Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne)

(Translated from the Spanish of Federico García Lorca)

In the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.

No one sleeps.

Moon creatures sniff and prowl about their cabins.

Iguanas will come and bite the dreamless men

and the brokenhearted one who flees will meet, on corners,

the incredible crocodile, calm beneath the tenderly protesting stars.

On Earth, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
No one sleeps.
A corpse in the farthest graveyard
complains for three years
because his knee is a desert;
and the boy they buried this morning cried so hard
they had to call the dogs to shut him up.

Life is not a dream. Beware! Beware! Beware!
We fall down stairs to eat moist earth
or climb to the edge of snow with the choir of dead dahlias.
But there's no forgetting, no dreaming:
raw flesh. Kisses bind mouths
into a tangle of fresh veins
and those pained by wounds will be pained ceaselessly
and those afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.

One day
horses will live in taverns

and the furious ants

will attack the yellow skies that hide in the eyes of cows.
Another day
we’ll see the resurrection of the desiccated butterflies
and, still walking through a land of grey sponges and silent ships,
we’ll see our ring sparkle and roses spill from our tongue.
Beware! Beware! Beware!
To those still marked by claw and rainstorm,
to that boy who cries because he hasn’t heard about the invention of the bridge
or that corpse who has nothing but a head and a shoe,
they must be taken to the wall where iguanas and snakes are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the child’s mummified hand is waiting
and the camel’s hair bristles with a violent blue chill.

In the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
No one sleeps.
But if somebody closes their eyes,
whip him, my boys, whip him!
Let there be a scene of opened eyes
and bitter ulcers burning.
On Earth, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
I’ve said it already.
No one sleeps.
But at night, if somebody has too much moss on their temples,
open the trapdoors so they can see, beneath the light of the moon,
the false cups, the poison and the skull of theatres.

Ciudad sin sueño (Nocturno del Brooklyn Bridge)

No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Las criaturas de la luna huelen y rondan sus cabañas.
Vendrán las iguanas vivas a morder a los hombres que no sueñan
y el que huye con el corazón roto encontrará por las esquinas
al increíble cocodrilo quieto bajo la tierna protesta de los astros.

No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Hay un muerto en el cementerio más lejano
que se queja tres años
porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla;
y el niño que enterraron esta mañana lloraba tanto
que hubo necesidad de llamar a los perros para que callase.

No es sueño la vida. ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
Nos caemos por las escaleras para comer la tierra húmeda
o subimos al filo de la nieve con el coro de las dalias muertas.
Pero no hay olvido, ni sueño:
carne viva. Los besos atan las bocas
en una maraña de venas recientes
y al que le duele su dolor le dolerá sin descanso
y al que teme la muerte la llevará sobre sus hombros.

Un día
los caballos vivirán en las tabernas
y las hormigas furiosas
atacarán los cielos amarillos que se refugian en los ojos de las vacas.
Otro día
veremos la resurrección de las mariposas disecadas
y aún andando por un paisaje de esponjas grises y barcos mudos
veremos brillar nuestro anillo y manar rosas de nuestra lengua.
¡Alerta! ¡Alerta! ¡Alerta!
A los que guardan todavía huellas de zarpa y aguacero,
a aquel muchacho que llora porque no sabe la invención del puente
o a aquel muerto que ya no tiene más que la cabeza y un zapato,
hay que llevarlos al muro donde iguanas y sierpes esperan,
donde espera la dentadura del oso,
donde espera la mano momificada del niño
y la piel del camello se eriza con un violento escalofrío azul.

No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien cierra los ojos,
¡azotadlo, hijos míos, azotadlo!
Haya un panorama de ojos abiertos
y amargas llagas encendidas.
No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
Ya lo he dicho.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien tiene por la noche exceso de musgo en las sienes,
abrid los escotillones para que vea bajo la luna
las copas falsas, el veneno y la calavera de los teatros.

