Poesia kaiera
Adrienne Rich
itzulpena: Maialen Berasategi
Poesia kaiera
Adrienne Rich
itzulpena: Maialen Berasategi
2017, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-92468-95-9
Adrienne Rich
1929-2012
 
 

 

Bortxaketa

 

Bada polizia bat errondari eta aita dena aldi berean:

zure etxe-blokean bizi izan zen, zure anaiekin batera hazi,

bazituen zenbait ideal.

Ia ez duzu ezagutzen botak eta zilarrezko plaka jantzita,

zaldi gainean pistola haztatuz doala.

 

Ia ez duzu ezagutzen baina behar duzu ezagutu:

eskura du zu hiltzeko moduko makineria.

Trostan doa bere garaņoan, zaborretan barna, gerra-jauntxoen gisan,

airean idealak, laino izoztu bat

ezpain irrigabeetatik kanpora.

 

Eta hala, garaia heltzen denean, jo beharko duzu beregana,

maniako haren esperma oraindik koipetsu izterretan,

burua ero zurrunbiloka. Eta aitortu beharko diozu

berari, bortxatua izanaren krimenaren

errudun zarela.

 

Eta hortxe bere begi urdinak, ezagutzen zenuen familia

oso haren begi urdin horiek, ņarrotuta eta diz-diz,

eta bere esku hori xehetasunak idazten

den-denak jakin nahi baititu,

baina zure ahotsaren histeriak ematen dio atseginik handiena.

 

Ia ez duzu ezagutzen baina hark zu bai, ezagutu uste zaitu:

idatzi du zure pasarterik okerrena

makina batekin, eta karpeta batean karpetaratu.

Badaki, edo jakin uste du zenbat imajinatu duzun;

badaki, edo jakin uste du zer nahi zenuen isilean.

 

Eskura du zu akabatzeko moduko makineria;

baldin eta komisariako argi okagarrian

baldin eta komisariako argi okagarrian

kontatu dituzunak zure konfesore horren erretratua badira,

irentsiko, ukatuko al dituzu, esango al duzu gezurra etxera bidean?

 

Rape

There is a cop who is both prowler and father: / he comes from your block, grew up with your brothers, / had certain ideals. / You hardly know him in his boots and silver badge, / on horseback, one hand touching his gun. / You hardly know him but you have to get to know him: / he has access to machinery that could kill you. / He and his stallion clop like warlords among the trash, / his ideals stand in the air, a frozen cloud / from between his unsmiling lips. / And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him, / the maniac’s sperm still greasing your thighs, / your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confess / to him, you are guilty of the crime / of having been forced. / And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the family / whom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten, / his hand types out the details / and he wants them all / but the hysteria in your voice pleases him best. / You hardly know him but now he thinks he knows you: / he has taken down your worst moment / on a machine and filed it in a file. / He knows, or thinks he knows, how much you imagined; / he knows, or thinks he knows, what you secretly wanted. / He has access to machinery that could get you put away; / and if, in the sickening light of the precinct, / and if, in the sickening light of the precinct, / your details sound like a portrait of your confessor, / will you swallow, will you deny them, will you lie your way home?