-2-

me descubrió en la arena
peque; os trozos rotos
de sustancias oceánicas,
maderas, algas, piedras,
plumas de aves marinas.
Busqué sin encontrar
ágatas amarillas.
El mar
llenaba los espacios
desmoronando torres,
invadiendo
las costas de mi patria,
avanzando
sucesivas catástrofes de espuma.
Sola en la arena
abría un rayo
una corola.
Vi cruzar los petreles plateados
y como cruces negras
los cormoranes
clavados en las rocas.
Liberté una abeja
que agonizaba en un velo de araña,
metí una piedrecita
en un bolsillo,
era suave, suavísima
como un pecho de pájaro,
mientras tanto en la costa,
toda la tarde,

Veruda

-3-

lucharon sol y niebla
A veces
la niebla de impregnaba
de luz
como un topacio,
otras veces caía
un rayo del sol húmedo
dejando caer gotas amarillas.

En la noche,
pensando en los deberes de mi oda
fugitiva,
me saqué los zapatos
junto al fuego
resbaló arena de ellos
y pronto fui quedándome
dormido.

THE INFINITE HORSES

Silvina Ocampo

I have seen them asleep on the grass,
repeat themselves lying on the fields;
I have seen them furious, kneeling,
like the haughty gods, all white,
dressed and with ribbons, savage
with manes like loose hair
of ancient sirens on the sands.
Snakes have dreamed about them,
reeds and mothers in bed
had them under the palms of their hands.
Trembling they heralded battles,
they announced fear and steadfastness,
like the beating of a drum they trotted,
like plaudits in a deep theater.
They saw wounds bleed upon the clay,
died among flowers, in the puddles,
visited by birds and vermin.
They approached bearing armed men,
approached with horrid tyrants,
dressed in blood and purple.
I shall remember implacable horses:
the tarpans of Russia, the Przhevalsky;
the hundred and twenty names of the horses
found in Rome, engraved in marble;
in the Olympus of Dionysus of Argus,

2.

The Infinite Horses

with a hard pentameter on the flank
of aphrodisiac bronze, the horse
whose love captivated the horses
that came to Altis; the one so beloved
by Semiramis, queen of Asia;
those that tasted with secret enjoyment -
long before the Chinese tasted them -
the green inspired leaves of tea;
that horse built by Virgil
whose virtuous shadow so benign
was capable of healing horses.
I shall remember in an orange sky
horses lit in shadow,
anxiously uniting lovers
in grottoes peaceful with the distance.

# THE INFINITE HORSES

## Silvina Ocampo

I have seen them asleep on the grass,
mirroring themselves in the fields;
they are so furious, on their knees,
like haughty gods, all white,
dressed in ribbons, savage
with manes flying like the loose hair
of legended sirens on the shores.
Vile vipers have dreamt of them,
reeds and bedded mothers
keep them closed in the palms.
Trembling they fortell battles,
like the beat of their trotting hoofs,
like thundering in a vast theatre.
They have seen wounds bleeding into the clay,
died among flowers, in the mire,
intimates of birds and vermin.
They draw near bearing armed men,
approach on their backs vile tyrants,
dressed in blood and purple.

I shall remember implacable horses:
the Russian TRAPPINGS
travelling of Russia; the Przewalski;
the names of the hundred and twenty
chiseled
Roman horses, engraved in marble;
at the Olympus of Dionysus of Argus,
with a hard penumbra aphrodisiac on
their bronze flanks, the horse

# LOS CABALIOS INFINITOS

Sylvina Ocampo

Los he visto dormidos sobre el pasto,
repetirse acostados en los campos;

furiosos los he visto, arrodillados,
como dioses altivos, todos blancos,
vestidos y con cintas, y salvajes
con crines como el pelo desatado
de sirenas antiguas en las playas.

Las víboras con ellos han soñado,
los juncos y las madres acostadas
los temían debajo de las palmas.

Trémulos anunciaban las batallas,
anunciaban el miedo y la constancia,
como el redoble del tambor trotaban,
como un splauso en un profundo teatro.

vieron sangrar heridas en el barro,
murieron entre flores, en los charcos,
visitados por aves y gusanos.

Se acercaban trayendo hombres amados,
se acercaban con hórridos tiranos,
revestidos de púrpura y de sangre.

Recordaré caballos implacables:

los tarpanes de Rusia; los Przewalski;

los ciento veinte nombres de caballos
que hay en Roma, grabados en un mármol;
en el Olimpo de Dionisio de Argos,
con un duro pentámetro en el flanco,

Ocampo

- III -

de bronce afrodisíaco, el caballo
cuyo amor cautivaba a los caballos
que acudían al Altis; el que amaba
tanto Semíramis, la reina de Asia;
los que probaron con fruición arcana-
mucho antes que los chinos las probaran-
del té las verdes hojas inspiradas;
construído por Virgilio ese caballo
cuya sombra virtuosa tan amable
conseguía sanar a los caballos.
Recordaré en un cielo anaranjado
caballos en la sombra iluminados,
uniendo ansiosamente a los amantes
en grutas apacibles de distancia.

****** 0 ******

OCampo

Piano Solo

Nicanor Parra.

