:
“I’ll be your last macho,” – and that Saturday
thick as a tulip massacre and milky
as his milk on her mouth, or her breasts
on the down of his anus, a finger in a throat
her worn out multicolored cunt in which the residual
cavalries of penetration are discharged:
of cut dicks, of junk and tricks and joined dicks
in her depths – oh lost peak
hazardous spills of hers, of his, of she-he or he-she
with their sickening vibrations and their limitless taste for filth
their coprophagia

By the pubis she placed treasure chests and pirate gold,
fruit of her stool, her spare parts
and that was her way of yoking the sapphires and hitching the rings to her rod
curved and proud, effusive and just, whose glory makes the skin meadows curl, the infinite pore
oh eruptions of a channeled hurricane, like false lightning or the belch of a gritty surfeit
Her makeup
was the goods shown by gypsies on market days,
dragging them from the tribal tents;
the shadows of her eyelids
were those turbulent bags of tropical party nights
when, after simultaneous fornications, after rhythmic
uproarings and exhalings of starch and her farts, her
fresh, sweet little farts
the aurora refracting in her compact,
nothing passes
no one does

Traductor invitado

JUSTIN DIFELICIANTONIO TRADUCE A RUBÉN DARÍO



FATALITY



So blessed is the tree, which barely feels its fall,
and even more the rock, for it feels not a thing,
so true that lived pain is greatest of them all,
and conscious grief the pangs that in our mind so ring.

To be, and not to know, to be without a thread,
and fears of having been, and those of future fright…
and certain horrid dread that tomorrow one is dead,
to suffer for a life, and for a shadow nigh

for what we do not know, and what we hardly doubt,
and flesh and blood that lures with fresh and running clumps,
and tomb that waits with flowers, mortal and devout,
and not to know to where we aim,
and nor from where our bodies came!...

Matrimonio (Sarah Diano)

a Tyrone

Ya no tendremos más el agotarse
en el cuerpo del otro, ni los días
que en un instante eterno se prolongan:
el tiempo, desde ahora, será un túnel
por donde sólo quedará avanzar
aunque apenas veamos los obstáculos;
y el cuerpo, una parcela cultivada
donde comer cuando tengamos hambre.

Estos anillos que nos damos valen
no por lo material de la aleación,
testimonio de un pacto o de una alianza
que advierte que no todo es ya posible,
sino por el vacío que en el centro
nos recuerda la falta que teníamos
y nos previene de intentar llenarla
el uno con el otro, el uno al otro.

El albatros (Frank Shaughnessy)

Por divertirse, a veces, los chicos de la escuela
agarran a otro chico, asmático u obeso,
con acné, miope, gay o simplemente raro,
para darle unos golpes o sacarle la plata.

No bien quedan tirados boca abajo, en el patio,
esas criaturas tímidas, rojas como un tomate,
respirando agitadas, llenas de moretones,
comienzan a arrastrarse buscando escapatoria.

¡Qué patéticos son sus esfuerzos inútiles!
¡Cómo ríen los chicos que observan a un costado!
Bajando el pantalón, uno expone sus nalgas;
otro agresor se burla de su hermana y su madre.

No se parece el poeta al chico que es golpeado,
ni a aquel que lo golpea, sino a ambos a la vez:
víctima de sí mismo, abusador de sí,
alas imaginarias le impiden caminar.

Amor (Sarah Diano)

Íbamos en tu auto de noche por la ruta,
que iluminaba apenas la aparición errática
de unos postes de luz. Vos manejabas. Yo,
que no tengo registro, sentada al lado tuyo
pensaba que quizás el amor sea esto:
atravesar la noche en el auto de otro,
sin otra compañía y sin saber manejar.