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Poetry

Runaway Country

By Guillermo Saavedra
Translated from Spanish by Katie King

¡Argentina,
Little green branch afire!
-Ricardo E. Molinari

LIGHT

Fire?
No: light.

Flame?
No: light.

Light?
Yes: this light.

Light like this?
No: like smoke
from humid candles
feeble putrid light
like fog that licks the contours
and erases them.

Light like this?
No: a gnawing
impedes distinction between
the day that is extinguished
and the night that never quite closes
over the world.

Black light?
Not even that: barely a shudder
braying of a star
exiled
from the furthest galaxy
of this oblivion.

Light how?
Milky pus of moon
burst
in alibour water
where only that which is broken
reflects an image.

Light for what?
Frightful light
that doesn’t illuminate blind
battered firefly
leaving all that
steeped in shade.

Light from what?
From mud and rags
I mean: from the flesh
of a camel
in the circus
in the provinces.

What light?
Like one that
after traversing
a corpse
filters through the air
the diseased failure to illuminate.

Yes? Light?
Yes: diffuse
deaf glare of the sun
ragged
evil
light.

FLESH

Flesh
there is
flesh.

From what?
Flesh of itself
flesh of flesh.

But, from what?
From the provinces
from the countryside
loose flesh.

Raw or what?
Green
very green
licked
by mold and
crushed
by blows.

From what?
From flesh of
its flesh
that
now
is no longer.

But, from what?
From animals
lost
sullied
maybe
cows.

Cows from what?
From those that
once
belonged to others
and today
barely.

What?
Flayed
cattle
green flesh
battered
rank
with greedy
flies.

In what?
Splinters
or worms
in that flesh
alive
yes but
impossible.

Cattle what?
Between stones
dry plants rusted
cans
flesh from cows
loose
distracted.

Standing?
From lost
war
from frayed rags
from oblivion
that is embodied
in that old
flesh
which
like the
dog in the manger
neither eats
nor
in the end
is eaten.

WATER

Is there water there?
In the country
they dream of seeing the sea
its terraced jewel
unique
its nightdress open
its slip.

Is there water?
But resign yourself
to thinking of it
distant
deaf
inconceivable
alien.

Water water? Is there? Water?
In the country’s sweep of scrub brush
there is too much
but it is quiet
dead
sluggish
sweat of the earth that tires
never reaching the shore.

I want to go to the water. Can I go to the water?
It is poisoned broth
it is dead weight that doesn’t wash
it is mud it is scum
it is latrine juice
thick litany
that doesn’t drain
it is false water.

Water I want water. Will they give me water?
It filters between the stones
it tarnishes the grimy lime
of the facades
it doesn’t flow it doesn’t circulate
it infects the wounds
it strips the wood
it recoils
making itself
a ditch.

Is there water yet? Is it cold? Water?
It soaks the deposits
of cloth
of paper
of food
it installs itself in the baseboards
it fuses onto moods
a green sediment
a hemorrhage
dry
lost in the pocket
of a retiree’s trousers.

Will there be? Will it come? Will we have water?
At the fleshy base
of a nurse’s thumb
it is an old blister
that on bursting
drips silently
wetting and rewetting
a single dead spot
of the poorest hospital
of the shanty town.

Water? Little water? Water?
It rusts, loosens, smokes:
with a dwarfish fury
it encysts the tiles
it seeps into the drawers
it puddles it forms
a crust
rotting the bones
of the tenor
of the little country woman
from the folk poem
rotting the breasts.

Water? Do we have it yet? Did the water come back?
Disease of the air,
error of some blind cloud,
stupor of the Paraná, fetid froth
of the Uruguay, stinking little puddle
of the diseased Pilcomayo:
across the whole astonishing valley
not even a drop to calm the thirst
nor baptize the ass of a nun
barely
water that you are not to drink
and that doesn’t flow away:
it’s sluggish
it’s stubborn
thick
dirty
sick
stagnant water.

DITCH

Here no more.

