Three Poems
translated by Mario Murgia
A fairy’s saliva will not manage
to pull out the purple die
of the colour black’s polygonal spell.
A draughtboard: city streets
hovering
on the lips of the poet who leans
towards the fierce splendour
—clamour and granite—
of the California coastline.
Another city. One that is black
and thirsty for
the fairy’s saliva.
The first city would be called Fata Morgana.
The second city would be called
Big Sur in the Mist.
La saliva de un hada no conseguirá
sacar el dado violeta
del hechizo poligonal del color negro.
Un damero: calles de la ciudad
suspendidas
en los labios del poeta inclinado
hacia el feroz esplendor
—fragor y granito—
de la costa californiana.
Otra ciudad: la del color negro
y sediento
de la saliva del hada.
La primera ciudad se llamaría Fata Morgana.
La segunda ciudad se llamaría
Big Sur en la Niebla.
He left his voice to the deaf denseness of the woods
and his silence to the roar of make-believe abysses.
He left his right hand to the deck of marked cards
and his left foot to the lost track of childhood.
He left his mind to the darkness of the basest distraction
and his instinct to his stone-faced algebraic capability.
He left his sense of history to a handful of fables
and his ability to live to time’s hunger.
He left his chest to the middle niche of a forsaken temple
and his gut to the kitchen in a raucous palace.
He left his teenage memories to his oldest friend
and his loyalty to the enmity of mere objects.
He left, dropping breadcrumbs in the shape of lavish mites,
and when he died he managed to accept his viaticum without smiling
—he was intense without sweetness, forgetful without naturalness.
He died at last. And when he was forgotten,
his portrait in the living room almost moved
but then stood still forever.
Dejó su voz a la sorda espesura de los bosques
y su silencio al estruendo de los abismos imaginarios.
Dejó su mano derecha a la baraja con las cartas marcadas
y su pie izquierdo al sendero extraviado de la infancia.
Dejó su mente a la negrura de la más baja distracción
y su instinto a la cara de piedra de su capacidad algebraica.
Dejó su sentido de la historia a un puñado de fábulas
y su capacidad para vivir el instante al hambre del tiempo.
Dejó su pecho a la hornacina central de un templo olvidado
y su vientre a la cocina de un ruidoso palacio.
Dejó sus recuerdos de adolescencia a su amigo más viejo
y su lealtad a la enemistad de los meros objetos.
Se fue dejando migas de pan en forma de óbolos generosos
y al morir fue capaz de recibir el viático sin sonreír
—fue intenso sin dulzura y olvidadizo sin naturalidad.
Murió al fin. Y en el momento de ser olvidado,
su retrato en la sala estuvo a punto de moverse
y luego se quedó inmóvil para siempre.
A jewel in a cloud, a most distinctive
sun-frame shape, an ever fleeting shadow
of whitest day and brightest gleam did cast,
a death, I say, both timely and diverse.
Not in shadow or in light, or dissolving
or condensed in grey, a real harmonious state
from crib to tomb could be sometime descried
or heard in glorious intercadent pace.
From discordia concors is the darkest sprig
all sown, and at the very end is cropped
in flames, in bones, in nerves, in hay, and beams
of cosmic sight and from the impending naught
or from the fertile world —it’s all the same
in that formless night of vastest depth. Ω
De la joya en la nube, diferente
forma de orla solar, se desprendía
una sombra fugaz del blanco día,
muerte, digo, puntual y divergente.
No en la sombra o la luz, o disolvente
o concentrada en grises, la armonía
de la cuna al sepulcro se veía
y se escuchaba en son intercadente.
De lo extraño concorde, oscura espiga
siémbrase y, al final, recolectada
en lumbre, huesos, nervios, paja y viga
en el ojo del cosmos, de la nada
o del mundo feraz—todo es lo mismo
en la noche disforme del abismo. Ω
Born in Mexico City in 1949, DAVID HUERTA is one of the leading poets and literary translators of his generation. He has published over fifteen volumes of poetry, among which can be mentioned El jardín de la luz (1972), Los objetos están más cerca de lo que aparentan (1990), and La calle blanca (2006). In 2006 he was awarded the prestigious Xavier Villaurrutia Prize for the new edition of Versión and for his lifelong contribution to Mexican and Latin American literature.
MARIO MURGIA is a full-time professor at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM), He is also a poet and a literary translator from English and Italian into Spanish. His most recent translations (which he has also prologued and annotated) include Spanish versions of Areopagitica, The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, and the Ludlow Masque by John Milton. His latest book, Versos escritos en agua. La influencia de Paradise Lost en Byron, Keats y Shelley (Lines Writ in Water. The Influence of Paradise Lost on Byron, Keats, and Shelley), was published earlier this year.