Since man's life is nothing but an action at a distance,
A bit of foam shining inside a glass;

Since trees are nothing but trees stirring;

Nothing but chairs and tables in perpetual motion;

Since we ourselves are nothing but beings.

(As the god himself is merely a God)

Since we do not speak in order to be heard

But so that others may speak

And the echo is previous to the voices that produce it;

Since we do not even have the consolation of a chaos

In the garden that yawns and fills up with air,

A puzzle that we must solve before our death

So that we may conchalantly resuscitate later on
When we have taken woman to excess;

Since there is also a heaven in hell,

Allow me to do a few things:

I wish to make some noise with my feet

I want my soul to find its body.

Piano Solo

Since man's life is nothing but a bit of
A bit of foam shining inside a glass;
Since trees are nothing but moving trees;

(As the godhead itself is nothing but God)
Now that we do not speak solely to be heard
But so that others may speak

And the echo preceeds the voice that produces it;
Since we do not even have the consolation of a chaos
In the garden that yawns and fills with air,
A puzzle that we must solve before our death
So that we may nonchalantly resuscitate later on
when we have led woman to an excess;
Since there is also a heaven in hell,
Permit me to propose a few things:

I wish to make a noise with my feet
I want my soul to find its proper body.

SOLO DE PIANO

Nicanor Parra

Ya que la vida del hombre no es sino una acción a distancia,
Un poco de espuma que brilla en el interior de un vaso;

Yá que los árboles no son sino muebles que se sagitan:

No son sino sillas y mesas en movimiento perpetuo;

Ya que nosotros mismos no somos más que seres
(Como el dios mismo no es otra cosa que dios)

Ya que no hablamos para ser escuchados
Sino para que los demás hablen

Y el eco es anterior a las voces que lo producen;

Ya que ni siquiera tenemos el consuelo de un caos

En el jardín que bosteza y se llena de aire,

Un rompecabezas que es preciso resolver antes de morir

Para poder resucitar después tranquilamente
Cuando se ha usado en esceso de la mujer;

Ya q ue también existe un cielo en el infierno,

Dejad que yo también haga algunas cosas:

Yo quiero hacer un ruido con los pies

Yo quiero que mi alma encuentre su cuerpo.

GREEN EYES

Alí Chumacero

Solemnity of uncertain tiger, there in his eyes
temptation wanders and a shipwrecked man
goes to sleep on ancient jades awaiting
the unexpected day of astonishment
in ages trodden by the herds of horses.

Ire of the face, violence
is a river tumbled upon quietness by the valley,
awe where time abandons itself
to a current like the motionless, bathed
in rest on repeating
the same phrase from the first syllable.

Only the sounding beneath the water insists
with incessant might, and the hurricane camps
in lateness, exile
leaving a world of fatigue to distance.

If perchance we understood, epilogue
would be the thought or wordly music,
leisures interrupted by a chord
as the grape lodges vertigo in color
and penumbra propitiates the gaze.

LOS OJOS VERDES

Alí Chumacero

SOLEMNIDAD de tigre incierto, ahí en sus ojos
vaga la tentación y un náufrago
se duerme sobre jades pretéritos que aguardan
el día inesperado del asombro
en épocas holladas por las caballerías.

Ira del rostro, la violencia
es río que despeña en la quietud el valle,
azoro donde el tiempo se abandona
a una corriente análoga a lo inmóvil, bañada
en el reposo al repetir
la misma frase desde la sílaba primera.

Sólo el sonar bajo del agua insiste
con incesante brío, y el huracán acampa
en la demora, desterrado
que a la distancia deja un mundo de fatiga.

Si acaso comprendiéramos, epílogo
sería el pensamiento o música profana,
acorde que interrumpe ocios
como la uva aloja en vértigo el color
y la penumbra alienta a la mirada.

Vayamos con unción a la taberna adonde
aroma el humo que precede,
bajemos al prostíbulo a olvidar esperando:
porque al fin contemplamos la belleza.

Veruda

Green Eyes

2.

Let us proceed with unction to the tavern where
the smoke preceeding scents,

let us go down to the brothel to forget while waiting:
for at last we gaze on beauty.

Green Eyes

Solemnity of a bemused tiger, there in his eyes
temptation goes wandering and a shipwrecked man
sleeps on a hoary pillow of jade
the unwaited day of marvels
in ages which herds of horses have trampled.

A furious face, violence
is a river tumbled upon quietness in the valley,
awe where time abandons itself
to a motionless current, bathed
in rest repeating
the same phrase over and over from the first syllable.

Only a sound beneath the water insists
with loud clamour, and tardy precincts
of the hurricane, its exile
leaving a world fatigued and remote.

If perchance we understood, the epilogue
would be the thought of a world music,
languors broken by a chord
as the grape in a vertiginous shower
casts shadows confusing the eye.

With decorum let us proceed to the inn
where the smoke of our cigars has preceded us,
let us go to the brothel while waiting:
for at last beauty awaits us.

