STUDY WITH A LITTLE TEDIUM

 

Clov: He's crying.
Hamm: Then he's living.
   Endgame  by Beckett

 

Fifteen years old and I cry every night.

I know there's nothing special about this,
that there are better things in this world
to tell you about in my singing voice.

Even so I drank wine for the first time today
and stayed in my room naked, so I could take in the afternoon
carved into small pieces
by the clock.

Thinking alone hurts. There's no one to hit, no one
to pardon and mercifully let off the hook.
Only you and your face. You and your face
of a phony saint.

The scar no one has ever seen comes into view,
the grimace we hide every day,
the face I've never been able to bury, it will make us cry and break down completely
on the day the good people know everything
and even the birds deny us love and a song.

Fifteen years of being tired
and I cry every night just to make believe I'm alive.

Maybe none of you understands what I'm talking about.

It's my first wine talking not me
while the skin weighing me down swallows the shade.

 

Translated by James Graham

 

 

 

PASSING THE FACTORY

 

 

While skin trembles under rough shirts
in the nocturnal patio bloodied by a strike
all the ferocity in the world burns in a cigarette
and love, the survivor of storm-driven memories,
is a bird lost in the ocean.

Wind whips the eyebrows of old men
used to watching the struggle for bread
while misery thickens the cobwebs
in their sleepless little rooms nearby.

And I am ashamed of being the lonely man
who simply continues on his way at night
until a moment ago appreciating the quiet
around him and planning to visit Chapultepec
tomorrow Sunday morning.

 

(Mexico, 1961) Translated by Paul Pines

 

 

 

THE CAPTAIN

 

The captain in his hammock the captain
asleep beneath the animal noises of the night
his guitar strung up on the wall
his pistol set beside his bottle
waiting for the battle like a hot date
the captain the captain
--he should know--
in the same darkness as those he hunts down.

 

Translated by James Graham

 

 

 

SMALL HOURS OF THE NIGHT

 

When you know I'm dead don't say my name
because then death and peace would have to wait.

Your voice, the bell of your five senses, would form
the thin beam of light my mist would be looking for.

When you know I'm dead, say other words.
Say flower, bee, teardrop, bread, storm.

Don't let your lips find my eleven letters.
I'm sleepy, I've loved, I've earned silence.

Don't say my name when you know I'm dead:
I would come out of the dark ground for your voice.

Don't say my name, don't say my name.
When you know I'm dead don't say my name.

 

Translated by Hardie St. Martin

 

 

Creo que el mundo es bello, que la poesìa es como el pan, de todos .

* * *

 I believe the world is beautiful and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone .