Yesterday was world poetry day, and although it does not need protocols or Unesco stamps, I was excited to capture some poems that I really like to share. Now I don't have my favorite poetry books with me, they wait in a box along with so many others that we will bring to our new home. Here is a view from the window towards my city, chaotic and serene, harsh, romantic and jovial. Caracas, which has more than one poem that honors its complicated beauty.
For a time I bought a lot of used books, the more curious the better. Several I left on the road, too dirty and with years on top. This one I love: Medicine and Poetry, it's called (is from 1982). A super atypical compilation of poems with not a few bombastic and scientific words, many funny, like this one, with which I encourage myself to make a clumsy translation into English.
Eviction
Nine doctors saw me. The nine,
of our Faculty ornament and gala.
The nine find my health so bad,
Congestion in the liver, and not mild;
that I must die shortly.
bronchitis, antechamber of phthisis;
a kidney slips out of its position,
and the colon does not function as it should.
I don't feel like dying… But how
are nine wise men going to be wrong about my luck?
That I must die? Death come!
Anything before leaving
half a School of Medicine like fools!
The author of the poem is Job Pim, a pseudonym for Francisco Pimentel, a reference in Venezuelan letters that inspired a humorous and combative current since the first decades of the 20th century. If I found a Job Pim book among the treasures of a city bookseller, I would take it home, still stained and smelling of mold.
Now another poem, by A.J. Seymour, who already has an elegant English translation and that is why I share fascinated.
Finally, one by Eugenio Montejo, a Venezuelan, great master of verse. Deep, cute. Or so it seems to me. I chose this one for the technique of poem, the magic of the poem that comes to us when leafing through a special book at random. The precious translation is by Peter Boyle.
The Trees
The trees speak so little, you know.
They spend their entire life meditating
and moving their branches.
Just look at them closely in autumn
as they seek each other out in public places:
only the oldest attempt some conversation,
the ones that share clouds and birds,
but their voice gets lost in the leaves
and so little filters down to us, nothing really.
It’s difficult to fill the shortest book
with the thoughts of trees.
Everything in them is vague, fragmented.
Today, for instance, on the way to my house
hearing a black thrush shriek,
the last cry of one who won’t reach another summer,
I realized that in his voice a tree was speaking,
one of so many,
but I don’t know what to do with this sharp deep sound,
I don’t know in what type of script
I could set it down.
EN ESPAÑOL
Ayer fue el día internacional de la poesía, y aunque se que ella no necesita protocolos ni sellos de la Unesco, me animé a capturar algunos poemas que me gustan mucho para compartir. Ahora no tengo conmigo mis libros de poemas favoritos, esperan en una caja junto a tantas otras que traeremos a nuestro nuevo hogar. Acá va una vista desde la ventana hacia mi ciudad caótica y serena, áspera, romántica y jovial. Caracas, que más de un poema tiene que le hace honor a su complicada belleza.
Durante una época compraba muchos libros usados, mientras más curiosos mejor. Varios los dejé en el camino, demasiados roñosos y con años encima. Este me encanta: Medicina y Poesía, se llama (es de 1982). Una recopilación súper atípica de poemas con no pocas palabras grandilocuentes y científicas, muchos divertidos, como este, con el que me animo a hacer una torpe traducción al inglés.
Deshaucio
Me han visto nueve médicos. Los nueve,
de nuestra Facultad ornato y gala.
Los nueve encuentran mi salud tan mala,
Congestión en el hígado, y no leve;
que me debo morir en plazo breve.
bronquitis, de la tisis antesala;
un riñón de su puesto se resbala,
y el colon no funciona como debe.
Yo morir no me siento... ¿Pero cómo
nueve sabios así - de tomo y lomo
se van a equivocar sobre mi suerte?
¿Que me debo morir? iVenga la muerte!
¡Todo antes que dejar en la berlina
a media Facultad de Medicina!
El poema es Job Pim, seudónimo de Francisco Pimentel, una referencia en las letras venezolanas que inspiró a una corriente humorista y combativa desde las primeras décadas del siglo XX. Si me encontrara un libro de Job Pim entre los tesoros de un librero de ciudad, me lo llevaría a casa, aún con roña y olor a moho.
Ahora otro poema, de A.J. Seymour que ya cuenta con una elegante traducción al inglés y por eso comparto fascinada.
Por último, uno de Eugenio Montejo, venezolano, maestrazo del verso. Hondo, lindo. O al menos así me parece. Este lo escogí por la técnica de la poemancia, la magia del poema que llega a nosotros al hojear un libro especial al azar.
