jueves, 28 de enero de 2016

Williams St. S. - (Translation)

From Cuaderno de Belfast - Dublín

Rain just started...
... and the umbrella opens crossing the street.
It is that time when coffee shops
start to cool down
and redbrick buildings fill up with shadows.

Women poise on curbs
checking their watches after every step,
scrutinizing other gazes,
carrying the bags from boutiques or their butcher,
forgetting about the moisture stains
on the pavement.

Men cross hastily
as though rain (which just stopped)
could wash their faces
and discover the reflection of their desire
hidden in cling film and paper bags
(just wrapped in flooded cellars).

I feel the street's shiver
combing my ribs
... and my coffee is gone
... and it is late to go to the movies
... and the newspaper does not fill the gaps
through which the wind wheezes,
through which the look escapes.

Rain just stopped...
... and the umbrella closed after crossing the street.
It is that time when coffee shops
finally fill up
and light simmers
behind redbrick buildings.

martes, 26 de enero de 2016

Grand Canal Dock - (Translation)

From Cuaderno de Belfast - Dublín

With this obsession (so me)
of seasoning with pinches of salt
the dead water of the canals
(moisture of party wall
with nailed door)
I want to show you the wound
I lick like a dog every night
to keep the blood flowing
until it clots on my fingertips.

The train rumbles above the water
and escaping towards the West
seagulls (chasing streams)
forget about the foam of the waves.

water is dead in canals
and we insist on drinking it
like a sailor in high-sea madness
in these lowlands
that shows us the saline silt
(in the low tide)
around the Sandymount marsh,
where one could sow
a verse
or a mirage
               (deceit of our own self).

miércoles, 20 de enero de 2016

Millenium Bridge - (Translation)

From Cuaderno de Belfast - Dublín

With this obsession (so you)
of sitting on bridge parapets
you want to show me dream snippets
floating by
and I turn my head
just to discover that the Liffey
pollutes us with its sluggishness,
with the reflux of the drunkards,
with Sunday strolls
doomed to be flooded
in uncried tears.

You also sit on windowsills
perching over your own ambiguity
and you wave at the street
or gesticulate at the vapour on the glass,
writing on door frames
as though Ariadne gave up her trade as weaver
and soiled whiteness.

But Ulysses was deaf
and could not hear the sirens,
he crossed the streets in a hurry
and swang on the bridge
until the tide turned.