Poesia kaiera
Bi poema ingelesez
Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich-i
I
Egunsenti ezdeusak hor nau topatu kale-kantoi jendez hustu batean; bizirik gainditu dut gaua.
Gauak olatu harro dira: urdin iluneko olatu gandor-astun, mukuru eginak zarama sakonen tonuez, gauza ezusteko eta desiragarriz.
Gauek badute aztura bat opari eta ukazio misteriotsuz, erdi laga, erdi gordez, poztasun hemisferio ilundunez. Gauek hala jokatzen dute, baiki.
ur-gorak, gau hartan, utzi ninduen ohiko izpi eta litsekin: zenbait lagun gorrotatu, berriketarako; musika ametsetarako; errauts mingotsen ke-lainoa. Nire bihotz goseak zertan erabili aurkitzen ez dien gauzak.
Olatu handiak zu ekarri zintuen.
Hitzak, zeinahi hitz, zure barrea; eta zu hain nagiro, hain tai gabe eder. Mintzatu ginen, eta ahantziak zuk hitzak.
Egun-urratzeak hor nau aurkitu neure hiriko kale jendez hustu batean.
Zure soslaia han urruntzen, zure izena osatzera datozen hotsak, zure algararen kriskitina: horra utzi dizkidazun jostailu gailenak.
Itzulikatzen ditut egunsentian, galtzen ditut, aurkitzen ditut; haien berri ematen diet egunsentiko txakur deslai urri eta izar deslai urriei.
Zure bizi ilun aberatsa…
Iritsi behar zaitut, nola edo hala; alde batera uzten ditut utzi dizkidazun jostailu gailenok, zure begirada ezkutua nahi dut, zure irribarre zinezkoa, zure ispilu hotzak dakien irribarre bakarti, burlati hori.
II
Zerekin zaitzaket atxiki?
Eskaintzen dizut kale argalik, ilunabar etsirik, aldiri zarpailetako ilargia.
Eskaintzen dizut luzaz ere luzaz ilargi bakartiari so egona den gizon baten mingostasuna. Eskaintzen dizkizut neure asaba zaharrak, neure gizon hilak, gizon biziek marmolean ohoratu dituzten mamuak: aitaren aita Buenos Aireseko mugaldean hila, bi bala haren biriketan barrena, bizardun eta hilik, bere soldaduek behi baten larruan bildua; amaren aitona —hogeita lau urte doi— hirurehun gizonen karga batean buru Perun, orain guztiak mamu zaldi desagertutan.
Eskaintzen dizut zernahi ere zolitasun dakarketen nire liburuek, zernahi ere gizontasun edo aldarte on nire bizitzak.
Eskaintzen dizut inoiz leial izan ez den gizon baten leialtasuna.
Eskaintzen dizut nolabait salbatu dudan neure muin hori: mami-mamiko bihotza, zeinak ez baitu egiten traturik hitzez, ez baitu trafikatzen ametsekin eta ukitu gabe uzten baitute pozak, zorigaitzek.
Eskaintzen dizut oroimeneko arrosa beilegia ilunabarrean ikusia, urteak lehenago zu jaio baino.
Eskaintzen dizut zeuri buruzko azalpenik, zeure gaineko teoriarik, zeuri buruzko berri zinezko eta ezustekorik.
Eman diezazuket neure bakardadea, neure iluntasuna, neure bihotzaren gosea; saiatzen ari naiz zure txera erosten ziurgabetasunarekin, arriskuarekin, porrotarekin.
Two English Poems
To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich
I
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. / Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. / Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. / The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. / The big wave brought you. / Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. / The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. / Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me. / I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. / Your dark rich life… / I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile —that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows.
II
What can I hold you with? / I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. / I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. / I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather —just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses. / I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life. / I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. / I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow — the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. / I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. / I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. / I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.