Poem by Federico García Lorca
Translation by Benjamin Palmer

The Entertainers

We found a clown in the woods

and brought him home.

Now he lives in our chicken coop.

We give him corn to peck.

At first we encouraged him

to lay us some eggs,

but all he’d yield

were brittle little jokes

that crumbled

as they left his lips.

We let him out

from time to time

and he helps us in the garden,

watering the plants

from the plastic sunflower on his lapel,

which appears to never run dry.

At night we hear him trying to lift

the spirits of the poet

we keep hog-tied in the pigpen,

dancing on his hands,

smacking himself in the face with a spade,

mock-bawling like a babe…

But it’s a hopeless task –

the poet’s been dismal

ever since we fished him 
out of that filthy old river.

One day we’re hoping

to get a real pig

and some genuine,

egg-laying chickens.

Then we’ll take the clown

and the poet

back where we found them

and they’ll have to fend

for themselves.

This poem was first published by New Welsh Review 

Joseph Cornell’s Untitled (Great Horned Owl with Harvest Moon)

The owl who wears the moon like a halo

considers himself saintly, and indeed,

compared with many he’s an upstanding fellow,

if something of a voyeur. Not the seedy

kind, you understand – he merely savours

the healthy stare; likes to know what folk

get up to when we think we’re under cover,

blind to the bird on the branch, eyes like egg yolks.

‘When not glutting your relish for scandal,’ he exclaims,

‘you’re drunk on, and drowning in, a tidal wave of farce.’

‘True,’ I reply, ‘there’s plenty to make us ashamed,

but virtue’s a cinch when you’re stuck behind glass.’

He says nothing to this, though his halo glows brighter

and his toes grip the perch just a little bit tighter.

Art by Joseph Cornell

Poem by Benjamin Palmer

This poem was first published in the New Welsh Review

A Wolf

(Translated from the Spanish of Jorge Luis Borges)

Furtive and grey in the final gloaming
he treads, leaving his tracks along the bank

of this nameless river, which has sated

the thirst in his throat and whose waters

reflect no stars. Tonight,

the wolf is a solitary shadow,

seeking his mate and feeling the cold.

He is the last wolf in England.

Odin and Thor know him. From his towering

stone house, a king has decided

to be rid of all the wolves. The solid steel

of your death has already been forged.

Saxon wolf, you have bred in vain.

It is not enough to be cruel. You are the last.

A thousand years will pass and, in America,

an old man will dream about you. It is no

use to you, this distant dreaming.

Today those men, following the trail you left

as you crossed the forest, are closing in on you,

furtive and grey in the final gloaming.

Un lobo

Furtivo y gris en la penumbra última,
va dejando sus rastros en la margen
de este río sin nombre que ha saciado
la sed de su garganta y cuyas aguas
no repiten estrellas. Esta noche,
el lobo es una sombra que está sola
y que busca a la hembra y siente frío.
Es el último lobo de Inglaterra.
Odín y Thor lo saben. En su alta
casa de piedra un rey ha decidido
acabar con los lobos. Ya forjado
ha sido el fuerte hierro de tu muerte.
Lobo sajón, has engendrado en vano.
No basta ser cruel. Eres el último.
Mil años pasarán y un hombre viejo
te soñará en América. De nada
puede servirte ese futuro sueño.
Hoy te cercan los hombres que siguieron
por la selva los rastros que dejaste,
furtivo y gris en la penumbra última.

Poem by Jorge Luis Borges

Translation by Benjamin Palmer

The Eye of the Whale

(Translated from the Spanish of Homero Aridjis)

And God created the great whales.

(Genesis 1:21) 

And there in San Ignacio Lagoon,

God created the great whales
and every creature that moves
in the shadowed thighs of waters.

And He created dolphin and sea lion,
blue heron and green turtle,
white pelican, golden eagle,
and the double-crested cormorant.