## LOS DESVELOS

Ernesto Mejía Sánchez

DIAS EN blanco, ¿qué sería de mí? Mientras cae la noche en el pecho soñado, cuántos pasos inciertos hacen blanco, enemiga. Caer como la noche sin engaño, en cualquier lecho que el azar nos propone, en busca de la caricia más recatada y blanca. Dime túr, alma mía, elogiada o favorecida, amiga del señor en la noche estrellada, cómo borrar el día cegado por su luz.

## II

DIAS EN blanco, ¿qué sería de mí? Libre como el corcel ante la meta infinita, jadeante sin caer, libre del muro que nos pusieron ciego, pero con el orgullo de quien pone todo lo que de sí puede poner el hombre -libre, si puede ser, no maldecido -, sabiendo que ahora estoy aquí y mañana... ni dónde, ni cuándo, ni mañana. Libre, libre como el puñal, pero contigo, sufriéndote, negándote, callándote el poder de la más

Sanchey

- II -

fiera conciencia y, sin embargo,
amado, temido sin descanso.

Cuando te deposito, mi cuerpo,
en la noche del bien, ahí obs-
curecido renazco y me calumnio.

### III

DIAS EN blanco ¿qué sería
de mí? Al borde de la luz
más repentina y ácida, arena
envanecida por el rayo, como
lax espuma al filo de las
ólas iba mi corazón entre
vaivenes, de tumbo en tumbo
hacia la estrella. Qué blancura
más sigilosa, qué maravilla
insomne, las rocas de cal
viva, las aguas que la furia
hace palidecer, la plata gritando
en el crisol que no se apaga.

Días sólo con nieve dibujados.

Días como la luna endurecidos
por la mirada de la cobra
y el llanto derritiendo la nieve
agoísta del pecho más amado.

¡Oh implacable! ¡Oh feroz blanco
entre el gris y el aire, entre el agua
y el gris, pero brillante, dañino,
humillante, con el brillo del homicida,
así los huesos que dejaré labrados
y pulidos de señal en la noche!

Sanchey

- III -

## IV

ESTOY arrodillado ante el muro
blanco. Escribo mi nombre
sobre el agua. Veo pasar
las horas como nubes. No hay
fondo. No hay abisma.

A mis pies disminuye la sombra.
¿Quien soy? ¿no me conoces?
¿Qué extraño monstruo me
está sorbiendo el poco de
tiniebla que necesito para no
desaparecer? ¿Qué delirio
los dioses huraños me regalan?

Estoy en mí fuera de sí,
contigo, niebla mía, mi
ceniza, mi descendencia, mi
cuerpo, mírame la última vez
antes que me destruya.

## V

ALGUIEN ma llama y no sé responder.

No estoy. No he regresado. No soy yo.
Subterfugios, desconocida persona,
cuerpo extraño que seguirá llamando
desde siempre hasta nunca sin jamás.

No estoy. No me conozco. ¿Quién es quién?
Llamo, imploro, interrogo, no contesta,
y seguiré llamando ¿a quién? y quién
a quién, sin fin y sin principio,
hasta que pueda llamar y responder

Somehey

Vigils

Ernesto Mejía Sánchez

Blank days, what would become
of me? While night falls
on the dreamed breast, how many
uncertain steps hit their mark,
(my) enemy. To fall like night
without deceit, on any bed
that chance proposes, in search
of the most modest and white caress.
Tell me, my soul, praised
or favored, friend of the Lord
in the starlit night, how
to erase the day blinded by its light.

II

Blank days, what would become
of me? Free like the steed
before the infinite goal, panting
without falling, free of the wall
placed before us blind, but
with the pride of one who gives
all that of himself may be
given by man free,
if possible, not cursed,
knowing that now I am
here and tomorrow...neither where,
nor when, nor tomorrow. Free,
free like the poniard, but with

Sanchey

-2-

you, suffering you, denying you,
Keeping from you the power of the
fiercest conscience and, nevertheless,
loved, feared without tiring.
When I place you, my body,
on the night of goodness, there
obscured I am reborn and slander myself.

### III

Blank days, what would become
of me? At the edge of light
most sudden and acid, sand
made vain by lightning, like
foam on the edge of the
waves went my heart between
swings, from bump to bump
toward the star. What whiteness
so stealthy, what wonder
sleepless, the racks of lime
alive, the waters that fury
causes to blanche, silver shouting
within the crucible that does not go out.
Days only with snow drawn.
Days like the moon hardened
by the gaze of the cobra
and weeping melting the selfish
snow of the most beloved breast.

Sanchey

-5-

VII

Pain does not mean
movement nor pleasure
immobility. So quietly
do and oscillate between the
hurt and joy that
I no longer know if I live
or swoon. Make me
spin or persist.

Vigils

Ernesto Mejía Sánchez

Vacant
Evening days, what shall become
of me? At nightfall
already conquered in our dreams, so,
facing a wall, uncertain we stumble
and go astray, To fall as night falls
without deceit, on any bed
which chance interposes, in search
of the most modest and white caress.
Tell me, my soul, elect
or favored, friend of Lord
in the star filled night, how
bar the day from that blinding light.

