eugeniomontejo

Se amaban. No estaban solos en la tierra;
tenían la noche, sus vísperas azules,
sus celajes.

Vivían uno en el otro, se palpaban
como dos pétalos no abiertos en el fondo
de alguna flor del aire.

Se amaban. No estaban solos a la orilla
de su primera noche.
Y era la tierra la que se amaba en ellos,
el oro nocturno de sus vueltas,
la galaxia.

Ya no tendrían dos muertes. No iban a separarse.
Desnudos, asombrados, sus cuerpos se tendían
como hileras de luces en un largo aeropuerto
donde algo iba a llegar desde muy lejos,
no demasiado tarde.

Eugenio Montejo
(Venezolano)

Imagen: “Amantes”, de Nicoletta Tomas

#poesía #poetry #eugeniomontejo #venezuelan #Venezuela #igersvenezuela #igerspoesia #instapoem #lovers #amantes #love #milazules #max #AutoresVenezolanos

(via Eugenio Montejo - Fino a quando girerà la terra - Lio Site)

Un poesia che mi prende il cuore, una poesia d'amore così “universale”. Letta da Giancarlo Cattaneo vuole essere il mio regalo per prepararvi al fine settimana :)

Forse infastidisce il rimando al sito per leggere ed ascoltare la poesia, ma quello è il salotto dove amo stare con voi, farvi accomodare, condividere le cose che amo….

“Lascia che ti ami fino a quando girerà la terra
e gli astri inchinino i loro cranei azzurri
sulla rosa dei venti.
Galleggiando, a bordo di questo giorno
nel quale per caso, per un istante,
ci siamo destati così vicini.
Ho potuto vivere in un altro regno, in un altro mondo,
a molte leghe dalle tue mani, dal tuo sorriso,
su un pianeta remoto, irraggiungibile. […]”

Ted Mathys + Judith Mathys

Eugenio Montejo (Caracas, 1938-2008)


 The Earth Turned In Us 

There in the doorway to the past

the earth turned to let us pass, turned

upon itself and in us, until finally it joined us

inside this dream, as in the Symposium.

Nights, snows, solstices; in minutes

millennia passed. A cart bound for Ninevah

turned up in Nebraska. A rooster sang

from afar, down through one of our ancestors’

innumerable bloodlines. The earth turned musically,

freighted with us. It didn’t stop spinning

for an instant, as if the miraculous

were an adagio written long ago

in the score of the symphony

we hear blowing through the door.

 

The Slave

To be the slave who lost his body

so word could dwell in it. To have for bones

innocent flutes played by an exile,

an unknown, or nobody. The only certainty

is breath and the anxiety of deciphering it.

Being the slave while others sleep

and the lamplight harasses space,

its hollow sister, with clarity.

In terror of being awake opposite stars,

unable to be still when they rouse,

irradiate, flood the world as night

darkens the page. To be the mercenary

alchemist of lead, boredom, and zinc

casting breath into agates, human clay into gold,

so that the stars won’t fling it to the dogs

once they deliver their part.



 

 

Trees

 

The trees are reserved, that much is known.

They while away life in meditation,

moving their branches. It is enough

to spy on them in autumn

when they gang up in parks:

only the oldest converse

in voices shared with clouds and birds.

Their voices soften as they travel over leaves

and reach us in silence.

There are so few insights about trees

they won’t fill even one notebook.

Everything about them is vague,

fragmented. Today, for example,

upon hearing the scream of a black thrush,

already on its way home, a terminal scream

that doesn’t expect another summer,

I understood that in its voice

a tree was speaking, one of many,

but I don’t know what to do with that scream,

don’t know how to put it down. 



 

 

Poetry

Poetry works alone. It crosses

the earth, rests its voice in pain

and begs for nothing – not even words.

It arrives from afar and without

time, never warning; it has the key

to our door. Upon entering

it always stops to stare at us.

Afterward it opens its hand

to deliver a flower, a pebble,

something secret but so intense

that its heart beats too fast

for us to sleep through it.




 

Spider Velocity

Swift, the spider that weaves us

from a remote star. Swiftly she spins

skin, voice, nerves, footsteps we follow

into nets of longitude, trailing white  

filaments of dream, inaudible music

behind us in ribbons, mixing

blood and void. Here, the digits

of my hand are letters already woven

into the paper my hand travels,  

eight fingers working a loom

so distant it has already converted me

into its scribe. My books, this lamp,

the paintings, what I am, have ever been,

smoke from the patio, my tacit death,

my eyes and those that manage to read me,

we are hanging by her threads.





Elegy

Be quiet before the poem.

Circulate among its verses

but don’t interrupt its gait. 

It may be a godless oration

but it is oration nonetheless. 

And now that it’s been born,

men will gather and repeat its words

in their sleep. A mystery convenes

these words in them, as though

something sacred will remain on earth.

Perhaps you reject the whole ordeal,

the ritual that fills you with them

and them with you. But don’t speak.

Decipher each letter slowly,

as someone who overhears a rooster

and senses that its midnight wail,

instead of a scream, is an inquiry

into an obituary in which your name

may be mentioned, or maybe

for you the rooster already sang.



Inscription

Sometime I will write with stones,

measuring each of my sentences

by weight, volume, movement. 