Here nothing
is lost anymore
nothing
because
nothing
remains.

It beats itself.

The mere sound
beats itself.
The mute
cry
of silence
disrupts
the air,
which never
resigns itself
to the tunnel
of absences.

Here no more.
Here there are
no longer any
fathers,
or mothers,
or children.
Only the ditch
thick,
dark,
blind
where children don’t
float
the children
of the parents,
the parents
of those
other
children.

Here is everything.

Here everything
is
bastard,
still,
deaf,
but not
dead.
Here that nothingness.

Here that
insipid
nothingness
where
those
parents
and those
children
are parted
it exudes
a death rattle,
spasm
that on
earth
allows neither
rest
nor
disgrace.

Come in and see.

Listen to
what
crawls,
that which
has yet
to achieve the
muddled
condition
of loneliness,
but which
persists
in being
here
the mark
of
scum,
the dry,
sluttish
saliva
of oblivion.

Like that which.

Like that
alien
wound
that will never
stop
being
a stubborn
condemnation.

First published as “Pais en Fuga” in La Voz Inutil (Buenos Aires: Bajo la Luna, 2003). Copyright 2003 by Guillermo Saavedra. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2007 by Katie King. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

¡Argentina,
Little green branch afire!
-Ricardo E. Molinari

LIGHT

Fire?
No: light.

Flame?
No: light.

Light?
Yes: this light.

Light like this?
No: like smoke
from humid candles
feeble putrid light
like fog that licks the contours
and erases them.

Light like this?
No: a gnawing
impedes distinction between
the day that is extinguished
and the night that never quite closes
over the world.

Black light?
Not even that: barely a shudder
braying of a star
exiled
from the furthest galaxy
of this oblivion.

Light how?
Milky pus of moon
burst
in alibour water
where only that which is broken
reflects an image.

Light for what?
Frightful light
that doesn’t illuminate blind
battered firefly
leaving all that
steeped in shade.

Light from what?
From mud and rags
I mean: from the flesh
of a camel
in the circus
in the provinces.

What light?
Like one that
after traversing
a corpse
filters through the air
the diseased failure to illuminate.

Yes? Light?
Yes: diffuse
deaf glare of the sun
ragged
evil
light.

FLESH

Flesh
there is
flesh.

From what?
Flesh of itself
flesh of flesh.

But, from what?
From the provinces
from the countryside
loose flesh.

Raw or what?
Green
very green
licked
by mold and
crushed
by blows.

From what?
From flesh of
its flesh
that
now
is no longer.

But, from what?
From animals
lost
sullied
maybe
cows.

Cows from what?
From those that
once
belonged to others
and today
barely.

What?
Flayed
cattle
green flesh
battered
rank
with greedy
flies.

In what?
Splinters
or worms
in that flesh
alive
yes but
impossible.

Cattle what?
Between stones
dry plants rusted
cans
flesh from cows
loose
distracted.

Standing?
From lost
war
from frayed rags
from oblivion
that is embodied
in that old
flesh
which
like the
dog in the manger
neither eats
nor
in the end
is eaten.

WATER

Is there water there?
In the country
they dream of seeing the sea
its terraced jewel
unique
its nightdress open
its slip.

Is there water?
But resign yourself
to thinking of it
distant
deaf
inconceivable
alien.

Water water? Is there? Water?
In the country’s sweep of scrub brush
there is too much
but it is quiet
dead
sluggish
sweat of the earth that tires
never reaching the shore.

I want to go to the water. Can I go to the water?
It is poisoned broth
it is dead weight that doesn’t wash
it is mud it is scum
it is latrine juice
thick litany
that doesn’t drain
it is false water.

Water I want water. Will they give me water?
It filters between the stones
it tarnishes the grimy lime
of the facades
it doesn’t flow it doesn’t circulate
it infects the wounds
it strips the wood
it recoils
making itself
a ditch.