And God said unto the whales:
‘Be fruitful and multiply
through acts of love
revealed on the surface,

by no more than a bubble,
or a tilted fin,

as the cow is caught below
on the long, prehensile penis;

for there’s no greater glory for grey
than when it’s silvered by light.
Your fathomless breath
is an exhalation.’

And God saw that it was good,
that the whales would love
and play with their calves
in the magical lagoon.

And God said:
‘Seven whales together
make a procession.
One hundred make a sunrise.’

And the whales arose
to catch a glimpse of God between

the dancing furrows of water.
And God was seen through the eye of a whale.

And the whales swelled
the seas of the earth.
And that was the evening and morning
of the fifth day.

El ojo de la ballena

Y Dios creó las grandes ballenas.

(Génesis, I, 2I)

A Betty

Y Dios creó las grandes ballenas
allá en Laguna San Ignacio,
y cada criatura que se mueve
en los muslos sombreados del agua.
    
Y creó al delfín y al lobo marino,
a la garza azul y a la tortuga verde,
al pelícano blanco, al águila real
y al cormorán de doble cresta.
    
Y Dios dijo a las ballenas:
‘Fructificad y multiplicaos
en actos de amor que sean
visibles desde la superficie
    
sólo por una burbuja,
por una aleta ladeada,
asida la hembra debajo
por el largo pene prensil;
    
que no hay mayor esplendor del gris
que cuando la luz lo platea.
Su respiración profunda
es una exhalación.’
    
Y Dios vio que era bueno
que las ballenas se amaran
y jugaran con sus crías
en la laguna mágica.
    
Y Dios dijo:
‘Siete ballenas juntas
hacen una procesión.
Cien hacen un amanecer.’
    
Y las ballenas salieron
a atisbar a Dios entre
las estrías danzantes de las aguas.
Y Dios fue visto por el ojo de una ballena.
    
Y las ballenas llenaron
los mares de la tierra.
Y fue la tarde y la mañana
del quinto día.

Poem by Homero Aridjis

Translation by Benjamin Palmer

Photographs by Bryant Austin

Projects for Poems 

1. An ‘A’ painted on a billiard ball. 

2. Recite poetry with a pair of glasses in your mouth. 

3. With a postage stamp stuck to your lips put your head in a sack and count to a hundred.

4. Perform Chinese shadow puppetry with a letter painted on each hand.

5. Put on a yellow bracelet and smoke a cigarette; put on a red bracelet and drink a glass of water.

6. Draw an open umbrella on a wall and title it Target; draw an arrow stuck in a target and title it Umbrella.

7. Write a poem using toothpicks to form the letters.

8. Tear a page out of a book of poems, and then burn it by focussing sunlight through a magnifying glass.

9. Start projecting a film in daylight, timing it so that as the film progresses, dusk descends and night comes on.

10. Leaning from a balcony, cut out the words of a sonnet, one by one.

11. Begin reading a long poem out loud, knowing that your colleague in the next room is going to cut off the power at any moment.

12. Fire a rocket, draw an eye on your belly-button and demolish a cage.

Projectes de poemes 

1. Una A pintada damunt una bola de billar. 

2. Recitar poemes amb unes ulleres dins la boca. 

3. Amb un segell enganxat als llavis ficar el cap en un sac i comptar fins a cent. 

4. Fer ombres xineses amb una lletra pintada a cada mà. 

5. Posar-se un braçal groc i fumar un cigarret; posar-se un braçal vermell i beure un got d'aigua. 

6. Dibuixar en una paret un paraigua obert i titular-lo Rodella; dibuixar una fletxa clavada en una rodella i titular-la Parauigua. 

7. Escriure un poema servint-se d'escuraqueixals per a formar les lletres. 

8. Arrencar un full d'un llibre de poemes i cremar-lo concentrant-li al damunt els raigs del sol amb una lupa. 

9. Començar la projecció d'una pel•lícula amb claror de dia de manera que durant la projecció transcorri el capvespre i es faci nit fosca. 