II
Vacant
Evening days, what shall become
of me. Free as the steed
before the timeless goal, panting
but secure, free of the wall
placed about us blind, but
with the pride of one who gives
all that of himself that may be
given by a free man,
uncursed if it may be-
knowing that I am here here
today, and tomorrow... now where,
nor when, failing tomorrow. Free,
as a dagger, but with

2

you, suffering, self pitied,
keeping from self the power of
a most savage conscience and, for
all that, relentless love.
When I place you, my body,
sacrificial to night's beneficence,
lowly I am reborn and humble me.

### III

Vacant days, what shall become
of me. Bordered by a light
acid and sudden, sand
made vain by a lightning, like
foam at the edges of waves
to my heart's thumps
swinging from bump to bummmp
toward the star. What whiteness
so stealthy, what sleepless
wonder, the live times
rocks, the furious waters
cause to blanch, silver shouting
from the torch which never dims.
Days solely blossomed in snow.
Days hardened by the moon
as if attached to a cobra's gaze#
and weeping melting the self
centered snow of meanest breast.

Dictated by Water Jorge Carrera Andrade

I

Air of solitude, transparent god
who in secret builds his dwelling
on the glass pillars of what flowers,
on the illuminated gallery
of what river, what fountain?
Your sanctuary is the grotto of colors
Tongue of randiances
you speak, hidden god
to the eye and the ear.
Only in the plant, water, you show dust
with your dress of dove wings
awakening freshness and movement.
Aromas travel on your blue hair.
Solitude transformed into element.

II

Crystal fortune, sky in coins,
water, with your remembrance of height,
over forests and meadows
you travel with your knapsacks of freshness
that is stored equally by groves
and grasses, clouds and cattle.
With your wet footsteps
and your skin of innocence
you indicate your presence

-2-

all made of equal tears
Water of celestial solitudes.
Your fish are your minor angels
who watch over eternal treasures
in your cold interior storerooms.

### III

Youth of solitude, oh armored lily
by blue swords defended,
great lord with your wand of fragrance,
to the tales of the wind you lend an ear.
To your feast of snow invited
the insect dazed with distance
liquor of sky pours,
master of drunkennesses
solitary at times.
Initial capital of whiteness.
from fragments of cloud and pure water
is woven your candid attire
where glimmer born from hight
celestial little eggs of dew.

### IV

You dream, chaste magnolia, of being a dove
or dwarf little cloud, hanging
over the leaves, shredded moon.
solitary innocence gathered
in a nimbus of aroma,

-3-

saintess of whiteness immaculate.
solitude frozen
until it turns to alabaster
of tombs, a lamp or star
Your pompous brow sheltered by light
of the candor of the world is the still
from which secret essence is extracted by the sky.
In a nest of leaves prepared by green,
you await resigned the gift of flight.

V

Flower of love, flower of angel, flower of bee,
timid little bodies, virginal
with feet of shadow-shrouded alive,
angels in swaddling clothes.
The face of the dahlia behind her grating,
spikenards burning in their whiteness, haughty,
the captive hyacinths
in their slender tower
made with aromas,
sunflowers, gold prospectors:
tongues of solitude, all the flowers
deny or affirm according to the speech of the wind
and in the fleeting alchemy of scents
prepare their fragrant ends.

Andradl

-4-

VI

Of walls attired by pure water
and by dome of birds crowned
world of wings, prison of transparency
where I live enclosed!

Greenness wishes to enter
through the window with footsteps of patience,
and you announce your presence
with your basket of fruits, remoteness,
But, I suffer each day,
Captain of hues, old friend
of the earth, my limpid punishment.

I am at the same time prisoner and jailer
of this lime cell that goes about with me,
and of which, oh death, you have the key ring.

Scribble! Scribble! Transcription

Dictated by the water

Jorge Carrena Andrade

1

###### Solitude, transparent god
who in secret keep your abode

among ###### pillars of glass where you flower?

in the radiant ###### galleries
of what river, what fountain?

Your sanctuary is a grotto of colors

Brilliant tongue

which speaks in private
to the eye and the ear.

Alone in what plant, water, dust, you go
clothed in wings of a dove

alert
with freshness and odours.

In your blue hair ride sweet odours.

Solitude turned elemental.

2

A Crystaline trichome, coined clouds,
remembering a watch from a height,
over the forests and meadows
you travel with your knapsacks of freshness
that are packed at once by groves
and grasses, clouds and cattle.
With your wet feet
innocently treading barefoot
you point your presence
made wholly first and last of tears.

2

Water of celestial solitudes.
Your fish are your minor angels
who watch over everlasting treasures
in your frozen keeps.

### III

Solitary young man, oh armored lily,
defended by blue swords,
great lord with your fragrant wand,
lend an ear to these wind's tales.
Bidden to your snow feast
the sipping insect dazed with distance
sky bread reveals himself
drunkens and at times alone.

To Start with aank## anesthesia:
from whif's of cloud and clear water
we weave our candid attire
where shine, borne from above
heavenly beads of dew.

### IV

You dream, chaste flower, of being a dove
or a small cloud, hanging
above the leaves, to a shredded moon.
solitary innocense gathered into
a basket of smells,
sainthood, of imminent whiteness.
A soltude frozen
till it turn to the balabaster

3

of tombs, a lamp or a star.
Your great brow suffused in light
is the world's candor is the still
from which a secret essence comes to us from the sky.
In a nest of green leaves
resigned you await the gift of flight.