Is there water yet? Is it cold? Water?
It soaks the deposits
of cloth
of paper
of food
it installs itself in the baseboards
it fuses onto moods
a green sediment
a hemorrhage
dry
lost in the pocket
of a retiree’s trousers.

Will there be? Will it come? Will we have water?
At the fleshy base
of a nurse’s thumb
it is an old blister
that on bursting
drips silently
wetting and rewetting
a single dead spot
of the poorest hospital
of the shanty town.

Water? Little water? Water?
It rusts, loosens, smokes:
with a dwarfish fury
it encysts the tiles
it seeps into the drawers
it puddles it forms
a crust
rotting the bones
of the tenor
of the little country woman
from the folk poem
rotting the breasts.

Water? Do we have it yet? Did the water come back?
Disease of the air,
error of some blind cloud,
stupor of the Paraná, fetid froth
of the Uruguay, stinking little puddle
of the diseased Pilcomayo:
across the whole astonishing valley
not even a drop to calm the thirst
nor baptize the ass of a nun
barely
water that you are not to drink
and that doesn’t flow away:
it’s sluggish
it’s stubborn
thick
dirty
sick
stagnant water.

DITCH

Here no more.

Here nothing
is lost anymore
nothing
because
nothing
remains.

It beats itself.

The mere sound
beats itself.
The mute
cry
of silence
disrupts
the air,
which never
resigns itself
to the tunnel
of absences.

Here no more.
Here there are
no longer any
fathers,
or mothers,
or children.
Only the ditch
thick,
dark,
blind
where children don’t
float
the children
of the parents,
the parents
of those
other
children.

Here is everything.

Here everything
is
bastard,
still,
deaf,
but not
dead.
Here that nothingness.

Here that
insipid
nothingness
where
those
parents
and those
children
are parted
it exudes
a death rattle,
spasm
that on
earth
allows neither
rest
nor
disgrace.

Come in and see.

Listen to
what
crawls,
that which
has yet
to achieve the
muddled
condition
of loneliness,
but which
persists
in being
here
the mark
of
scum,
the dry,
sluttish
saliva
of oblivion.

Like that which.

Like that
alien
wound
that will never
stop
being
a stubborn
condemnation.

País en Fuga

¡Argentina,
ramilla verde encendida!
Ricardo E. Molinari

 
LUZ

¿Fuego?
No: luz.

¿Lumbre?
No: luz.

¿Luz?
Sí: esta luz.

¿Así luz?
No: de humo
de velas húmedas
podrida luz enclenque
de niebla que lame los contornos
y los borra.

¿Así luz?
No: carcomida
impide distinguir
si es día que se apaga
o noche que no llega a cerrarse
sobre el mundo.

¿Luz negra?
Ni eso: apenas repeluz
rebuzno de una estrella
desterrada
de la última galaxia
de este olvido.

¿Cómo luz?
Lechosa pus de luna
quebrada
en agua de alibur
donde nada refleja
que no se haya roto.

¿Para qué luz?
Espeluznante luz
que no ilumina ciega
luciérnaga contusa
dejando todo aquello
empapado en la sombra.

¿De qué luz?
De barro y trapo
quiero decir: de carne
de camello
de circo
de provincia.

¿Qué luz?
Como una que
después de haber atravesado
un cuerpo muerto
arrastrara por el aire
la enfermedad de no alumbrar.

¿Sí? ¿Luz?
Sí: difusa
sorda resolana
rasposa
luz
mala.

 
CARNE

Carne
hay
carne.

¿De qué?
Carne de sí
carne de carne.

Pero, ¿de qué?
De provincias
del campo
carne suelta.

¿Viva o qué?
Verde
muy verde
lambeteada
de moho y
machacada
a los golpes.

¿De qué?
De carne de
su carne
que
ya
no.

Pero ¿de qué?
De animales
perdidos
percudidos
tal vez
vacas.

¿Vacas de qué?
De las que
alguna vez
ajenas
y hoy
apenas.

¿Qué?
Despellejada
hacienda
carne verde
baqueteada
abombada
de moscas
angurrientas.
¿En qué?
Astillas
o gusanos
en esa carne
viva
sí pero
imposible.

