Thursday, December 20, 2012

Two poems by Jorge Aulicino (translated by Judith Filc) / Dos poemas de Jorge Aulicino

A certain roughness in their syntax signaled the lack of
versatility of the corpses; the cracked polish of the boots
and the diction detached from the verb; auxiliary verbs,
elegantly suspended verbal moods elided
by the wise horsemanship of an old trade.
What are you talking about, what are you talking about?
But it was yesterday... Yesterday... You stood before the lake of that river.
How remote that shore, how lazy and early-bird.
You had it all; you hadn't crawled among the dregs
of battles lost before they started,
you didn't linger amid the urine of those dead...
I understand. It wasn't the Danube, it was the Parana,
bewildering in its descent from the cerebral skies, but even so...
Is the joyful inaction, the airy thought justified?
Bee: the smallest of birds, is born of ox meat.
Spider: worm that feeds on air. Lark: the one that
sings illnesses and can cure them. Partridge: lying bird.

You ought to be able to walk around there.
But you wouldn't find suburban buildings,
not the path toward the trees and that shack,
sullen under the stormy grove.
Bored, yellow, grey, dripping.
You wouldn't find the summer afternoon
or the thrushes, usurpers of that nest.
The city was badly used. Is used.
In a drizzly midday the buildings,
the shutters of aged paint
seem resigned to their perplexity.
To see yourself before a sea refused rather than virgin,
like thrushes in the nests of others, abandoned.

From Cierta dureza en la sintaxis, 2008.

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