V

Flower of love, angel flower, bee's flower,
small bodies, virginal
with shadowy feet, dead alive,
angels in swaddling clothes.
The face of a dahlia behind her screen,
spikenard burning in her whiteness, haughty,
the captive hyacynths
in their slender tower
of sweet odors,
sunflowers, prospectors for gold:
solitude tasters, all the flowers
denying or affirming the speech of the winds
and in the fleeting alchemy of senses
who prepare their fragrant ends.

VI

Of walls attired in purest water
crowned by a dome of birds
whom their wings conain, lucent prison
where I live enclosed!

DICTADO POR EL AGUA

Jorge Carrera Andrade

I

Aire de soledad, dios transparente
que en secreto edificas tu morada
?en pilares de vidrio de qué flores?
? sobre la galería iluminada de qué río, qué fuente?

Tu santuario es la gruta de col·res
Lengua de resplandores
hablas, dios escondido
al ojo y al oído.

Sólo en la planta, el agua, el polvo asomas
con tu vestido de alas de palomas
despertando el frescor y el movimiento.

En tu cabello azul van las aromas.
Soledad convertida en elemento.

II

Fortuna de cristal, cielo en monedas,
agua, con tu memoria de la altura,
por los bosques y prados
viajas con tus alforjas de frescura
que guardan por igual las arboledas
y las hierbas, las nubes y ganados.

Con tus pasos mojados
y tu piel de inocencia
señalas tu presencia
hecha toda de lágrimas iguales

-2-

Agua de soledades celestiales.

Tus peces son tus ángeles menores
que custodian tesoros eternales
en tus frías bodegas interiores.

### III

Doncel de soledad, oh lirio armado
por azules espadas defendido,
gran señor con tu vara de fragancia,
a los cuentos del aire das oído.

A tu fiesta de nieve convidado
el insecto aturdido de distancia
licor de cielo escancia,
maestro de embriagueces
solitarias a veces.

Mayúscula inicial de la blancura:

De retazos de nube y agua pura
está urdido tu cándido atavío
donde espienden, nacidos de la altura
huevecillos celestes del rocío.

### IV

Sueñas, magnolia casta, en ser paloma
o nubecilla enana, suspendida
sobre las hojas, luna fragmentada.

Solitaria inocencia recogida
en un nimbo de aroma,

Santa de la blancura inmaculada.

Soledad congelada

hasta ser alabastro

Ondrad

-3

tumbal, lámpara o astro
Tu oronda frente que la luz ampara
es del candor del mundo la alquitará
donde esencia secreta extrae el cielo.
En nido de hojas que el verder prepará,
esperas resignada el don del vuelo.

## V

Flor de amor, flor de ángel, flor de abeja,
cuerpecillos medrosos, virginales
con pies de sombra, amortajados vivos,
ángeles en pañales.
El rostro de la dalia tras su reja,
los nardos que arden en su albura, altivos,
los jacintos cautivos
en su torre delgada
de aromas fabricada,
girasoles, del oro buscadores:
lenguas de soledad, todas las flores
niegan o asienten según habla el viento
y en la alquimia fugaz de los olores
preparan su fragante acabamiento.

## VI

¡De murallas que viste el agua pura
y de cúpula de aves coronado
mundo de alas, prisión de transparencia
donde vivo encerrado!
Quiere entrar la verdura
por la ventana a pasos de paciencia,
y aúncias tu presencia
con tu cesta de frutas, lejanía.

CONVERSACION A MI PADRE

Eugenio Florit

CLARO que ya lo sabes
que ya lo sabes todo
todo lo sabes claro.
Por eso también sabes
que tengo ganas de contártelo,
porque mientras lo cuento lo recuerdo
y así juntos los dos lo recordamos:
y yo escribiendo
y tú en silencio a mi lado.

...Pues desde que te fuiste
han sucedido tantas cosas...
La cente muere y nace,
se enferma, convalece,
se pone bien, ya come
su poquito de sopa y su pescado,
se levanta, y al sol
como los gatos junto a la ventana.
Otros no se levantan
y se qedan tendidos
y se mueren.

Se mueren como tú,
como los otros y las otras
y todos los que te siguieron
y los que seguirán siguiéndote.
Aunque también la cente vive.

Florit

-2-

Sigue viviendo, a pesar de los llantos y los lutos.
Y un día le dan ganas
de salir de paseo, de ir al cine,
de tocar al piano lo que a ti te gustaba.
Y no es que así te entierre más;
esque, viviendo más, más te recuerda.
Porque vive contigo, con lo que tú querías,
con tus libros. (Aun tengo
en su cubierta gris, "Peñas arriba",
que te dejaste abierta
aquel día...)

Y seguimos viviendo todos
y ya vez recordándote todos los días.
Y decimos: este postre le gustaba,
y caminaba así, porque siempre iba aprisa,
y una vez se afeitó el bigote
y se lo volvió a dejar en seguida.

Tantas veces he pensado
en lo que te gustaría
eso de andar por estos barrios, de ir al Museo
y allí contarme cómo son Las Meninas
y luego mirar juntos La Duquesa de Alba,
aquella doña Cayetana de Silva
que tu hermano Pape una vez trajo
desde la otra orilla.

