VALLEJO, Cesar


A man walks by with a stick of bread on his shoulder


A man walks by with a stick of bread on his shoulder.

Am I going to write, after that, about my double?


Another sits, scratches, extracts a louse from his armpit, kills it.

How dare one speak about psychoanalysis?


Another has entered my chest with a stick in hand.

To talk then about Socrates with the doctor?


A cripple passes by holding a child’s hand.

After that I’m going to read André Breton?


Another trembles from cold, coughs, spits blood.

Will it ever be possible to allude to the profound I?


Another searches in the muck for bones, rinds.

How to write, after that, about the infinite?


A bricklayer falls from a roof, dies and no longer eats lunch.

To innovate, then, the trope, the metaphor?


A merchant cheats a customer out of a gram.

To speak, after that, about the fourth dimension?


A banker falsifies his balance sheet.

With what face to cry in the theater?


An outcast sleeps with his foot behind his back.

To speak, after that, to anyone about Picasso?


Someone goes to a burial sobbing.

How then become a member of the Academy?


Someone cleans a rifle in his kitchen.

How dare one speak about the beyond?


Someone passes by counting with his fingers.

How speak of the not-i without screaming?



The rage that breaks a man into children


The rage that breaks a man into children,

that breaks a child into identical birds

and then a bird into small eggs—

the rage of the poor

has an oil against two vinegars.


The rage that makes a tree break into leaf,

a leaf into unequal buds

and a bud into telescopic folds—

the rage of the poor

has two rivers against many seas.


The rage that breaks the good into doubts,

doubt into three similar arcs

and then an arc into unexpected graves—

the rage of the poor

has a steel against two daggers.


The rage that breaks a soul into bodies,

a body into dissimilar organs

and an organ into octavo thoughts—

the rage of the poor

has a central fire against two pits.


Paris, October 1936


From all of this I am the only one who leaves.

From this bench I go away, from my pants,

from my great situation, from my actions,

from my number split side to side,

from all of this I am the only one who leaves.


From the Champs Elysées or as the strange

alley of the Moon makes a turn,

my death goes away, my cradle leaves,

and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,

my human resemblance turns around

and dispatches its shadows one by one.


And I move away from everything, since everything

remains to create my alibi:

my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud

and even the bend in the elbow

of my own buttoned shirt.



To My Brother Miguel in memoriam

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house,

where you make a bottomless emptiness.

I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama

would calm us: “There now, boys...”

Now I go hide

as before, from all these evening

prayers, and I hope that you will not find me.

In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors.

Later, you hide, and I do not find you.

I remember we made each other cry,

brother, in that game.

Miguel, you hid yourself

one night in August, nearly at daybreak,

but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad.

And your other heart of those dead afternoons

is tired of looking and not finding you. And now

shadows fall on the soul.




Poema para ser leído y cantado


Sé que hay una persona

que me busca en su mano, día y noche,

encontrándome, a cada minuto, en su calzado.

¿Ignora que la noche está enterrada

con espuelas detrás de la cocina?


Sé que hay una persona compuesta de mis partes,

a la que integro cuando va mi talle

cabalgando en su exacta piedrecilla.

¿Ignora que a su cofre

no volverá moneda que salió con su retrato?


Sé el día,

pero el sol se me ha escapado;

sé el acto universal que hizo en su cama

con ajeno valor y esa agua tibia, cuya

superficial frecuencia es una mina.

¿Tan pequeña es, acaso, esa persona,

que hasta sus propios pies así la pisan?


Un gato es el lindero entre ella y yo,

al lado mismo de su taza de agua.

La veo en las esquinas, se abre y cierra

su veste, antes palmera interrogante…

¿Qué podrá hacer sino cambiar de llanto?


Pero me busca y busca. ¡Es una historia!


Poem To Be Read And Sung


I know there is a person

Who looks for me day and night inside her hand,

and coming upon me, every minute, in her shoes.

Doesn't she know that the night is buried

with spurs behind the kitchen?


I know there is someone composed of my pieces,

whom I complete when my waist goes

galloping in her precise little stone.

Doesn't she know that money once out for her likeness

never returns to her trunk?


I know the day,

but the sun has escaped from me;

I know the universal act she performed in her bed

with some other woman's bravery and warm water,

whose shallow recurrence is a mine.

Is it possible this being is so small

even her own feet walk on her that way?


A cat is the border between us two,

right there beside her bowl of water.

I see her on the corners, her dress - once

an inquiring palm tree - opens and closes...

What can she do but change her style weeping?


But she does look and look for me. This is a real story!






Masa

Al fin de la batalla,

y muerto el combatiente, vino hacia él un hombre

y le dijo: «¡No mueras, te amo tanto!»

Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.

Se le acercaron dos y repitiéronle:

«¡No nos dejes! ¡Valor! ¡Vuelve a la vida!»

Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.

Acudieron a él veinte, cien, mil, quinientos mil,

clamando «¡Tanto amor y no poder nada contra la muerte!

Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.

Le rodearon millones de individuos,

con un ruego común: «¡Quédate hermano!»

Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.

Entonces todos los hombres de la tierra

le rodearon; les vio el cadáver triste, emocionado;

incorporóse lentamente,

abrazó al primer hombre; echóse a andar...


Masses

At the end of the battle,

and the combatant dead, a man came unto him

and said ‘Do not die, I love you so much!’

But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Two men approached and repeated:

‘Do not leave us! Be brave! Come back to life!’

But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Twenty, a hundred, a thousand, half a million came toward him,

shouting: ‘So much love, and nothing can be done against death!’

But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Millions of people surrounded him,

with one common plea: ‘Stay here, brother!’

But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.

Then, all the men of the earth

surrounded him; moved, the sad corpse looked at them;

he rose up slowly,

embraced the first man; started to walk . .

Translation : V. GIANUZZI & M. SMITH

.





Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... ¡Yo no sé!

Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,

la resaca de todo lo sufrido

se empozara en el alma... ¡Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son... Abren zanjas oscuras

en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.

Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros Atilas;

o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma

de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.

Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones

de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre... Pobre... ¡pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como

cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;

vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido

se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... ¡Yo no sé!


The black heralds

There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don't know!

Blows as from God's hatred; as if before them,

the backlash of everything suffered

were to dam up in the soul ... I don't know!

They are few; but they are... They open dark furrows

in the fiercest face and in the strongest side.

Maybe they could be the horses of barbarous Attilas;

or the black heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep abysses of the soul's Christs,

of some revered faith Destiny blasphemes.

Those gory blows are the cracklings of a bread

that burns-up on us at the oven's door.

And man... Poor... poor! He turns his eyes,

as when a slap on the shoulder calls us;

he turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived

is dammed up, like a pond of guilt, in his gaze.

There are blows in life, so powerful . . . I don't know!





La cólera que quiebra al hombre en niños,

La cólera que quiebra al hombre en niños,

que quiebra al niño en pájaros iguales,

y al pájaro, después, en huevecillos;

la cólera del pobre

tiene un aceite contra dos vinagres.


La cólera que al árbol quiebra en hojas,

a la hoja en botones desiguales

y al botón, en ranuras telescópicas;

la cólera del pobre

tiene dos ríos contra muchos mares.


La cólera que quiebra al bien en dudas,

a la duda, en tres arcos semejantes

y al arco, luego, en tumbas imprevistas;

la cólera del pobre

tiene un acero contra dos puñales.


La cólera que quiebra al alma en cuerpos,

al cuerpo en órganos desemejantes

y al órgano, en octavos pensamientos;

la cólera del pobre

tiene un fuego central contra dos cráteres.


The anger that breaks the man into children


The anger that breaks the man into children,

that breaks the child into equal birds,

and the bird, afterward, into little eggs;

the anger of the poor

has one oil against two vinegars.


The anger that breaks the tree into leaves,

the leaf into unequal buds

and the bud, into telescopic grooves;

the anger of the poor

has two rivers against many seas.


The anger that breaks the good into doubts,

the doubt, into three similar arcs

and the arc, later on, into unforeseeable tombs;

the anger of the poor

has one steel against two daggers.


The anger that breaks the soul into bodies;

the body into dissimilar organs

and the organ, into octave thoughts;

the anger of the poor

has one central fire against two craters.


Translated from Spanish by Clayton Eshleman and José Rubia Barcia)

:




Confianza


Confidence in the glasses, not in the eye;

In the staircase, never in the stairstep;

In the wing, not in the bird

And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.


Confidence in wickedness, not in the wicked;

In the tumbler, yet never in the liquor;

In the corpse, not in the man

And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.


Confidence in many, but no longer in one;

In the riverbed, never in the current;

In your pants, not in your legs

And in yourself alone, in yourself alone, in yourself alone.


Confidence in the window, not in the door;

In the mother, yet not in the nine months;

In fate, not in the gold dice,