Promising Spanish Poetry
Abbas Panakkal
Poemas de Amalia Bautista
Amalia Bautista
1. LOVE PRISON
Of all the women –so you say-
that you have had, I am the most
beloved one. But then, you shared
your bed with them. And I’ve been shut
by you in this room, wherein you come
to visit me in the afternoons.
You bring me sweets and books, and talk
about the letters and the arts.
And on your leaving, fatherly,
you kiss my brow, until next day.
And I’m alone and I get bored.
And I am longing for a man.
So, my dear one, don’t be surprised
and don’t abuse me, if unexpected,
you come and find me with the jailer.
2. TELL ME ONCE MORE
Tell me once more. It is so beautiful
that I could go on listening forever.
Say it again, say that the couple
lived happily in the tale and so they died,
that she wasn’t unfaithful, that he didn’t
think of cheating her. And don’t forget
that in spite of toils and time gone by,
night after night they kissed each other.
Please, tell me a thousand times:
there is no other story of such beauty.
3. HELL
I took a glance at hell once, through the window,
and didn’t find it to be that appalling.
It really seemed the commonest of places,
with people all around, and things. Someone
who was in hell invited me to come in.
I can’t remember who this was, nor if
there were more than just one, nor what they told me,
nor if those people smiled, nor if they moaned,
nor if I didn’t trust them at some point.
I tried to find the gates of hell and found them,
I opened then the gates of hell and came in,
and ever since that day I’ve lived in hell.
It’s certainly a place like there are many,
with people all around, and things. But I
do know that this is hell, of that I’m sure,
because in this place you are not with me.
4. MAKE THREE WISHES
To see the dawn with you,
to see with you the night,
to see the dawn again
in the light of your eyes.
5. I DREAM ABOUT MY FATHER
Here I am, don’t cry, my little one,
it breaks my heart to see you cry. Except
for you, I said goodbye to all the day
I left, you were not to be found around,
and I was in a hurry, I had to leave,
I could not wait. But even so I told them
that I’d be back as soon as I had finished
with what I had to do so far away.
Why no one ever told you about all this?
How did they let you suffer so much, thinking
that I was dead? Amalia, my poor thing,
so cold and rational apparently,
and then inside her heart so unprotected.
Here I am. Don’t cry, because your weeping
could very well dissolve me into the darkness
again, and now forever.
Poemas de Diego Valverde Villena
Diego Valverde Villena
LIKE A BOOK
Lost,
abandoned among strange rows,
hostage to random companions who speak a different language,
victim of the whim of a teasing librarian
or an inexpert hand,
alone and left aside,
until someone finds me.
CHICAGO UNDERGROUND
Along the route
the woman of your life keeps slipping away,
always on the other side of the track,
on the other platform,
in the other queue,
leaving the museum or restaurant as you go in:
all it takes is a moment’s hesitation.
INHERITANCE
You follow inherited, traditional
methods,
handed down from mother to daughter for centuries,
and mistrust modern
advances.
Not for you glass, ice,
metals
or vacuum packing.
To preserve
my heart, wounded by love,
you prefer salt.
MAP
That map you gave me
of your heart
is like one of those tourist maps:
all the beautiful sights
are close by
and the streets are short
and the routes are wide.
But then
distances don’t match up
there are unmarked streets
and the paths are a puzzle
and winding.
And now it’s very late, because I’ve gone deep
into the city, and there’s no way
back.
Your eyes gaze so far away
they’re no longer of any use to me.
I am irretrievably
lost.
ICONS
I
I write my prayer on the mirror
Your gaze answers me
Ask and you shall receive
Your eyes are God’s script
III
Atheists are worthy of mercy
They’ve never seen your body
Poemas de Vicente Valero
Vicente Valero
DÍAS DEL BOSQUE
(8 poemas)
I
Un día, en el bosque secreto de las palabras, cierto ciervo que vi, que se veía, me dijo, allá donde no había caminos ni senderos, sino solamente la hierba alta y el ramaje esparcido, que a los desesperados el río de la noche los alumbra, pero sólo si bañan sin miedo su dolor
One day in the secret forest of words, a certain deer that l saw, that could be seen, said to me there were no lanes nor paths, only the tall grass and scattered branches; that the river of the night shines upon those despairing ones only if they bathe their pain without fear.
II
Ojo del bosque: mira mis huellas. Son como las raíces requemadas que aún esperan
el aliento del mar.
O como las arrugas en el cuerpo de un viejo solitario que todavía ama las canciones
del mediodía.
O como las venas azuladas, siempre palpitantes, en las sienes rojizas y suaves
de los ciervos.
Ojo del bosque: apiádate de ellas, protege su camino.
