Saturday, December 22, 2018

la casa deshabitada... (after E.Diego)



"porque llega un hora en que todas las casas se despueblan de sus ruidos mortales..."*

(there were cut bunches in buckets and stacked in boxes
everywhere, and they came very early in the
mornings to gather for their shops,
for their homes)

the abandoned building sits on the edge of chinatown, slowly corroding in the rain...

***

"y las vidrieras son frias como esos invernaderos desolados..."**

(even on the coldest day, the tight blooms and bundled greens
suffused the air with their dying scents,
their fading colours so composed
for a little longer)

a warehouse filled with flowers traded in kindnesses by the 3 chinese brothers...

***

"y es como si no hubiese venido nadie, como si nadie mirase los recintos del hombre,
bajo los astros."***

(that was many years ago and most will not remember this
as a place for the joy seeking, for the death
honouring and for the every day
of the living)

and where the brothers now, where grow the lilies, where stars still shimmer on...



*selected lines in spanish from "Bajo los Astros", a poem by ELISEO DIEGO, 1920-1994 
(translation by Kathleen Weaver, 1982)
*"because an hour comes when every house will empty of its mortal noises..."
**"and window panes are cold like those bleak greenhouses..."
***"and it is just as if no one had ever come, as if no one had seen the haunts of man, under the stars."




Friday, December 14, 2018

the pale hour... (after L-P Fargue)







"l'heure passe que les mains de la nuit faufilent aux vieux murs..."

(when they are very old, you forget how long they have lived...
you feel that you should know them better, 
even if you have known them a long time)

as the pale hour steals by, leave shadows quiver in the fading light...

***

"on entend le bruit nombreux des feuilles partout comme un feu qui prend..."

(when they leave us, you realize you don't miss them so much...
even as you know they are gone forever,
but the grieving and the regrets remain)

a certain pervasive scent lingers on, infusing the amorphous life...

***

"un rayon rôde encore à la crête du mur, glisse d'une main calme  et nous conduit vers l'ombre..."

(and everyday is a little less - a little less of them, a little less of you...
you will not know them any more now
than when you had known them then)

the branches nod in silence, a black tangle upon the darkening sky...



*selected lines in french from "Au Fil de l'Heure Pâle" by LEON-PAUL FARGUE (1876-1947)