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
 
 

 

Mundu zailaren atlasa

 

                         II

 

Hona hemen gure herrialdearen mapa bat:

hona hemen Indiferentziaren Itsasoa, gatzez beiratua

Hau da gailurretik dikeraino doan ibai sorgindua

ez gara ausartzen edaten haren urik

Hau da basamortu hori, non misilak landatzen diren erraboilak nola

Hau da hipoteka pagatu ez zutenei kendutako etxaldeetako ogi-saskia

Hau da mutil rockabillyaren jaioterria

Hau da demokraziagatik hil ziren

pobreen hilerria      Hau da borrokaleku bat

XIX. mendeko gerra batekoa      ospetsu da santutegia

Hau da itsas hiri bat mitozkoa, istoriozkoa      arrantzaleen ontziek

porrot egin zutenekoa      hementxe zegoen lana      kaian

arrain-taketa izoztuak prozesatzen      orduka kobratu eta parterik ez

Hauek dira beste borrokaleku batzuk      Centralia      Detroit

hemen daude jatorrizko oihanak      kobrezko      zilarrezko zainak

Hauek dira onespenaren aldiriak      isiltasuna ke-eitez

                                           gorantz kalean

Hau da diruaren eta minaren hiriburua, non etxe orratzak

pizten diren kolpean aire-inbertsioetan, non zubiak dauden erdi erorita,

zeinaren haurrak itsu doazen etorbideetan noraezean

arantza-alanbre kiribilduen artean harrapatuta

Zin egin nizun erakutsiko nizula mapa bat baina mural bat da hau, diozu

tira bai berdin dio    txikikeriak dira horiek

nondik begiratzen diogun horixe da kontua

 

 

                         XIII - Eskaintzak

 

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela

berandu, bulegotik alde egin baino lehen

lanpararen argi horia bizi eta leihoa gero eta ilunago

isilean desagertuz doan eraikin baten makaltasunean

puntako ordua aspaldi pasatuta.    Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela

ozeanotik urrun dagoen liburu-denda batean zutik

udaberri hasierako egun gris batean, maluta ahulak

zure inguruko ordokien espazio erraldoietan hara-hona.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela

jasan ahalak baino gehiago gertatu zaizkizun gela batean

ohe-jantziak hortxe mordoilotuta

eta badakit maleta irekia hegaldi batez mintzo dela

baina ezin zarela joan oraindik.    Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela

lurpeko trena pixkanaka motelduz doala, eskaileretan gora abiatu aurretik

bizitzak sekula baimendu ez dizun

maitasun berri baterantz.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela telebista baten

pantailaren argitan, irudi soinugabeak jauzi eta irrist,

intifadari buruzko albisteen zain zaudela.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela itxarongela batean

begiek topo eta destopo, jende arrotza identifikatzen.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela argi fluoreszente batekin

goizegi baztertu dituzten, beren burua goizegi baztertu duten

gazteen asperraz eta nekeaz.    Badakit

poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela ikusmen gero eta lausoagoz, zure betaurreko

lodiak letrak handituz esanahi ororen gainetik, eta zu halere leitu eta leitu

alfabetoa bera ere baliotsu baita.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela labe ondoan hara-hona

esnea berotzen, haur bat negarrez sorbaldan, liburu bat eskuan

laburra baita bizitza eta egarriak baitzaude zu ere.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela zure hizkuntzan ez dagoen arren

hitz batzuk igarriz, beste batzuek gehiago leitzera bultzatzen zaituztela

eta jakin nahi dut zeintzuk diren.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela zerbait entzun nahirik, hautsita

                                                   mingostasunaren eta esperantzaren artean

uko egin ezin diozun lan horri berriro ere ekinez.

Badakit poema hau irakurtzen ari zarela ez delako besterik irakurtzeko

lurreratu zaren leku horretan, zauden bezain biluzik.

 

An Atlas of the Difficult World

II

Here is a map of our country: / here is the Sea of Indifference, glazed with salt / This is the haunted river flowing from brow to groin / we dare not taste its water / This is the desert where missiles are planted like *corms / This is the breadbasket of foreclosed farms / This is the birthplace of the rockabilly boy / This is the cemetery of the poor / who died for democracy This is a battlefield / from a nineteenth century war the shrine is famous / This is a sea-town of myth and story when the fishing fleets / went bankrupt here is where the jobs were on the pier / processing frozen fishsticks hourly wages and no shares / These are other battlefields Centralia Detroit / here are the forests primeval the copper the silver lodes / These are the suburbs of acquiescence silence rising fumelike / from the streets / This is the capital of money and *dolor whose spires / flare up through air inversions whose bridges are crumbling / whose children are drifting blind alleys pent / between coiled rolls of razor wire / I promised to show you a map you say but this is a mural / then yes let it be these are small distinctions / where do we see it from is the question

XIII – Dedications

I know you are reading this poem / late, before leaving your office / of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window / in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet / long after rush-hour. / I know you are reading this poem / standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean / on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven / across the plains' enormous spaces around you. // I know you are reading this poem / in a room where too much has happened for you to bear / where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed / and the open valise speaks of flight / but you cannot leave yet. / I know you are reading this poem / as the underground train loses momentum and before running / up the stairs / toward a new kind of love / your life has never allowed. // I know you are reading this poem by the light / of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide / while you wait for the newscast from the intifada. // I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room / of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers. // I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light / in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out, / count themselves out, at too early an age. / I know / you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick / lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on / because even the alphabet is precious. // I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove / warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your / hand / because life is short and you too are thirsty. // I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language / guessing at some words while others keep you reading / and I want to know which words they are. // I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn / between bitterness and hope / turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse. // I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else / left to read / there where you have landed, stripped as you are.