I am tired of words. No more pencil.

Instead, precision: an optical telescope

to measure angles in multiple planes,

to triangulate this foreign landscape

and tattoo the solar nakedness of feeling

directly onto rocks. With lines of pebbles

I will sketch my name, the story of my house

and the memory of the river within me,

how it delays in my veins like a wise architect.

With a living stone I will write my song

in arches, bridges, dolmens, columns

against the horizon’s loneliness, like a map

unfolding before the eyes of emigrants

who will never return.




Return to Your Gods

Return to your profound gods. 

They are intact, waiting at the bottom

with their llamas. The breeze of time

has silenced them. Silent, practical,

occult gods in the porousness of things.

You have rolled down the world’s hills

toward them, farther than any pebble.

You have eroded away your name,

your city, your acidic, fragmentary visions.

After so many stone hours, what do you retain? 

The music of being is dissonant

but life continues and certain agreements prevail.

The earth is round from the desire to gravitate.

The earth will round it all out, everything,

each at its time, to its end. So many trips

over the ocean, so many nights by your lamp,

and only these voices surround you.

Echoes of your gods are ciphered in them.

Your gods are intact, in the eyes of minnows

coursing through your blood.



The House

In the depths of the woman’s body

between murmurs and silence

the house is built. Shadows of stones,

virtual birds, scaffolds of light –  

it is necessary to follow them evenly,

down to the dream’s core,

so as not to wake her with movements

or disturb her gentle smile.  

On the dunes that cover sleep

with a wavering countryside,

it is necessary to erect walls,

to make them tall, create years

and years against rain, wind,

sand hammering from the dunes.

A gesture can fix a wall in place.

From a whisper a window is born.

Through it she sees us dismount,

tie up our horse, wander to her door.

Behind it the whole house waits for us

and the table is set with clean words

for living, or perhaps for dying,

we don’t know which

because once inside, one never leaves.


Rooster Song

 

                                     – for Adriano González León

The song is outside the rooster.

Drop by drop it blankets his body

now that he sleeps in a tree. Below,

night falls continuously, in shadows

across the veins of leaves and wings. 

The song fills the uncontainable rooster

like a jug. It fills his feathers, his throat,

his knifelike spurs, until it erupts

in a relentless cry that spills over the world.

Afterward the bird returns to his rest

and the silence solidifies.  

The song is outside again,

in air, scattered among shadows.

Inside the rooster there are only tendons,

muscles, and sleep, where a drop

falls through the deep night, silently

among the pitter patter of stars.



Eugenio Montejo (Caracas, 1938 - Valencia, 5 June 2008) was a Venezuelan poet and essay writer, founder of the literary magazine Azar and co-founder of Revista Poesía, a poetry magazine published by the University of Carabobo.In Venezuela he was awarded the National Prize for Literature in 1998 and in 2004 he received the International Octavio Paz Prize for Poetry and Essay. International interest in Montejo’s poetry grew after his poem “La tierra giró para acercarnos” (“The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer”) was used in the film 21 grams by feted Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu. A few lines from the poem are quoted by Sean Penn’s character in the movie.




Eugenio Montejo: A Note on Process 

by Ted Mathys

Eugenio Montejo’s poems possess a magical fluidity that breaks down distinctions between past and present, interior and exterior, quotidian life and dream life, voice and silence. That a rooster haunts so many of Montejo’s poems is no surprise. The rooster’s voice announces the transition between night and day, a bleed of light into darkness that upsets our most fundamental binaries. This indeterminate moment of rooster song is what we are after in these translations. Like Montejo, my mother speaks Spanish, but I do not. Montejo was a poet, and I am a poet, but my mother is not. My mother and I share an American idiom, but Montejo did not. In the swirling center of this Venn diagram these translations attempt their own refracted “mother tongue.” I am skeptical of the performed possibility for verisimilitude between source language and target language that governs much translation. I wanted place an obstacle between Montejo’s originals and my own tendency to get things right, but I wanted that obstacle to be human rather than algorithmic. So instead of turning to Google Translate, over the course of several months I sent my mother catalogued fragments of all ten poems in four discrete batches. Each batch contained some language from each of the poems, out of order and with all line breaks removed. Montejo’s diction and syntactical arrangements can be extremely difficult, but she translated each fragment without consulting a dictionary and without any contextualizing language at hand. I then reassembled her raw English text into prose blocks and used them as source material for these new poems. “The music of being is dissonant,” Montejo writes, “but life continues and certain agreements prevail.” In the end, our hope is that translation itself is one of those agreements. 

Amantes.

Se amaban. No estaban solos en la tierra; tenían la noche, sus vísperas azules, sus celajes. Vivían uno en el otro, se palpaban como dos pétalos no abiertos en el fondo de alguna flor del aire. Se amaban. No estaban solos a la orilla de su primera noche. Y era la tierra la que se amaba en ellos, el oro nocturno de sus vueltas, la galaxia. Ya no tendrían dos muertes. No iban a separarse. Desnudos, asombrados, sus cuerpos se tendían como hileras de luces en un largo aeropuerto donde algo iba a llegar desde muy lejos, no demasiado tarde.

Eugenio Montejo