Sí que fuera bonito
recorrer tantas salas - menos las cositas
francesas del dieciocho tan tontas,
y las inglesas con sus carnes de mantequilla.

1949

-3-

Y luego salir al parque
y sentarnos a conversar sin prisas
y mirar cómo el aire del ocaso
ya moviendo las aguas del estanque encendidas.

Ya sabes cómo lleró la guerra
y cómo en ella la gente se moría;
y cómo terminó la guerra
y cómo sigue la gente con su manía
de destruirse, de matarse
como si no fuera poca toda la carne dividida.
Y que no escarmentamos.

Y es tan triste pensar que toda esta agonía
pudiera desaparecer sencillamente
con que aprendiera el hombre a entregar su sonrisa,
y a decir una palabra buena, de verdad,
y a querer, de verdad, ennoblecer la vida.
Pero no quiere, ya lo ves,

Lo que quiere es que siga
esta danza tremenda de la muerte
que no es la muerte tuya y mía
-es decir, la de andar por casa,
la que se recibe en zapatillas
o cuando más en el campo abierto
o en el agua limpia,
sino la otra, la muerte a montones
en los campos cerrados y las aguas pestíferas,
la mala muerte que baja del aire
y que sale de donde esta escondida

Lorit

-4-

para aplastar los cuernos como nueces
y segar las cabezas como espiras.

Luego hay otras cosas:
porque hay eso de la bomba atómica,
que a mí, entre nosotros, no me da frío ni calor
-hasta el día en que me deje frío para siempre.
Y eso sería lo de menos.
Lo de más será que nos quedemos ciegos o deformes
y no podamos ver un día la luz del sol
ni tomar en los dedos una rosa
porque los ojos estén calidos en un pozo de nieblas
y los dedos se nos hayan quedado secos como la estopa.
Digo que, si lo vamos a ver, casi no me importa.
Pero la inquisición de tener que sentarnos
en esas sillas de metal o de qué sé yo, qué jerigonza,
con espejos y cristales donde no deben estar
que es en las paredes y en las ventanas,
sino espejos donde se ponen los platos y las copas,
y cristales en las mesas en lugar de madera,
para tener que estarles mirando las faldas a las señoras,
esa sí que es inquisición peor que la de la bomba.
Cuando tú te fuiste apenas empezaba todo eso,
pero lo que es ahora...
Te dico que me dan ganas de meterme en una casa vieja
con cortinas y alfombras
(pero de las de verdad, no estas de celanese y seda
sintética)
y butacas anchas y cómodas
(para no tener que estar sentado como de compromiso)

Florit

-5-

con tubos de metal que nos pinchen las corvas)
y lámparas como las que gracias a Dios tengo yo en
casa

(y no de esas otras
que están lo mismo en las funerarias
que en los salones de los hoteles, lámparas sordas
que alumbran, sí, pero que no dan sombra.)

Y lo peor es que eso le gusta a la gente,
y hay quien destroza

toda una chimenea de mármol que tiene en la sala de
su casa

para poner en su lugar un artefacto idiota
con termostato y regulador de aire y qué sé yo,
pero en el que, como no hay llamas no hay color
y como no hay color no hay luz
y como no hay luz tampoco hay sombra,
sombra para entornar los ojos
y dejar de leer al doblar la hoja,
y sombra de abrir los ojos
y acostumbrar la vista temblorosa
y ponerla otra vez en la palabra
que nos espera al terminar la estrofa.

(Con todo esto, padre mío,
dirás que me estoy poniendo viejo;
y tendrás razón.

Ya a mis años prefiero
llegar a casa y colgar el abrigo y el sombrero,
y beber una taza de te con limón
o el chocolate junto a la ventana.
Como gracias a Dios no tengo frío,

Florit

-6-

trancuilamente dejo
que haga el gato lo que le dé la gana.
Y si eso del frío y del gato
nada tiene que ver,
la cuestión es pasar el rato
tú y yo y el que me quiera leer.)

Y vamos a otra cosa,
Tú bien estás, creo yo, allá arriba.
?Fuiste por fin a tu tierra de Castilla
como pensé yo que harías?
De seguro que te habrá gustado
encontrarte con tantas gentes amigas
y ponerte con ellas a conversar
en una era de Cubas al mediodía.
(Habrá quien se figure que esto es una errata
porque no sabe del pueblecito que tú querías;
a donde, como yo pueda, habrán de ir
a volver a su suelo tus cenizas.)
Pero vamos a hablar de otras cosas,
?verdad? Cómo te divertiría
ver que tu hijo el poeta se ha metido a pintor
-claro que para no hacer más que tonterías.

Es que, como bien tú lo sabes
-anora me acuerdo de aquellas montañas verdecitas
y de aquellos cielos azules que pintabas al temple
para los Nacimientos que en Port-Bou nos hacías-
digo que, como sabes,
es una cosa muy entretenida

Floril

-7-

eso de embadurnar un lienzo con colores
sin saber si te va a salir una flor o un gorila.
A mí hasta ahora más me salen los monstruos,
pero me queda la esperanza de que algún día...

