Poesia kaiera
Aurkibidea
Aurkibidea
Argizari-olioa izoztuta, tximeletaren kedar orban ilunak…
Hatz zahar eta eragabe haren
Azazkal birrindua perla zimur bat zen,
Kuartzo izurtsua, zaborrez beteriko Cumae bat.
Argi elektrikoa estreinakoz ikusi nuen etxe hartan,
Eserita zetzan larruz estalitako lotu gabeko txapinekin,
Urtea joan eta urtea etorri, murmurio batean
Ahots harekin egiten zuen hotsik ozenena
Xuxurla baino ez zen. Biok geunden etsita
Han eman nuen lehenbiziko gauean, negar besterik egiten ez nuela
Maindirepean, logelan alferrik piztuta
Utzi zuten argipean. “Non duzu min, seme,
Jainkoarren, non duzu min?” Premiazko, Min
Ezpainkaria, urrunekoa eta zaharra. Harpeetako ur beldurgarria
Moila inguratzen. Haren laguntzeko ezinak ez zidan laguntzen.
***
Zizipaza eta berrizkatura. Zirimola edo ingeles gaiztoa.
Ferryak Belfast Loughen kulunkari eta biraka zebiltzan bitartean,
Zipriztinak ontziaren eta kaiaren artean,
Garaiz iritsiko nintzen ni, Animula, bizirik
Bekainak kristalean itsatsita eraman ohi nituen goizeko trenean,
Poesiaren “hor-duzu-eta-non-zaude?”
Berezkoak. Haien bizkarra bezalako
Etxe bizkarrak, tranpadurak eta arrabolezko garbigailuak
Trenbidera ematen zuten Ingalaterra ezegonkorreko atarietan,
Errentan hartutako baratzean txorimaloa ildoen artean,
Gero aldirietako futbol zelai bat, distantziaren aienea,
Cloth of Gol soroetako bezalako labore soroak.
Southwarkera ere joan nintzen,
Metroaren aho zulotik argitara,
Mayolaren hatsa Tamesisen “erribera arrotzaren” ondoan.
***
Bizkar okerreko besaulkian eseriz gero, argiaren
Etengailuraino iristen nintzen. Utzi egiten zidaten eta begira nituen.
Txorten txikiari sakatuta magia egin nezakeen.
Irratiaren gurpilari bira emanda argia pizten zen
Dialean. Utzi egiten zidaten eta begira nituen
Nahieran mundu guztiko kateak bilatzen nituen bitartean.
Gero joan egiten ziren eta Big Bena eta albisteak
Amatatu egiten ziren. Irratia itzali egiten zuten,
Guztia zegoen isilik argindarrik gabe, puntua egiteko
Orratzen eta tximiniako haizearen hotsa salbu.
Larruz estaliriko lotu gabeko txapinekin esertzen zen,
Argi elektrikoak diz-diz egiten zuen gure gainean, izua nion
Suharri zikinari eta haren azazkalaren pitzadurari,
Plektro bat bezain gogorra, distira dirdaitsuz, han egongo dena oraindik
Errosario ale eta orno hezurren artean Derryko hilerrian.
Electric Light
Candle grease congealed, dark-streaked with wick-soot. / Rucked alps from above. The smashed thumbnail / of that ancient mangled thumb was puckered pearl, // moonlit quartz, a bleached and littered Cumae. / In the first house where I saw electric light / she sat with her fur-lined felt slippers unzipped, // year in, year out, in the same chair, and whispered / in a voice that at its loudest did nothing else / but whisper. We were both desperate // the night I was left to stay with her and wept / under the clothes, under the waste of light / left turned on in the bedroom. "What ails you, child, // what ails you, for God's sake?" Urgent, sorrowing / ails, far-off and old. Scaresome cavern waters / lapping a boatslip. Her helplessness no help. // Lisp and relapse. Eddy of sibylline English. / Splashes between a ship and dock, to which, / animula, I would come alive in time // as ferries churned and turned down Belfast Lough / towards the brow-to-glass transport of a morning train, / the very "there-you-are-and-where-are-you?" // of poetry itself. Backs of houses / like the back of hers, meat safes and mangles / in the railway-facing yards of fleeting England, // an allotment scarecrow among patted rigs, / then a town-edge soccer pitch, the groin of distance, / fields of grain like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, // tunnel gauntlet and horizon keep. To Southwark, / too, I came, from tube mouth into sunlight, / Moyola-breath by Thames's "straunge strond." // If I stood on the bow-backed chair, I could reach / the light switch. They let me and they watched me, / A touch of the little pip would work the magic. // A turn of their wireless knob and light came on / in the dial. They let me and they watched me / as I roamed at will the stations of the world. // Then they were gone and Big Ben and the news / were over. The set had been switched off, / all quiet behind the blackout except for // knitting needles ticking, wind in the flue. / She sat with her fur-lined felt slippers unzipped, / electric light shone over us, I feared // the dirt-tracked flint and fissure of her nail, / so plectrum-hard, glit-glittery, it must still keep / among beads and vertebrae in the Derry ground.