It was never he,
The guards said he was close to madness.
Juan Manuel Roca
It was never he,
he never escaped from the nightmare of that self.
He rattled his bars in the night
–lost dream of a sleeping jaguar—
He didn’t even know his sentence was
to perpetual silence.
He didn’t know what to say about his innocence
except that it was obvious
and, therefore, he was guilty.
He never noticed that his groans went no further
than his own marbled body.
And they said he rattled his bars like one possessed,
like a shaman.
They also said his feces smelled of gardenias.
But that was not confirmed.
When a man decides to be himself,
he has already lost the idea of himself.
Memory is an enormous stain
that grows smaller the closer one comes.
And while the bars lighten the weight of that trunk,
that is turning to ghost,
each moment more ancient,
while the hours pass
and turn to autumns,
although he has never seen the denuding of a tree,
nor ever seen his own leaves fall,
a kind of changing of the skin,
all this from the gaze of the guard
half-asleep
who dreams that a man is groaning
and rattling his bars.
The Abundance of Things without Limit
One might say I’ve fulfilled the miserable obligation of constructing myself.
One might say anything so as to consummate the act
of stripping away the heights of my anguish.
Is there someone who would say that abandonment
is like the banner of someone marching,
but no,
the path through the meadow is marked
by the boots of a deaf gardener.
One might say I’ve lost my direction
like a cat burning in heat,
but no,
there could be someone who would say no,
who would despair over my peacefulness on the rooftop,
with the rain giving oxygen
to the breath of mosquitoes.
One might say that I am hiding the reasons I deny their whispering,
their stripping me down,
a cabbage in the meal of the guard who closes down the theater:
a sour soup that calms the consummation of the final act.
One might say, as well, that my share is poorer,
that I fall apart in the struggle of the miner with his stone,
with its uneven light that spreads over a thin ingot of copper.
But no, behind my suffering glow-worms are feeding,
fireflies with their fluorescent smiles are on parade.
Behind me there’s so much pleasure I will let
the caymans kneel before me as they gaze.
One might say that I discover in every pulse a shadow,
But no, let them laugh like hyenas before a sleeping tiger.
One might say that they conditioned my so benevolent urgency,
but no,
they forget that this prostration
prevents me from reaching the match
with which to light the stove.
PERDIDA ENSOÑACIÓN DE TIGRE DORMIDO
Los carceleros decían que rondaba la locura.
Juan Manuel Roca
Nunca fue él,
nunca escapó de la pesadilla de ser él mismo.
Agitaba en la noche los barrotes
—perdida ensoñación de tigre dormido—.
Nunca supo tampoco que su condena
era perpetua de silencio.
No supo decir de su inocencia
más que lo que era obvio
y, por ello, culposo.
No advirtió jamás que su gemido no penetraba más allá
de su propio mármol.
Y dicen que agitaba los barrotes como un loco poseído,
como un brujo.
Dicen también que sus heces tenían el olor de las gardenias.
Pero eso no es cierto.
Cuando un hombre decide ser él,
ya ha perdido la idea de sí mismo.
La memoria es una mancha enorme
que se vuelve diminuta a medida que se acerca.
Y en tanto los barrotes aligeran el peso de ese tronco,
que se vuelve un espectro,
cada vez más antiguo,
mientras las horas pasan
y se vuelven otoños,
aunque jamás haya visto ese desnudarse de un árbol,
aunque tampoco perciba su propio deshojarse,
que es un cambio de piel,
a partir de la mirada del vigía
semidormido
que sueña que un hombre gime y agita los barrotes.
«La abundancia de las cosas, que no tiene límite»
Se diría que cumplo esta miserable obligación de construirme.
Se diría cualquier cosa con tal de consumar el acto
de deshojar el culmen de mi angustia.
Habría quien dijese que el abandono
es como la bandera del marchante,
pero no,
el camino está marcado sobre el pasto
por los cascos de un jardinero sordo.
Se diría que pierdo la dirección
como el gato enardecido por el celo,
pero no,
habría quien dijera que no,
que desespera mi placidez en el tejado,
con la lluvia oxigenando
la respiración de los zancudos.
Se diría que oculto las razones con que niego
este susurro,
este desnudarse como una col
en la merienda del centinela que cierra el teatro:
una sopa agria que calma la consumación del último acto.
Se diría incluso que mi bocado es más pobre,
que me deshago en la lucha del minero con su piedra,
con su luz desigual que se extiende sobre una parca riel de cobre.
Pero no,
detrás de mi dolor se alimentan las luciérnagas,
desfilan los cocuyos con sus sonrisas fluorescentes.
Detrás de mí hay tanta complacencia como para dejar
que se arrodillen los caimanes y me miren.
Se diría que descubro en cada pálpito una sombra,
pero no, dejo que digan como hienas ante el tigre dormido.
Se diría que condicionan mi urgencia tan benévola,
pero no,
olvidan que esta postración
me impide alcanzar el cerillo
para encender la estufa.
Translated by Alexis Levitin’s translations have appeared in well over 200 magazines, including New England Review, APR, Grand Street, Kenyon Review, Mid-American Review and Prairie Schooner. His thirty-four books include Clarice Lispector’s Soulstorm and Eugenio de Andrade’s Forbidden Words, both from New Directions. His most recent books are a bilingual edition of Salgado Maranhao’s Blood of the Sun (Milkweed Editions, 2012), a bilingual edition of Tobacco Dogs by Ecuadorian Ana Minga (The Bitter Oleander Press, 2013), and The Art of Patience by Eugenio de Andrade (Red Dragonfly Press, 2013).
