Nueve años después - UN POEMA FECHADO Nine Years Later - A Poem Dated

Nueve años después - UN POEMA FECHADO

Yo aparecí en la sangre de octubre, mis manos estaban fúnebres de silencio     y tenía los ojos atados a una espesa oscuridad.
 
Si hablaba, mi voz me sonaba como una materia desalojada,
mis huesos estaban empapados de frío,
mis piernas fluían con el tiempo, moviéndose hacia
afuera de la plaza,en una dirección extraña y sin sentido: de renacimiento,
llevándome a los espejos y las calles desordenadas.
 
La ciudad estaba arrasada por el silencio,
cortada como un cuarzo, tajos de luz diagonal daban
sus raciones apretadasa las esquinas, los cuerpos estaban callados y
aplastados contra su vida,pero había otros cuerpos también, pero había otros
cuerpos también.
 
Hablo con mi sangre entera y con mis recuerdos
individuales. Y estoy vivo.
 
Yo me pregunto: ¿cómo tenemos los ojos, las manos, el
cerebro y los huesosdespués de que salí de la plaza? Todo es denso,
voluminoso y fluye,después de que salí de la plaza.
 
El aire me decía que todo estaba quieto, esperando.
 
Yo me moví hacia afuera de la plaza, mi boca estaba
quemada por los recuerdos,y mi sangre estaba fresca y luciente como un anillo
continuoen el interior de mi cuerpo absolutamente vivo. Pues
me movíahacia afuera de la plaza, entero y respirando.
 
Respiraba imágenes y desde entonces todas esas
imágenes me visitan en sueños,rompiéndolo todo, como caballos delirantes.
 
Estaba en el amasijo del día el espejo de la muerte.
Y una palabra de mi vivir colgaba de un borde infinito.
 
Yo no quisiera hablar del tamaño de aquella tarde,
no poner aquí adverbios, gritar o lamentarme.
 
Pero quisiera, sí, que se viera toda una quemadura de
cóleramanchando el espejo de la muerte.
¿Dónde podría poner mi vivir, mis palabras
sino ahí, nueve años después, en esa cólera fría,
en ese animal de ira que se despierta a veces para
esmaltar mi sueñocon su aliento sanguinario?
 
Toda mi sangre circula por mi vivir, entera,
incuestionable.Pero entonces oí cómo se detenía, amarrada a mi respiración,
y golpeando, con el sordo llamado de su inmovilidad, golpeando
mis voces interiores, mis gestos de vivo humano,
el amor que he podido dar y la muerte que mismamente entregaré.
 
Luego vino el miedo a mis ojos para cubrirlos con sus
dedos helados.
 
Todo el silencio de mi cuerpo abría sus alveolos
frente a los cuerpos arrasados, escupidos hacia la
muerte por el ardor de la metralla:esos cuerpos brillando, sanguíneos y recortados contra
la desmenuzada luz de la tarde,otros cuerpos diferentes del mío y más diferentes aún,
porque habían sido extirpados a la vida humana por un
tajo enorme,por una vertiginosa ferocidad, por manos de una fuerza
doliente que se lanzaba, aullando,contra esos cuerpos más tenues ya que la tarde
y más y más brillantes, en mi sueño de todavía vivo ser humano.
 
Es verdad que escuché la metralla y ahora esto escribo,
y es verdad que mi sangre fluye de nuevo y todavía sueño
con una especie de muerta duda, y veo a veces mi cuerpo desnudo
como un espacioso alimento para la boca devoradora del amor.
 
¿Dónde estuvieron las ataduras de mi vivir,
mis espejos y mis días, cuando sobrevino la tarde en la plaza?
 
Si tomo un pedazo, una brizna de mi cuerpo para ponerla
contra el recuerdode esa tarde en esa plaza,
retrocedo asustado a mi vida como si me hubieran
golpeado en la bocalos dedos levísimos de cientos de fantasmas.
 
Hablo de estos recuerdos inmensos porque tenía que
hacerlo alguna vez, así o de otra manera.
 
Yo salía de la plaza con un vivo estupor en la boca y los ojos
y sentía mi saliva y mi sangre, vivo aún.
Era una noche fresca, dada al tiempo.
Pero en las calles, en las esquinas, en las habitaciones,
había cuerpos aplastados y sellados contra su vida por
un miedo gigantesco y amargo.Un anillo de miedo estaba cerrándose sobre la ciudad
como un sueño extraño que no cesaba y que no
conducía a ningún despertar.
 
