Beste hizkuntzetako lanen zerrenda


  Translation: Catherine Phil MacCarthy



Patti Smith Dreams of Rimbaud


Patti Smith was fascinated by Rimbaud. She wrote him a poem, a dream, where she speaks of Charleville and Abyssinia, fields, well-springs, a wound in the eye inflicted with a splinter of glass, large hands, red cheeks, a bedroom, apparently indifferent eyes. Arthur on his knees, crying, embracing Patti's knees. Patti lying in bed, grasps Arthur's hair. The flames are hair and fuzz, Oh Jesus! The fingers, needles. Oh, Jesus! I am yours entirely.


So far the dubious summary of the poem, and the next thread, my turn.


I am a woman, possessed. July, a Saturday, early afternoon in my garden, the door ajar. A pair of blackbirds dig in the blades of the palm, with orange beaks, looking for mosquitoes. I rest on the sun lounger. Scents of lavender. I have to put the water on to make tea. From my hands slip the poems of Patti. I keep a bilingual anthology of Rimbaud, in Bilbao. Well, my God, a friend gave it to me as a present, the one who

played wolf on my forty-fifth birthday, the same one who got me into trouble. I was so overwhelmed and in a spin, eager to drop, my seams were so poorly stitched, dying to be torn. That's what life was about then, let's say, although the issue is not so simple, not simple at all.


Ladybirds tickle my calves, and I think of water, mouth dry. Hello, gorgeous, he says on arrival. That voice is a knife in the afternoon. Oh Jesus! Have you been unwell, princess, I'll make tea, massage the foot, help take off your sandals, so do not worry, take it easy, my red-haired mermaid. Saliva turns to warm sugar. Unable to open the eyes, so weak I couldn't swallow, beneath the stormy gaze.


The cold teaspoon sends a shiver between my breasts. His long fingers dip in the warm cup, a giggle escapes. Filthy. Now my lips caressed. Knees moistened with sandpaper tongue. Your knees are rum-raisin ice-cream, Meabi, maybe, Meabe, might be. Let's go inside, do not tremble. With the voice, I am ravished. In the jaws of the raider, I am lost.


Cobwebs in the rafters. The planet's leaden clock, bird-bones on the furniture.


I am not raven-haired. I am not slim, I am not clever, I am not young, I am not strong, I am not brave, I am not, I am not, I am no angel, I am no devil, I am what I experienced, what I remember, and my name, and what I want to be. Turn around, girl, I will heal you with my great hands.


The buttocks, shark-bait. There, there, pretty, there, my beauty, right there, more, keep it like that, that's it, that's it. I open up like a martyr. Penetration and semen. Beaded and sweating. I am yours entirely, alleluia. You are entirely mine, alleluia, oh Jesus!




© Miren Agur Meabe
© translation: Catherine Phil MacCarthy