Y con esa esperanza te dejo por ahora.
Es tarde. No te dejo, ya lo sabes;
que con dejar de hablarte no te dejo,
que me voy, pero sigo escuchándote,
que estoy contigo aunque te deje...
Quiero decir... que no me voy, vaya;
pero que voy a terminar esta carta
aunque me quede a tu lado siempre.
Porque dejo de hablarte, pero te sigo hablando.
En fin, que me he hecho un lío, pero tú me
comprendes.

Florit 2

going for a walk, going to a movie,
playing on the piano what you liked to hear.

And it is not that in this way I bury you deeper;
it is that, living more, they remember you more.

Because they live with you, with what you enjoyed,
with your books. (I still have
between its gray covers, "Peñas arriba",
which you left open
that day....)

And we all continue living
and, you see, remembering you every day.

And we say: _he_ liked this dessert,
and _he_ used to walk this way, because he was always in a hurry,
and once he shaved his moustache
and let it grow back inmediately.

I have thought so many times
how much you would have liked
walking through these neighborhoods, going to the Museum
and there tell me how "Las Meninas" are
and then the two of us gazing upon the Duchess of Alba,
that doña Cayetana de Silva
that your brother Pepe once brought
from the other side.

It would be fine
to wander through so many rooms -except the little
French things of the eighteen century, so silly,
and the English women with their buttery flesh.

And then to go out into the park
and sit down to talk unhurriedly
and observe how the wind of sunset

Florit 3

ripples the lighted waters of the pool.

You know how the war happened
and how people died in it;
and the war ended
and how people continue with their mania
of destruction, killing
as if all the divided flesh were not enough.
And we do not learn.
And it is so sad to think that all this agony
could disappear simply
if man learned to surrender his smile,
and to say one good word, honestly,
and to wish, honestly, to make life noble.
But he does not want to, you know.
What he wants is the continuation
of this awful dance of death
which it is not your death or mine
—that is, death, about the house,
the one that is met in slippers
or at most in the open country
or in clean water,
but that other one, death in piles
in closed fields and redolent waters,
the bad death which drops from the air
and that comes out from its hiding place
to crush bodies like nuts
and to reap heads like wheat.

There are other things:

Florit 4

there is that thing the atom bomb,
which to me, between ourselves, leaves me cold
-till the day that it leave me forever cold.
And that would be the least of my worries.
What worries me is that we may be left blind or maimed
unable to see some day the sunlight
or to pick up with our fingers a rose
because our eyes are fallen into a pit of darkness
and our fingers have dried up like burlap.
I say that, if we are to see it, I almost don't care.
But the inquisition of having to sit down
on those metal chairs or made out of I don't know what,
with mirrors and glass where they should not be
which is upon the walls and in the windows,
but mirrors where plates and cups are set,
and glass instead of wood on tables,
so that you have to keep looking at the skirts of the ladies,
that is certainly an inquisition worst than the bomb.
When you left all of this had hardly begun,
but now......

I tell you that I feel like getting into an old house
with curtains and rugs
(but real ones, not these made of celanese and synthetic silk)
and wide and comfortable chairs
(so as not to have to be seated as if out of courtesy
with metal tubes stuck into our hams)
and lamps like those which thank God I have at home
(and not like those other ones
which you find equally in funeral parlors
or in the lobbies of hotels, dim lamps

Plant

Florit 5

which give light, yes, but no shadow.)

And the worst of it is that people do not like this
and there are those who tear up

an entire marble fireplace that they have in their living room
in order to replace it with an idiotic artifact

with thermostat and air control and I don't know what else,
but in which, since there is no flame, there is no color

and since there is no color there is no light

and since there is no light there is no shadow,

shadow for the half-closing of the eyes

and to stop reading on turning the page,

and shadow to open the eyes

and to condition the unsteady eye

and direct it again at the word

which awaits us at the end of the strophe.

(With all this, father,

you will say that I am growing old;

and you will be right.

At my years I prefer

to get home and hang my overcoat and hat,

and to take a cup of tea with lemon
or chocolate near the window.

And since thank God I am not cold,

I tranquilly allow

the cat to do whatever he wants.

And if this question about the cat and the cold
is not the point,

the object is to pass the time

you and I and whoever wants to read me.)

Florit

6

And let us go on to something else,
You are all right, I believe, up there.
Did you finally go to your Castilian country
as I thought you would?
You must have liked
to see so many friends
and to stop to talk to them
in some threshing floor of Cubas at noon.

(There will be those who think that this is a typographical error
because they do not know about the little town that you loved;
where, as soon as I can, will go
back to their native soil your ashes.)

But let us talk of other things, shall we? You would be amused
to see that your son the poet has become a painter
-of course only to paint a lot of nonsense.

Because, as you well know

-I now well remember those little green mountains
and those blue skies that you painted in tempera
for the Nativity scenes which you use to make for us at Port-Bou-
I say, that, as you know,
it is very amusing
to daub a canvas with paint
without knowing if it is going to be a flower or a gorilla.
For me it is mostly monsters,
but I hope that some day......

