Poesia kaiera
Hegaldia
Aurkituko zintudalakoan,
orduero Bostonetik irteten den
hegazkina harrapatuko nuelakoan,
abiatu nintzen autoz hirirantz.
Pentsatuta, halako gau batean,
egarri den gizon orok edukiko zuela bere pitxerra,
emakumezko beltzak izara itzalietan etzango zirela.
Pentsatuta ibaiak ere hirian barna
nagiak aterako zituela otzan bere etzaulkian,
abiatu nintzen autoz hirirantz.
Halako gauetan, ibaiaren azken muturrean,
aireportuak listua legez egozten ditu hegazkinak
burtsako ziztada telegrafikoak bailiran.
Azeleragailuan oina jarrita
ozen abestu nien, kopilotuaren aulkiari,
kotoizko soinekoz jantzitako emakume saldoei,
ibai-ertzetan papurtzen den behe laino saretuari,
amu garestiak dantzarazten dituzten belaontziei.
More eta arrosa ikusi nuen ibaia,
hirira bidean lanbroa zeharkatu ahala.
Bidali ez nizkizun gutunez gainezka nindoan,
jaka gorria lepoan hartuta,
eskularru zuri-berriak magalean.
Ibaiari segituz egin nuen
autoz hirian barrena,
burrunba sortuz goi-behe, zintzo bide-seinaleei,
milia luzetan zehar leiho zikinak alboetan,
nork bere aferetan burua,
Summer tunelean barrena,
hesia hesiaren atzetik bere horma sufrezkoetan,
gizonezkoen txiza-lekuetan nola, lauzarik lauza,
halaxe irristatu nintzen,
inoren fardel bihurturik.
Aparkatu nuen, azkenean,
aski ez zen txanpona sartu parkimetroan,
eta korrika ni aireportuan.
Maitasunez txoratuta, korrika ni aireportuan,
galtzerdi garden luzeak eta gonak eta dolarrak...
Gaueko enplegatuak ahozabalka
egiten zion jendeari gau osoan diosal,
hark burua biharko soldatan zeukan.
Hegaldi guztiak geratu ziren bertan behera.
Hegazkinak pausaturik, kaioak pausaturik,
astun eta zurrun lekedazko putzuan.
Onarturik ez zintudala sekula aurkituko,
utzi egin nuen hiria.
Aireportuan mila elbarri eserita,
oin minberatuak sendatzen.
Behe lainoa itxi eta euria etorri zen
gogoak eman zionean.
Begi-belarriez arduratzen diren ospitaleak igaroz
gidatu nuen autoa
hortz postizoen eran lerrokatutako
bulego-eraikinetan barna.
Storrow Drive kalean gaindi, farolen argiak
zurrupatu egiten zituen
nora joanik ez zuten zomorroak.
[1962]
Flight
Thinking that I would find you, / thinking I would make the plane / that goes hourly out of Boston / I drove into the city. / Thinking that on such a night / every thirsty man would have his jug / and that the Negro women would lie down / on pale sheets and even the river into town / would stretch out naturally on its couch, / I drove into the city. / On such a night, at the end of the river, / the airport would sputter with planes / like ticker-tape. // Foot on the gas / I sang aloud to the front seat, / to the clumps of women in cotton dresses, / to the patches of fog crusting the banks, / and to the sailboats swinging on their expensive hooks. / There was rose and violet on the river / as I drove through the mist into the city. / I was full of letters I hadn’t sent you, / a red coat over my shoulders / and new white gloves in my lap. // I dropped through the city / as the river does, / rumbling over and under, as indicated, / past the miles of spotted windows / minding their own business, / through the Sumner Tunnel, / trunk by trunk through its sulphurous walls, / tile by tile like a men’s urinal, / slipping through / like somebody else’s package. // Parked, at last, / on a dime that would never last, / I ran through the airport. / Wild for love, I ran through the airport, / stockings and skirts and dollars. / The night clerk yawned all night at the public, / his mind on tomorrow’s wages. / All flights were grounded. / The planes sat and the gulls sat, / heavy and rigid in a pool of glue. // Knowing I would never find you / I drove out of the city. / At the airport one thousand cripples / sat nursing a sore foot. / There was more fog / and the rain came down when it thought of it. / I drove past the eye and ear infirmaries, / past the office buildings lined up like dentures, / and along Storrow Drive the streetlights / sucked in all the insects who / had nowhere else to go.