Poesia kaiera
Arraunean
Istorio bat, istorio bat!
(Utzi joaten. Utzi etortzen).
Plymouth auto baten lohi-babesa bezala
zanpatu ninduten mundu honetarantz.
Sehaska etorri zen lehenbizi,
bere barrote izoztuekin.
Gero panpinak
eta euren plastikozko ahoekiko nire atxikimendua.
Gero eskola,
aulki ilara estu eta zuzenak,
nire izena behin eta berriro zirriborratu beharra,
itsaspeko izaki beti,
ukondo alferrak zituen arrotza nintzen.
Gero bizitza
bere etxe krudelekin
eta nekez elkar ukitzen zuen jendearekin
—ukitzean datzan arren dena—.
Hazi nintzen hazi, hala ere,
gabardinaz jantzitako txerria legez.
Izan zen agerpen arrarorik,
euri etengabea, eguzkia bilakaturik pozoi,
gauza horiek denak,
bihotza erdibitzen zidaten zerrak.
Hazi nintzen hazi, hala ere,
eta han zen Jainkoa,
arraunean harrapatu ezin nuen irla baten gisako,
oraindik hari bizkarra emanda, beso-zangoak sasoiko.
Eta hazi nintzen, hazi,
tomateak erosi, errubiak jantzi,
eta orain, nire bizitzaren erdian
—hemeretzi bat urte bai buruan, esango nuke—,
arraunean diraut, arraunean,
tolet herdoilduak trabatu arren,
itsasoaren begi-nini kezkatuak
kliska eta kizkur eginagatik,
arraunean diraut, arraunean,
haizeak atzerantz bultzatu arren,
nahiz eta irla hori perfektua ez den.
Badakit irla horrek bizitzaren akatsak,
eta afalosteetako zentzugabekeriak berekin dauzkala,
haatik, egongo da ate bat nonbait,
eta nik ireki egingo dut
eta nire baitan den arratoia egotziko nigandik at,
arratoi marraskari ustela,
Jainkoak bere bi eskuekin hartu
eta besarkatuko duena.
Afrikarrek esan ohi dutenez:
izan gozo, izan garratz,
nire istorioa da eta ez beste bat.
Zuek beste norabait heldu
eta lekuari kendu
niri kontatzeko moduko zerbait;
istorio hau amaitzen baita
arraunean naukala oraindik.
[1975]
Rowing
A story, a story! / (Let it go. Let it come.) / I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender / into this world. / First came the crib / with its glacial bars. / Then dolls / and the devotion to their plastic mouths. / Then there was school, / the little straight rows of chairs, / blotting my name over and over, / but undersea all the time, / a stranger whose elbows wouldn’t work. / Then there was life / with its cruel houses / and people who seldom touched — / though touch is all — / but I grew, / like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew, / and then there were many strange apparitions, / the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison / and all of that, saws working through my heart, / but I grew, I grew, / and God was there like an island I had not rowed to, / still ignorant of Him, my arms and my legs worked, / and I grew, I grew, / I wore rubies and bought tomatoes / and now, in my middle age, / about nineteen in the head I’d say, / I am rowing, I am rowing / though the oarlocks stick and are rusty / and the sea blinks and rolls / like a worried eyeball, / but I am rowing, I am rowing, / though the wind pushes me back / and I know that that island will not be perfect, / it will have the flaws of life, / the absurdities of the dinner table, / but there will be a door / and I will open it / and I will get rid of the rat inside of me, / the gnawing pestilential rat. / God will take it with his two hands / and embrace it. / As the African says: / This is my tale which I have told, / if it be sweet, if it be not sweet, / take somewhere else and let some return to me. / This story ends with me still rowing.