Poesia kaiera
Gazalak: omenaldia Ghalib-i
68/07/14: ii
Nire bizitzaz ari nintzela uste al zenuen?
Tradizio bati horma joarazi nahian ari nintzen.
Erre zuten soro hura beste guztiak baino berdeago dago orain.
Ikusi behar duzu, esan zidan, garrek sustraiak ere hartzen dituzte.
Lur honen atmosferara jaurtiak izanik,
gure haurren haurrek argazkiak egingo dizkiete agian harri hauei.
Gela ilunaren gorrian, argi ikusten dut neure burua;
baina paperean irudia agertu eta ateratzean, aurpegi horrek
ez dit ezertxo ere esaten
Guretzat, lanak bere burua desegiten du behin eta berriz:
berriz hazten da belarra, pilatzen da hautsa, zabaltzen da zauria.
68/07/26: i
Bart zera idatzi zenuen paretan: Iraultza poesia da.
Gaur, ordea, idatzi beharrik ez: eroria da horma.
Irakatsi ziguten errespetatzen errealitatearen atzeko irudia.
Behin-behinean aske genituen zentzumenak, zaintzapean.
Begi pare bat, hainbat urtez nire garezurrean preso egona,
kanpora atera nahian ari zait su eta gar, latzak dira buruko minak.
Eskultura hautsi baten hondakinetan nabil, estropezuka
lagun baten bizkarrezurrarekin hemen, anaia baten eskuarekin han.
Zer-nolako antza! eta gu, hala ere, bakan izateko sutsu borrokan.
Azkenean, ez dugu lo egingo ez bakarrik, ez inoren besoetan.
68/04/08
Aijaz Ahmad-entzat
Honako hauek letrak badira, gaizki irakurri beharko dira.
Hormako zirrimarra batzuk badira, besteekin nahastu beharko dira.
Gorri zikinak Gora beltzen indarra Angelek Rosita maite du
Eta irrati batek espainieraz erantzuten du: Etorri behar du gauak.
Presoak, soldaduak, beti bezala uzkurtuta, idazten,
barkaezina esplikatzen emazte bati, ama bati, maitale bati.
Lausotu zaizkit aurpegi horiek, eta batzuk,
hain bero begiratu ohi nienak, urrundu ere bai.
Nolatan aurkitu du, Ghalib, zure nahigabeak, zatika berpizturik,
Delhiko zure etxe ilunetik gela honetarainoko bidea?
Nire poema hau irakurtzen dutenean, itzultzaile dira.
Existentzia oro mintzo da bere hizkuntzan.
68/08/08: i
Hemendik aurrera, denok biziko gara
Galileo bere lehen teleskopioarekin izarrei begira bezala.
Arau txikiak betetzea eta handiak haustea
da izarrak sortzeko lehen pausoa.
Esperantza izatea ere ezezagunera salto egitea da,
gauzen izaeraren begi burlatien azpian.
Gerra bat dago lurrean, eta garezurrean, eta espazio beiratsuetan,
existitzen direnen eta ez direnen artean.
Egun oro bizi beharra dut, egunak neure egin eta denak ezagutu,
nahiz eta hemendik ere ikusten dudan non egongo naizen azkenean.
Ghazals: Homage to Ghalib
7/14/68 ii
Did you think I was talking about my life? / I was trying to drive a tradition up against the wall. // The field they burned over is greener than all the rest. / You have to watch it, he said, the sparks can travel the roots. // Shot back into this earth's atmosphere / our children's children may photograph these stones. // In the red wash of the darkroom, I see myself clearly; / when the print is developed and handed about, the face is / nothing to me. // For us the work undoes itself over and over: / the grass grows back, the dust collects, the scar breaks open.
7/26/68: i
Last night you wrote on the wall: Revolution is poetry. / Today you needn't write; the wall has tumbled down. / We were taught to respect the appearance behind the reality. / Our senses were out on parole, under surveillance. / A pair of eyes imprisoned for years in my skull / is burning its way outward, the headaches are terrible. / I'm walking through a rubble of broken sculpture, stumbling / here on the spine of a friend, there on the hand of a brother. / All those joinings! and yet we fought so hard to be unique. / Neither alone, nor in anyone's arms, will we end up sleeping.
8/4/68
for Aijaz Ahmad / If these are letters, they will have to be misread. / If scribblings on a wall, they must tangle with all the others. / Fuck reds Black power Angel loves Rosita / –and a transistor radio answers in Spanish: Night must fall. / Prisoners, soldiers, crouching as always, writing, / explaining the unforgivable to a wife, a mother, a lover. / Those faces are blurred and some have turned away / to which I used to address myself so hotly. / How is it, Ghalib, that your grief, resurrected in pieces, / has found its way to this room from your dark home in Delhi? / When they read this poem of mine, they are translators. / Every existence speaks a language of its own.
8/8/68: i
From here on, all of us will be living / like Galileo turning his first tube at the stars. // Obey the little laws and break the great ones / is the preamble to their constitution. // Even to hope is to leap into the unknown, / under the mocking eyes of the way things are. // There is a war on the earth, and in the skull, and in the glassy spaces, / between the existing and the non-existing. // I need to live each day through, have them and know them all, / though I can see from here where I’ll be standing at the end.