Sunday, November 23, 2008

white night

I had a white night, sleepless and pacing, things within me tearing. The sensation of a person inside my heart, ripping their clothes off in grief. This morning I carefully and precisely broke my own heart and finally collapsed into the dreamless sleep of ghosts. I woke up translating poems in my head. Perhaps because of the workshop on duende yesterday. The holy primal things in me were howling, are howling and my head is on fire with things to say, even if they are not my own. I translated this poem:

LLUEVE CADA DOMINGO
Nicolás Guillén

I

Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.
El corazón me sangra como
una herida abierta.
¿ Dónde estás? En un sueño
donde es noche y nieva.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.

II

Oh, mi adorado. Busco
la almohada donde pueda
reclinarse por siempre
mi encendida cabeza.
Te imploro, llamo, pido.
¿Vendrás? Ay, si vinieras. . .
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.

III

No sé lo que me pasa/
Pero tu fija ausencia
es un mármol de tumba
que sobra mi alma pesa.
Pasaron ya los días
de rosas y hojas frescas.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.

IV
Se detienen las horas,
mordidas por la espera;
vuelan mis ilusiones,
las derriban tus flechas.
El corazón me sangra
como una herida abierta.
Llueve cada domingo.
Otra vez la tristeza.



IT RAINS EACH SUNDAY

I
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.
My heart is bleeding
like a open wound.
Where are you? In a dream
where it is night and snows.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

II
Oh, my adored. I seek
the pillow on which
I may always rest
my fevered head.
I implore you, I call, beg.
Are you coming. Oh, if you came. . .
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

III
I know not what is happening to me.
But your fixed absence
is a marble tomb
weighing on my soul.
Gone are the days of
roses and fresh leaves.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

IV
The hours have stopped,
bribed by the waiting.
My illusions are flying,
knocked down by your arrows.
My heart is bleeding
like and open wound.
It rains each Sunday.
Again, sadness.

translation- Lizz Huerta


Let It Be
The Beatles

Often I am glad that I am a poet. Even when I have my white nights and chaos is rending me asunder, the wounds reveal a little more of the heart in me and I can out it into my writing. I wrote yesterday intimacy with death. Not to be gothic or morose but all of these little deaths are something. Don't know what, but they are something.

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