¿Hacienda qué?
Entre piedras
plantas secas latas
oxidadas
carne de vacas
sueltas
desatentas.

¿En pie?
De guerra
perdida
de trapos desflecados
de olvido
que se encarna
en esa carne
vieja
que
cual perro
de hortelano
ni come
ni se deja
ya
comer.

 
AGUA

¿Hay agua ahí?
En el país
sueñan con ver el mar
su escalonada joya
única
su camisón abierto
sus enaguas.

¿Hay agua?
Pero hay que conformarse
con pensarlo
lejos
sordo
inconcebible
ajeno.

Agua agua ¿hay? ¿agua?
En la extensión chaparra del país
hay demasiada
pero está quieta
muerta
cachacienta
sudor de tierra que se cansa
sin alcanzar la orilla.
Quiero ir al agua ¿Puedo ir al agua?
Es caldo envenenado
es lastre que no lava
es barro es hez
es jugo de letrinas
espesa letanía
que no drena
es falsa agua.

Agua quiero agua ¿me dan agua?
Se filtra entre las piedras
percude la mugrosa cal
de las fachadas
no riega no circula
infecta las heridas
desconcha la madera
se empaca
se hace
zanja.

¿Hay agua ya? ¿Hay fría? ¿Agua?
Empapa los depósitos
de telas
de papeles
de alimentos
se instala entre los zócalos
se empasta en los humores:
un sedimento verde
una hemorragia
seca
perdida en el bolsillo
del pantalón de un jubilado.

¿Habrá? ¿Vendrá? ¿Tendremos agua?
En el pulpejo del pulgar
de una enfermera
es una ampolla añeja
que al reventar
gotea silenciosa
mojando y remojando
un solo punto muerto
del hospital más pobre
del barrio de las latas.

¿Agua? ¿Agüita? ¿Agua?
Oxida, afloja, humea:
como un rencor enano
se enquista en las baldosas
se mete en los cajones
se encharca se hace
costra
pudriéndole los huesos
al tenor
a la chinita suave
del poema campero
pudriéndole los pechos.

¿Agua? ¿Tenemos ya? ¿Volvió el agua?
Enfermedad del aire,
error de alguna nube ciega,
sopor del Paraná, fétida espuma
del Uruguay, charquito hediondo
del Pilcomayo muermo:
en la pasmosa cuenca entera
ni una gota para calmar la sed
ni bautizar el culo de una monja
apenas
agua que no has de beber
y que no corre:
es lerda
es terca
espesa
sucia
enferma
agua estancada.

 
ZANJA

Acá ya no.

Acá ya no
se pierde
nada
porque
no queda
nada.

Se late sólo.

Se late el
mero ruido.
La muda
queja
del silencio
trastorna
el aire,
que nunca
se resigna
al socavón
de ausencias.

Acá ya no.
Acá ya no
hay más
padres,
ni madres,
ni hijos.
Sólo la zanja
espesa,
oscura,
ciega
donde no
sobrenadan
los hijos
de los padres,
los padres
de esos
otros
hijos.

Acá está todo.

Acá está
todo
guacho,
quieto,
sordo,
pero no
muerto.
Acá esa nada.

Acá esa
nada
chirle
donde se
desencuentran
esos
padres
y esos
hijos
exuda
un estertor,
espasmo
que en la
tierra
no deja
descansar
ni a la
desgracia.

Pasen a ver.

Escuchen
lo que
repta,
aquello que
no alcanza
ni aún la
turbia
condición
de soledad,
pero se
empeña
en ser
acá
la marca
de una
escoria,
la seca,
emputecida
saliva
de un olvido.

Como eso que.

Como esa
herida
ajena
que nunca
dejará
de ser
terca
condena.

First published as “Pais en Fuga” in La Voz Inutil (Buenos Aires: Bajo la Luna, 2003). Copyright 2003 by Guillermo Saavedra.

 

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