10. Abocats al balcó retallar les lletres d'un sonet una per una.

11. Iniciar en veu alta la lectura d'un poema llarg tot sabent que un company vostre, des d'una altra habitació, tallarà el corrent elèctric en qualsevol moment. 

12. Disparar un coet, dibuixar-se un ull al melic i destruir una gàbia. 

Poem and art by Joan Brossa

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Brossa

Translation by Benjamin Palmer

Portrait of Joan Brossa by Antoni Tàpies

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoni_Tàpies

Camecuaro

It’s our third day in Mexico and we haven’t stopped for longer than it takes to polish off a plate of tacos. I’m excited to be here, in my wife’s country, visiting her family. But I’m out of sorts, tired after dozens of hours travelling by plane and bus and car. I state my case for the putting up of feet – it feels like the earth is shifting beneath them. I need to catch up with myself. And yet here I am, being coaxed into another car ride.

It’s just a short trip from Zamora to Camecuaro, I’m told. Nothing like the eight-hour drive we made from Mexico City the day before, or the twelve-hour flight from Barcelona the day before that. And I am assured by both Judith and my mother-in-law, Irma, that this place could be just what I need.

I’m not convinced, I think what I need is a good lie down. But in my weakened state I’m defenceless against the combined might of the mother and daughter tag-team. I soon yield.

I find Camecuaro to be a small lake of clear waters, encircled by outlandishly shaped trees. Judith tells me these are ahuehuetes, and that their name means ‘old man of the water’ in the indigenous Náhuatl language. And truly, there’s something ancient, even primitive, about them. Their trunks are stout and covered in thick, wrinkled bark, reminiscent of elephant hide. The roots wind around the foot of each tree in a labyrinthine mass, like a nest of serpents fossilized mid-writhe.

Judith and Irma were right. This is a special place. We walk to the lake’s edge, where the roots snake down into the water. A Muscovy duck regards our approach.

Nestled on tangled roots

of old friend ahuehuete  –

crimson-wattled bird.

‘Let’s get in a boat!’ says Judith. Small, wooden and brightly painted – chili-red, turquoise, canary-yellow – they seem to have come out of a children’s picture book. They are barely bobbing in the lake’s docile waters. Each has a lady’s name written on the side: Lupita, Irene, Silvia, Sandra... We plump for Gloria.

Ensconced in our cosy vessel we begin rowing around the lake. It’s a weekday afternoon so we have the place to ourselves. The sun is an electric blanket, the breeze a gentle song, and sleepiness steals over us.

Oars left idle;

limbs stretching, eyelids kiss,

drifting into stillness.

After a while we feel hungry, so we row back to shore and make our way to a café overlooking the lake. We order a plate of fruta con chile: pieces of orange, cucumber, potato and jicama, covered in lime juice and ground chile piquin. This is all washed down with a bottle of Modelo Especial, chilled and served with fresh lemon juice and sea salt laced around the rim.

The ingredients are few and the dishes simply prepared, yet a cavalcade of flavours make merry on my tongue:  sweet, spicy, fiery, briny, bitter, zesty… It’s all too much!

An impromptu snack;

I am grateful for this taste –

a country’s essence.

After we return to the house I read more about ahuehuetes, which have now taken root in my brain. I learn that they have their origin in the Mesozoic period, when giant reptiles stalked or slithered across the land, and that some specimens grow to be thousands of years old. I discover that they were sacred to the indigenous peoples of Mexico – used by the Aztecs as a symbol of government – and that another name for them is the Moctezuma cypress.

And I read of the legend that conquistador, Hernán Cortés, wept beside an ahuehuete after the Spanish were routed by the Aztecs on La Noche Triste.

Beneath your branches

Cortés grieved defeat.

Our time with you was sweeter.

My roots have not had millennia to dig into this land and drink from its water, yet some ahuehuete strength and calm has passed to me today. For the first time since arriving in Mexico I feel the earth firm and friendly beneath my feet.

Primeval cypress!

Proud empires peak and plummet,

and still you stand.