Poesia kaiera
Gino
Haren musu batetik hilko zara, esan zuen, heriotza
ziurra baita krait sugeak heldu eta odola bere esentzia
pozoitsuaz betetzen badizu. Isilik nengoen;
behingoagatik; mihia ahoan itzali zitzaidan.
Uztaila zen, uztail bat euritsua: iluntasuna, kea bezala
harrapatua zeruaren hutsuneetan; eta ustel usain
likits heze bero hura lurretik altxatuz.
Hura ni baino pauso bat aurrerago zihoan, mendebala
irazten zitzaiola ileen artetik. Nik, nire artean: bederen
gai banaiz bene-benetan nahi izateko haren maitasuna,
zorionaren gainean ibiliko gara, sagaratu gabeko legeak
hankapean darabiltzan zaldi zuri garai arinean.
Bederen gai banaiz egozteko ukitu baten oroipen jarauntsia,
logela ispiluetan zerbitzatuko dut neure burua,
fruitu ubel zilarrezko erretiluan, eta hura etzanda begira
dagoen bitartean, besteren herrialde baten konkistatzaile eder,
distira emango diet haren begi aldartetsuetako beirei.
Eta jelosia airez, ele mingotsen eta koleraren ostean,
haren kirioetan egingo dut intziri, nola etxerik gabeko katuek
ekaitzaren hondakinetatik. Baina batek ez du eskuratzen
merezi duen bizitza baizik; eta ez ditu amesten
arima zaharrak ulertzeko moduko ametsak baizik.
Amesten ditut esku lizunak, istapeka nire lohadarretan gora;
gorputegiak, gau argiak ņirņirka direla arimaren ihesak
kontraleihoak itxi dizkien aurpegietan; zaintza mutilak,
hilobisil, bultzaka naramatela korridore luzeetatik
X izpien gelako barne ilunera (oi! bai ozena hildakoak
daramatzaten ohatilen astrapala, ezgaraiko barre algara
bezain ozena); eta hegazkinak, gorri lehertuz zeruan…
Haren amets paregabeak amesten aritu beharko nintzateke:
eguzkiak argitu txaletak; haur mestizo guriak, jainkoak baino
maitagarriagoak; hura eta biok, galerietan ardoa edaten,
zahartzen eta bakean, mozorro guztiak erantzita.
Baina nire amaia bestelakoa izango da, badakit, gure odolaren
ibaiadarrak ez dira behin ere batuko. Amets ibai bat da,
eutsiozu horrela, haurrak amets haurrak dira.
Benetakoek inoiz ez dituzte izaten horren begi dirdaitsuak.
Pozik gabe daroadan gorputz hau, gorputz
onberatasunez kargatua, jostailu lirain gizon mamitsu baten
jabetzakoa, agian zimeldu egingo da nire maitearen
irrits inpertsonalarekin borrokan. Edo loditu egingo da,
eta tamaina itzela hartu amaia baino lehen.
Atso belaungizena izango naiz autobuseko ilara luzean,
patata umila eroriko zaiona erosketa poltsatik
errepidearen erdira. Gaixoa izango naiz
ospitaleko ohean, drogapeko loerian,
etxearekin ametsetan. Amona izango naiz
gainetik kenduz jabetzak, hezurrak baino
iraunkorrago zaizkion puska eta zirtzileria horiek.
Agian umetokiren bat inarrosiko da mundu ilunago
hartan, azkenik sartzen naizenean, hautagai legitimo,
deskontentuz markatua.
Gino
You will perish from his kiss, he said, as one must / Surely die, when bitten by a krait who fills / The bloodstream with its accursed essence. I was quiet, / For once, my tongue had fainted in my mouth. / It was July, a July full of rain, and darkness / Trapped like smoke, in the hollows of the sky, and / That lewd, steamy smell of rot, rising out of earth, / He walked one step ahead of me, the west wind leaking / Through his hair. And, I thought, if I could only want / Really, really want his love, we shall ride happiness, / Great white steed, trampler of unsacred laws, / If I could only dislodge the inherited / Memory of a touch, I shall serve myself in / Bedroom-mirrors, dark fruit on silver platter, / While he lies watching, fair conqueror of another’s / Country, I shall polish the panes of his moody eyes. / And in jealous moods, after bitter words and rage, / I shall wail in his nerves, as homeless cats wail / From the rubble of a storm. But one only gets / The life one deserves, and dreams only such dreams as / The old soul can comprehend. I dream of obscene hands / Striding up my limbs and of morgues where the night-lights / Glow on faces shuttered by the soul’s exit. And / Of ward-boys, sepulchral, wheeling me through long corridors / To the X-ray room’s dark interior. / (O, the clatter of the trolleys, with the dead on them, / As loud as untimely laughter) And, of aeroplanes / Bursting red in the sky... I should be dreaming his / Peerless dreams, his dreams of sunlit villa and of fat / Half-caste children, lovelier than Gods and of / Drinking wine in verandahs, he and I, ageing, / And at peace, all disguise gone from us. // But I shall end differently, I know, our bloods’ / Tributaries never once merging. It is / A dream-river, keep it so, the children are / Dream-children. Real ones never bear such splendent eyes. / This body that I wear without joy, this body / Burdened with lenience, slender toy, owned / By man of substance, shall perhaps wither, battling with / My darling’s impersonal lust. Or, it shall grow gross / And reach large proportions before its end. / I shall be the fat-kneed hag in the long bus queue / The one from whose shopping bag the mean potato must / Roll across the road. I shall be the patient / On the hospital bed, lying in drugged slumber / And dreaming of home. I shall be the grandmother / Willing away her belongings, those scraps and trinkets / More lasting than her bones. Perhaps some womb in that / Darker world shall convulse, when I finally enter, / A legitimate entrant, marked by discontent.