And with this I hope I leave you for the time being.
It is late. I do not leave you, you know that;
I do not leave you because I stop talking to you,

Florit 7

I go, but I am still listening to you,
I am with you even if I leave you......
I mean....that I am not leaving, there!
But I am going to finish this letter
though I remain beside you forever
Because I stop talking to you, but I continue to do so.
Well, I am all mixed-up, but you understand me.

Florit

2

They keep living, despiteweeping and mourning.

And one day they want to go

for a walk, to go to the movies,

to play the piano much as you do.

Not that in this way I bury you deeper;

but that, more living they remember you more.

Because they live with you, with what you enjoyed
in your books. (Though I still

have in its grey covers, "Penas arriba",

which you left open

that day...)

And we all continue living

and you see, remembering you daily. And we say

And we say: he liked this desert,
and used to walk here, always in a hurry,
and once shaved off his moustache
and at once let it grow again.

More than once I thought

how much you enjoyed

walking in these parts, to go to the museum

and there tell me about Las Menias

and then gazing side by side at La Ducessa de Alba,

that dona Cantanea de Silva

from the other side.

Yes it would be fine

to wander again through so many rooms - except

3

the little French things of the 18th century so silly,
and the English women with their buttery flesh.
And then go into the park
and sit down to talk at our ease
observing how at sunrise the air
moves rippling the lighted waters of the pool.

You already know how the war came about
and how in it people died;
and how the war ended
and how the people's mania followed it
tent on destruction, killing
as if all of the maceration of flesh were not enough.
And we learn nothing.
And it is sad to think that all this agony
could simply disappear
if man could learn to wipe the grin from his face,
and to say one good word, truly,
and wish, in fact, to make life noble.
But he does not want it, as you see.
What he wants is to follow
this overwhelming danse of death
which is not your death nor mine
- that is to say, death as it may happen
about the horse, one that is met in slippers
or at most in the open country
or in clear water,
without the other, heaped up mountaneous
in stinking fields and foul waters,

Florid

4

death which drops from the air
and comes from hiding
to crush bodies as if they were nuts
reap them as if they were heads of wheat.

Then there are other things:

~~for~~ there the case of the atomic bomb,
to me, among ourselves, leaves me neither hot nor cold,
- to the day it leaves me into eternity cold.

And that would be the last of my worries.

That which worries me most is to be blinded or maimed
unable to see a day full of sunlight
nor hold a rose in my fingers

for the eyes have fallen into a pit of darkness
the fingers remained dried up like burlap.

I say, that if we are to see, it means almost nothing to me.

But the inquisition of having to be seated
in those metal chairs or made of I dont know what,
with glass mirrors where you may not sit
which are on the walls and the window,
but mirrors where plates and cups are set
and glassware on the tables instead of wood,
so that you have to keep looking at the skirts of the ladies,
that yes, is more an inquisition than the bomb.

When you left, all of this had hardly begun,
but now....

I tell you I yearn to go into an old curtained house
with rugs on the floors

(but real ones, not those made of wood-fiber
and synthetic silk)

5

and wide comfortable chairs
(so as not to be seated as if out of courtesy
on hollow metal stuck into our hams)
and lamps like those which thank which God
I have at home
(and like those others
found in funeral parlors
or hot lobbies, lamps, yes, which give light
but cast no shadow.)
And the worst is this that it pleases people to have it
this way, and there are those
who tear up a whole marble fireplace in their homes
to replace it with an idiotic artifact
embodying a thermostat and air control and
I don't know what else,
but in which, since there is no visible flame,
gives off heat without light
and since there is no light there are no shadows
shadows for the half closing of the eyes
to quit reading and turning the page,
to quit reading with half vision
shadows to redirect the wavering eyes
and refocus them on the word
which awaits us at the end of the strophe.
(With all this, father,
you will say that I am growing old;
and you'll be right.
At my years I prefer

Lorit

6

to go home and hang up my overcoat and hat,
and to take a cup of tea with lemon in it
or chocolate beside the window.
Since thank God I am not cold,
I tranquilly allow the cat
to do whatever he pleases.

And if the question of a cat hot or cold
is beside the point,
the question for us, you and me, and whoever else
is to pass the time reading.

Let us turn to other things,
in my opinion, you are well off up there.
Did you finally go to your own Castillian land
as I thought you would?

You must have enjoyed meeting
so many friends
and stopped to talk with them
on some Cuban threshing floor at midday.

(There will be those who will think this an error
for they do not know of the little town that you loved;
where, as soon as I can, will go his ashes.)

But to change the subject,
you would be amused
to see how your son
the poet has turned painter
-of course only to put down mere nonsense.

Because, as you well know

7

-now I recall those little green mountains
and those blue skies that you painted in tempera
for the Nativity scenes that you used to paint for the temple
of the Nativity you made for us at Port-Bou

I say, as you know,
it is something very amusing
to daub a canvas with paint
without knowing whether it is going to be flowers or a gorilla.
With me it is mostly monsters
but I hope some day....

And with this I hope to leave you for the time being.
It is late. You know I never leave you;
that to stop talking is not to quit you,
I take myself off, but still listening,
I am with you when I leave you...
I mean... that I do not go, leaving;
but let me finish this letter
though I am seated beside you forever.
For when I stop talking to you, I continue to talk.
Well, I am making a botch of it, but you
understand.

Elvill