Era el espejo de la muerte lo que sobrevenía.
Pero la muerte había ya pasado con sus armaduras y
sus instrumentospor todos los rincones, por todo el aire abolido de la plaza.
Era el espejo de la muerte con sus reflejos de miedo
lo que nos daba sombra en una ciudad que era esta ciudad.
 
Y en la calle era posible ver cómo una mano se cerraba,
cómo sobrevenía un parpadeo, cómo se deslizaban los
pies, con un silencio espeso,buscando una salida,
pero salidas no había: solamente había
una puerta enorme y abierta sobre los reinos del miedo.
 
Octubre de 1977
 

Nine Years Later - A Poem Dated

I appeared in bloodstained October, my hands heavy with
         silence
and my eyes lashed to the dark.
 
If I spoke, my voice felt dislodged,
my bones were drenched with cold,
my legs, fluent with time, were carrying me out of the
         square
in a direction with no direction: to rebirth
in a hall of mirrors, the maze of streets.
 
The city razed by silence
was cut like quartz, shafts of light portioned
the corners, the speechless bodies crushed against their
         lives,
but other bodies were there, there were other bodies.
 
I speak with my entire blood and from my own memories.
         And I am alive.
 
I asked myself, how are our eyes, our hands, our bones
         and our brain
after I left the square? Everything was solid, spacious and in
         flux,
after I left the square.
 
The air was telling me everything is still, is waiting.
 
I moved out of the square, my mouth scorched with
         memories,
and my blood fresh, shining like a ring continuously
coursing through my body, fully alive. So I was moving
out of the square, intact and breathing.
 
I breathed in images, and since then all those images come
         to me in dreams,
shattering everything, like wild horses.
 
Amid the turmoil of the day stood the mirror of death.
And a word from my life clung to the edge of infinity.
 
I do not wish to speak of the scale of that afternoon,
nor place here adverbs, shouts or laments.
 
But I would like, yes, a flash of anger
to mark the mirror of death.
Where could I place my life, my words,
nine years later, but in that cold fury,
in that animal of rage that stirs, enamelling my dreams,
with its cruel breath?
 
All my blood circulates though my life, complete, without
         question.
But then I heard how it halted, bound to my breathing,
and beating, with the deaf call of its stillness, beating
my inner voices, the gestures of my human life,
the love I have been able to give and the death I will pass on.
 
Then fear came to my eyes to cover them with its frozen
         fingers.
 
All the silence of my body was unleashed
in front of the bodies laid waste, spat towards death by the
         zealous shrapnel:
those glistening bodies, bloody, silhouetted against
         the shredded light of late afternoon,
other bodies unlike mine, and even more different,
because they were uprooted, cleaved from human life
by a vertiginous fury, by the hands of a grievous force that
         cast itself, howling,
against those bodies, already fainter than the dusk,
yet more and more vivid in my waking dreams.
 
It is true I heard the shrapnel and now I write this,
it is true my blood now flows again and still I dream
with a kind of dead doubt, and sometimes I see my body
         naked
like a slow food for the devouring mouth of love.
 
Where were the bonds of my life,
my mirrors and my days, when afternoon fell on the square?
 
If I take a piece, a thread of my body and place it against the
         memory of that afternoon in the square,
I retreat to my life, frightened, as though the feather-light
         fingers of ghosts struck me in the mouth.
 
I speak about these weighty memories because I must do it 
         sometime, this way or another.
 
I left the square, a living stupor in my mouth and my eyes,
yet I felt my spit and my blood, still living.
It was a cool night, surrendered to time.
But in the streets, on the corners, in the bedrooms,
there were bodies, crushed and shut off from their lives by
         bitter fear.
A ring of fear was closing in on the city,
like a strange dream without end, without waking.
 
It was the mirror of death.
But death itself had already passed over with its armour
         and its instruments
into every corner, through all the cancelled air of the square.
It was the mirror of death with its reflections of fear
that brought shade to a city that was this city.
 
And in the street you could see how a hand was closing,
how an eye was blinking, how feet slid, in thick silence,
looking for an escape,
but there was no escape: only
a huge door open onto the kingdoms of fear.
 
October, 1977
 

The poem recalls the Matanza de Tlatelolco of 2 October 1968 when the Mexican military opened fire on students staging an anti-government protest in the Plaza de las Tres Culturas, Mexico City. You can find out more about the massacre on this page in Wikipedia

It is taken from Versión [Version] (1st edn, 1978; repr. México: Ediciones Era, 2005).

It took us three workshops to complete the translation of this extremely powerful poem, and we’re very pleased with the results. Do send us your comments.

