Poesia kaiera
Dylan Thomas
itzulpena: Iker Alvarez
Poesia kaiera
Dylan Thomas
itzulpena: Iker Alvarez
2017, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-92468-97-3
Dylan Thomas
1914-1953
 
 

 

Amodioaren ukidurak kilikatuko banindu

 

Amodioaren ukidurak kilikatuko banindu,

Bere alde lapurtu ninduen neska iruzurti hark,

Bere lastoetatik irtenda nire soka bendatua hautsi zuenak,

Kilima gorriak abere erditu berriak bezala

Oraindik nire biriketatik barre bat urratu nahi balu,

Orduan ez nioke ikararik ez sagar ez uholdeari

Ezta udaberriko odol txarrari ere.

 

“Arra ala emea izango ote?” diote zelulek,

Eta arana jausten utzi, haragitik sua legez.

Ile jaioberriak kilikatuko banindu,

Orpoetan sortu ziren hegal-hezurrak,

Edo gizon-azkurak ume-izterrean,

Orduan ez nioke ikararik urka zein aizkorari,

Ez gurutzatzen diren gerra-zutoinei ere.

 

“Arra ala emea izango ote?” diote hatzek

Paretan marraztuz neska berdeak eta haien gizonak.

Ez nintzateke amodio-bortizkeriaren beldur

Gose bihurriek kilikatuko banindute

Beroa entseatzen nerbio gori batean.

Orduan ez nintzateke hankarteko deabruaren beldur

Ezta hilobi berritsuaren beldur ere.

 

Maitaleek ukiduraz kilikatuko banindute,

Ez zimurrik, ez masail jausien gaineko

Gizatasun zahar eta zimelduzko ilerik ezabatzen ez duen ukiduraz,

Denbora, karramarro eta sehaska maitagarriek

Gurina bezain hotz utziko nindukete, eulientzako;

Itsaso zikin batek itoko ninduke, maitaleen oinetara

Iritsita hilotz.

 

Deabrua eta biona da mundu honen erdi bana,

Neska bati darion drogaz mozkor

Bere begiak ziztatzen duen kimu inguruan kiribiltzen.

Agurearen hanka-hezurra nirearekin muin bakarra eginda,

Itsasoko sardinzar guztien usainaz,

Eseri eta azkazal azpiko zizareari nago begira

Higatzen duen bitartean nire haragia.

 

Eta horixe da ukidura, kilikatzen duen ukidura bakarra.

Bere sexuarekin batera kulunkatzen den tximu hezurtsuak

Ez du maite-ilun heze edo haurtzainaren keinutik

Irri baten gauerdia sekulan jasoko,

Ezta edertasuna aurkitzean ere, maitalearen, amaren,

Maitaleen bularretan; edo hautsak ukitzen dituen Bere sei oinetan behera.

 

Zer ote, ukidura? Nerbioaren gainean Heriotzaren luma?

Zure ahoa, maitea, muxuaren kardua?

Zuhaitzean arantzaz jaiotako nire hezur-haragizko Kristoa?

Heriotza hitzak haren hilotza baino lehorrago dira,

Nire zauri berritsuek daukate zure ilearen arrastoa.

Ukidura honek kilikatuko ninduke:

Gizakia bedi nire metafora.

 

If I were tickled by the rub of love

If I were tickled by the rub of love, / A rooking girl who stole me for her side, / Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, / If the red tickle as the cattle calve / Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, / I would not fear the apple nor the flood / Nor the bad blood of spring. // Shall it be male or female? say the cells, / And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. / If I were tickled by the hatching hair, / The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, / The itch of man upon the baby’s thigh, / I would not fear the gallows nor the axe / Nor the crossed sticks of war. // Shall it be male or female? say the fingers / That chalk the walls with green girls and their men. / I would not fear the muscling-in of love / If I were tickled by the urchin hungers / Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. / I would not fear the devil in the loin / Nor the outspoken grave. // If I were tickled by the lovers’ rub / That wipes away not crow’s-foot nor the lock / Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, / Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib / Would leave me cold as butter for the flies, / The sea of scums could drown me as it broke / Dead on the sweethearts’ toes. // This world is half the devil’s and my own, / Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl / And curling round the bud that forks her eye. / An old man’s shank one-marrowed with my bone, / And all the herrings smelling in the sea, / I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail / Wearing the quick away. // And that’s the rub, the only rub that tickles. / The knobbly ape that swings along his sex / From damp love-darkness and the nurse’s twist / Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, / Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast / Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six / Feet in the rubbing dust. // And what’s the rub? Death’s feather on the nerve? / Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? / My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? / The words of death are dryer than his stiff, / My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. / I would be tickled by the rub that is: / Man be my metaphor.