Thursday, February 25, 2010

Depois de tanta solidão

não volte. (...)
[Kamil had this motorcycle he insisted in driving around with. Centuries old, it seemed sometimes.  Pilot cap on his head, he mostly rode on this impossibly running Sokol with a tripod and a camera on a saddlebag which seemed to be about to come apart. Long roads. Sunshine catcher, moon chaser, he used to say he was.
Before digital cameras and cellular telephones. I wondered how he managed to keep that bike running. But he did. ]

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Puerto Madero


"¿Y fue por este río de sueñera y de barro
que las proas vinieron a fundarme la patria?
Irían a los tumbos los barquitos pintados
entre los camalotes de la corriente zaina.

Pensando bien la cosa, supondremos que el río
era azulejo entonces como oriundo del cielo
con su estrellita roja para marcar el sitio
en que ayunó Juan Díaz y los indios comieron.

Lo cierto es que mil hombres y otros mil arribaron
por un mar que tenía cinco lunas de anchura
y aún estaba poblado de sirenas y endriagos
y de piedras imanes que enloquecen la brújula.

Prendieron unos ranchos trémulos en la costa,
durmieron extrañados. Dicen que en el Riachuelo,
pero son embelecos fraguados en la Boca.
Fue una manzana entera y en mi barrio: en Palermo.

Una manzana entera pero en mitá del campo
expuesta a las auroras y lluvias y suestadas.
La manzana pareja que persiste en mi barrio:
Guatemala, Serrano, Paraguay y Gurruchaga.

Un almacén rosado como revés de naipe
brilló y en la trastienda conversaron un truco;
el almacén rosado floreció en un compadre,
ya patrón de la esquina, ya resentido y duro.

El primer organito salvaba el horizonte
con su achacoso porte, su habanera y su gringo.
El corralón seguro ya opinaba YRIGOYEN,
algún piano mandaba tangos de Saborido.

Una cigarrería sahumó como una rosa
el desierto. La tarde se había ahondado en ayeres,
los hombres compartieron un pasado ilusorio.
Sólo faltó una cosa: la vereda de enfrente.

A mí se me hace cuento que empezó Buenos Aires:
La juzgo tan eterna como el agua y como el aire."

Monday, February 15, 2010

Lunch break


Peter used to look at the illuminated altar three times a week. Between one and two, on sunny afternoons, the light was best. Silently he thought about crocodiles, elephants, a backyard in Luanda he had not seen for ages, but which refused to leave, day or night.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Sin eso de muelles y aguas que no agotanse



jamás. y esos silencios sin nombre. If at least I knew what happened after they left. Twenty three years ago we still moved around the ship, the docks left unfinished, uncountable splattering of cold plateña water on the hull. Pero sin ganas, sin ningun sonido, waiting for something we knew had never been there.  A faded hope, tantos campeones, otros tangos, y aquellos años involucrandose en bruma.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Thursday, February 4, 2010

"Santiago," I called


But that was years ago.
Lo manejaba sin miedo, y adelante;
con tantas ganas, el me dice, con tantas ganas de volver...

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Que habían dejado el muelle hace años


They left the quay years ago.
Floating, tied to the dock, weathered and fragile, it stood still. 
Paint gone. the key lock still worked, alright

Friday, January 29, 2010

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Cold outside


["You can sleep while I drive," she said. But that was long before the rain, ages before the streets of buenos aires engulfing our last dollar bills, before the tenor falling from stage at Corrientes, el olor del café y tantas medialunas slowly swallowing her back to the city, a rediscovery of your earlier - and only? - roots, a call desde las calles de San Telmo, and the Rio de la Plata slowly widening between us, then Colonia del Sacramento and all the Uruguayan ranchos, and later the vastitude of Brazil before more water, oceans, and our lost voices.
I slept, baby. I did. And you drove smoothly, nicely. A couple of times I remember vaguely to hear you sing. As you drove. Quietly you sung, I want to believe, all night long..]

"Você pode dormir enquanto eu dirijo," ela disse. Mas isso foi muito antes da chuva, séculos antes das ruas de buenos aires reclamando nossos últimos dólares, antes do tenor cair do palco em Corrientes, el olor delcafé y tantas medialunas lentamente lhe reclamando de volta à cidade, uma redescoberta de suas raízes primeiras - e únicas? - um chamado desde as ruas de San Telmo, e o Rio de la Plata lentamente se alargando entre nós, então Colonia del Sacramento e todos os pampas Uruguaios, depois as vastidões do Brasil antes de mais água, oceanos, e nossas vozes perdidas. 
Eu dormi, baby. Dormi. E você dirigiu suavemente, sem sobresaltos. Em duas ocasiões eu lembro vagamente de te ouvir cantar. Enquanto dirigias. Você cantou calmamente, quero crer, a noite toda..

Friday, December 25, 2009

In 1956 I had opened that door


[We had almost two feet of snow. I spent most of the morning shoveling it out of the uncovered porch and the pathway that led to the cabin. Later in the afternoon, Jemime appeared from across the lake. I could not believe she had made that far. With a book in her hand. Eyes almost impossibly green...]