Nine Years Later - A DATED POEM

I appeared/turned up in the blood of October, my hands were
funereal/mournful with silence
and my eyes were tied/bound to a thick darkness.
 
If I spoke, my voice sounded to me like a
dislodged/evacuated/abandoned material/matter/substance
my bones were drenched with cold,
my legs flowed with time, moving out of [lit. towards outside] the square,
in a strange and meaningless/without meaning direction: of rebirth,
taking me to the mirrors and the disordered streets.
 
The city was flattened/laid waste by silence,
cut like quartz, slashes of diagonal light gave/were giving their
dense/compact [lit. squeezed] portions
to the street corners, the bodies were silent/didn't speak and
flattened/squashed/crushed against their life,
but there were other bodies also, but there were other bodies also.
 
I speak with all of my blood and with my individual memories. And I am alive.
 
I wonder [lit. ask myself]: how do we have our eyes, our hands, our brain and our
bones
after I left the square? Everything is dense, voluminous/massive and flows,
after I left the square.
 
The air told/was telling me that everything was calm, waiting.
 
I moved out [lit. towards outside] of the square, my mouth was burnt with the memories,
and my blood was fresh and glowing like a continuous ring
on the inside of my body absolutely alive. So I was moving
out of the square, entire/whole and breathing
 
I was breathing images and since that time all those images
visit/come to me in dreams,
breaking everything, like delirious horses.
 
In the kneading/concoction/mixture/jumble of the day
was the mirror of death.
And a word of my life was hanging from an infinite edge/border.
 
I would not like to speak of the scale of that afternoon,
not place here adverbs, shout or lament/wail/mourn.
 
But I would like, yes, for all of a burn of anger to be seen
staining the mirror of death.
Where could I place my life, my words
but there, nine years later, in that cold anger,
in that animal of rage that sometimes awakes to adorn [lit. enamel] my dreams
with its bloodthirsty/cruel breath?
 
All of my blood circulates through my life, complete, unquestionable.
But then I heard how it was pausing, fastened/tied/lashed to my breathing,
and beating, with the noiseless/silent [lit. deaf] call of its stillness, beating
my interior voices, my gestures of living human,
the love that I have been able to give and the death that I will
literally [?] deliver/hand over.
 
Later/then fear came to my eyes to cover them with its frozen fingers
 
All the silence of my body opened/was opening its sockets
in front of the bodies levelled/flattened/laid waste, spat towards death by the
zeal of the shrapnel:
those shining bodies, bloody and cut back/cut out against the broken into
small pieces light of the afternoon,
other bodies different from mine and more different still,
because they had been eradicated/rooted out from human life by an enormous
slash,
by a vertiginous ferocity, by hands of an aching/sad/mourning force that
threw/was throwing itself, howling
against those bodies already more faint/insubstantial than the afternoon
and more and more brilliant/shining, in my dream of still living human being.
 
It is true that I heard the shrapnel and now I write this,
and it is true that my blood flows again and I still dream
with a type of dead doubt, and sometimes I see my body naked
like a spacious/roomy/slow/deliberate food for the devouring mouth of love.
 
Where were the bonds/cords of my life,
my mirrors and my days, when afternoon fell on the square?
If I take a piece/scrap, a thread/strand/filament of my body to
place it against the memory of that afternoon in that square,
I draw back/retreat frightened at my life as if they had struck my mouth
the extremely light fingers of hundreds of ghosts.
 
I speak of these immense memories because I had to
do it some time, like this or another way.
 
I was leaving the square with a living stupor in my mouth and my eyes
and I felt/could feel my saliva and my blood, still living.
It was a cool night, given to time [?].
But in the streets, on the corners, in the rooms/bedrooms,
there were bodies flattened/crushed/overwhelmed and sealed
against their life by a large and bitter fear.
A ring of fear was closing on the city
like a strange dream that did not end and that
did not lead to any waking up.
 
It was the mirror of death that happened/was happening[unexpectedly]/
befell/followed.
But death had already passed/occurred with its armour and its instruments
through every corner, through all the abolished air of the square.
It was the mirror of death with its reflections of fear
that gave us shadow/shade in a city that was this city.
 
And in the street it was possible to see how a hand closed/was closing,
how a blink was happening, how feet were slipping, with a thick silence,
looking for an exit,
but there were no exits: there was only
a huge door open onto the realms of fear.
 
October 1977
 

Original Poem by

David Huerta

Translated by

Tom Boll with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

Spanish

Country

Mexico