Eye of the forest, look at my footprints. They are like dried out roots that
still await the breath of the sea.
Like the wrinkles on the body of a lonely old man who still loves the songs
of the mid day.
Or like the blue veins always throbbing on the soft reddish temples of the deer.
Eye of the forest, take pity on them, protect their path.
III
En este bosque de palabras nuestro el ciervo es siervo del río y de la luz, bebe un agua que alumbra. Lo que dice y lo que calla sólo lo sabe el caminante, aquel que sube también a lo más alto, aquel que logra ver al ciervo un día. Toda palabra suya es aparición, regalo del bosque.
En la noche -allí donde no hay caminos ni senderos-, el río desciende con su luz, con sus llamas húmedas, con sus voces claras. Vienen entonces a beber de su consuelo aquellos que se han perdido en el bosque: los hombres que se bañan. En su dolor también hay paz.
El ciervo es una transparencia y un reflejo en el agua, una sombra fugada del jardín prometido del salmista, un extraño suceso. Un ciervo siempre tiene sed, por eso conoce el camino de los desesperados, las huellas abrasadas de otros ríos. Por eso yo, en mi sed, también lo he visto.
In this our forest of words, the deer is a servant to the river and to the light, he drinks water that enlightens. What he says and does not say is only known to the walker, he who also reaches to the highest places, he who manages to see the deer one day. Every word of his is a vision, a gift from the forest.
At night, there where there are no roads nor paths, the river descends with its light, with its damp flames, with its clear voices they then come to drink from its comfort, those who have lost themselves in the forest, the men that bathe. In their pain there is also peace.
The deer is a transparency and a reflection in the water, a shadow escaped from the promised garden of the psalmist, a strange event. A deer is always thirsty, that is why he knows the paths of the despairing, the parched tracks of other rivers. That is why I, in my thirst, have also seen him.
IV
Una vez vi también los vasos vacíos sobre la mesa del atardecer, los fragmentos
azules de un pan desconocido.
Había sangre en el mantel tejido por los dioses, cuchillos quemados por el sol.
Me acerqué y comí. Por aquel tiempo sólo me alimentaba de heridas misteriosas,
de antiguos y violentos sacrificios.
Once, I also saw the empty glasses upon the table of the early evening, the
blue fragments of unfamiliar bread.
There was blood on the tablecloth woven by the Gods, knives burned by the sun.
I approached and ate. In those days I only nourished myself from mysterious
wounds and ancient violent sacrifices.
V
Sueña que ha sido una gota de lluvia, un padre para los ruiseñores.
Sueña que ha sido también una lámpara en la noche, un hogar para los desterrados,
una sombra para los caminantes del mediodía.
Ahora que va a ser derribado, sueña que ha sido un árbol el árbol.
He dreams that he has been a raindrop, a father to the nightingales.
He dreams that he has also been a lamp in the night, a home for the exiles,
a shade for the walkers of the mid-day.
Now that he will be chopped down, the tree dreams that he has been a tree.
VI
Tejieron una isla con el hilo pobre y transparente de los sueños y se fueron
a vivir al mar, lejos de aquí.
Son pájaros que ahora saben construir ermitas con las alas azules de las mariposas,
rezarle a un dios que esparce semillas de fuego sobre la arena de las playas,
dormir en los acantilados.
Nadie sabe cuándo ni de quién aprendieron a vivir así.
Cuando pregunto por ellos en el bosque, me dicen que nunca volverán, que ahora
son como mendigos en el país de los peces voladores.
They wove an island with the poor and transparent thread of dreams and left
to live upon the sea far from here.
They are birds that know how to build hermitages out of the blue wings of butterflies,
how to pray to a God who scatters seeds of fire over the sand of the beaches,
how to sleep on the cliffs.
No one knows when or from whom they learned to live this way.
When I ask after them in the forest, they tell me that they won’t ever return,
that now they are like beggars in the land of the flying fish.
VII
Mis pies aman la corteza y el líquen, la piedra solitaria, la tierra húmeda.
Mis pies aman la música de las hojas secas.
My feet love bark and lichen, the solitary rock, the damp earth.
My feet love the music of dry leaves.
VIII
El aviador no es como el pájaro.
El aviador qué sabe de este limo, por ejemplo.
De estas piedras azules bajo el árbol.
Qué sabe el aviador de estas raíces.
De estas ramas podridas, de estas hojas mojadas:
tan suaves y gustosas.
The aviator is not like the bird.
What does the aviator know of this moss for example.
Of these blues stones beneath the tree.
What does the aviator know of these roots,
of their rotten branches, these wet leaves,
so soft and pleasant.
Page: