Helmut NewtonIMPOSSIBLE POEM
Let my touch know you for the last time
because I want to learn your face by heart,
because I want to start a poem with:
“In Segovia, on a night of towers, my soul could not,
was unable . . .”
Let me, yes, let me.
Let me at least tire your footprints
for this face-scented pillow
because I want to make a bird out of your skin
to awaken my dead heart.
I loved you head on, completely
and watched myself at length in your hands
seeking to grant forgiveness to my ancient thirst for a shore.
This way for this rose-faced sadness
as if the color carried my barefoot pain.
Sometimes there comes to me a silence of bells
always, always whistling under your skin…
You approached my life like a lone vegetable
stretching your eyes up to the tree’s fullness.
My life was simple, humble,
tender clay to the touch.
Now I am but a blind spring
fleeing the shadow in your gaze.
It’s true that everything was useless and painful;
a pity that you didn’t love me:
it’s been the greatest what a pity in the world.
But come, come near and die a little in my words.
Despite everything you’re my love, my you, my never.
And I can no longer cope with this fateless hollow
weighing inside me like God on the grass.
For neither can I cope with this taste of you in my lips.
Yes: in Segovia the sap died suddenly.
And I could not,
was unable.
© 1953, Eduardo Cote Lamus
From: Salvación del recuerdo
Publisher: José Janés, Barcelona, 1953
Let my touch know you for the last time
because I want to learn your face by heart,
because I want to start a poem with:
“In Segovia, on a night of towers, my soul could not,
was unable . . .”
Let me, yes, let me.
Let me at least tire your footprints
for this face-scented pillow
because I want to make a bird out of your skin
to awaken my dead heart.
I loved you head on, completely
and watched myself at length in your hands
seeking to grant forgiveness to my ancient thirst for a shore.
This way for this rose-faced sadness
as if the color carried my barefoot pain.
Sometimes there comes to me a silence of bells
always, always whistling under your skin…
You approached my life like a lone vegetable
stretching your eyes up to the tree’s fullness.
My life was simple, humble,
tender clay to the touch.
Now I am but a blind spring
fleeing the shadow in your gaze.
It’s true that everything was useless and painful;
a pity that you didn’t love me:
it’s been the greatest what a pity in the world.
But come, come near and die a little in my words.
Despite everything you’re my love, my you, my never.
And I can no longer cope with this fateless hollow
weighing inside me like God on the grass.
For neither can I cope with this taste of you in my lips.
Yes: in Segovia the sap died suddenly.
And I could not,
was unable.
© 1953, Eduardo Cote Lamus
From: Salvación del recuerdo
Publisher: José Janés, Barcelona, 1953
© Translation: 2010, Laura Chalar
4 comments:
Nice poem. I will look for the spanish version. :)))
POEMA IMPOSIBLE
Deja por última vez que mi tacto te sepa
porque quiero aprenderme tu cara de memoria,
porque quiero iniciar un poema diciendo:
“En Segovia, una noche de torres, mi alma no pudo,
no le fue posible . . .”
Déjame, sí, déjame.
Déjame aunque sea fatigar tus huellas
por esta almohada con aroma de rostro
porque quiero hacer un pájaro con tu piel
para despertar mi corazón muerto.
Yo te amé de frente, por entero
y me miraba largamente en tus manos
buscando dar olvido a mi antigua sed de orilla.
Por ahí para esta tristeza con cara de rosa
como si el color llevara mi dolor descalzo.
A veces me viene tu silencio de campanas
que debajo de tu piel silban siempre, siempre…
Te acercaste a mi vida como un vegetal solo
alargando tus ojos hasta la plenitud del árbol.
Mi vida era sencilla, humilde,
tiernamente arcilla para un tacto.
Ahora no soy sino un manantial ciego
que huye de la sombra en tu mirada.
Es cierto que todo me fue inútil, doloroso;
fue una lástima que tú no me quisieras:
ha sido el mayor qué lástima del mundo.
Pero ven, acércate y muérete un poco en mis palabras.
A pesar de todo eres mi amor, mi tú, mi nunca.
Y ya no puedo con este hueco sin destino
que me pesa por dentro como Dios en la yerba.
Porque tampoco puedo con este sabor de ti en los labios.
Sí: en Segovia murió la savia de repente.
Y yo no pude,
no me fue posible.
© 1953, Eduardo Cote Lamus
;)
Thanks for this gift.
ha sido el mayor qué sorpresa del mundo. :)
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