Don Jaime Says...

F.D. Roosevelt's Second Bill of Rights 1944

2011-10-08T13:21:00.002-04:00

F.D.Roosevelt’s Second Bill of Rights

The Second Bill of Rights was a list of rights proposed by Franklin D. Roosevelt, the then President of the United States, during his State of the Union Address on January 11, 1944. In his address Roosevelt suggested that the nation had come to recognize, and should now implement, a second "bill of rights". Roosevelt's argument was that the "political rights" guaranteed by the constitution and the Bill of Rights had "proved inadequate to assure us equality in the pursuit of happiness." Roosevelt's remedy was to declare an "economic bill of rights" which would guarantee:
Employment, with a living wage,
Freedom from unfair competition and monopolies,
Housing,
Medical care,
Education, and,
Social security

Excerpt from President Roosevelt's January 11, 1944 message to the Congress of the United States on the State of the Union[1]:
It is our duty now to begin to lay the plans and determine the strategy for the winning of a lasting peace and the establishment of an American standard of living higher than ever before known. We cannot be content, no matter how high that general standard of living may be, if some fraction of our people—whether it be one-third or one-fifth or one-tenth—is ill-fed, ill-clothed, ill-housed, and insecure.
This Republic had its beginning, and grew to its present strength, under the protection of certain inalienable political rights—among them the right of free speech, free press, free worship, trial by jury, freedom from unreasonable searches and seizures. They were our rights to life and liberty.
As our nation has grown in size and stature, however—as our industrial economy expanded—these political rights proved inadequate to assure us equality in the pursuit of happiness.
We have come to a clear realization of the fact that true individual freedom cannot exist without economic security and independence. “Necessitous men are not free men.”[2] People who are hungry and out of a job are the stuff of which dictatorships are made.
In our day these economic truths have become accepted as self-evident. We have accepted, so to speak, a second Bill of Rights under which a new basis of security and prosperity can be established for all—regardless of station, race, or creed.
Among these are:
The right to a useful and remunerative job in the industries or shops or farms or mines of the nation;
The right to earn enough to provide adequate food and clothing and recreation;
The right of every farmer to raise and sell his products at a return which will give him and his family a decent living;
The right of every businessman, large and small, to trade in an atmosphere of freedom from unfair competition and domination by monopolies at home or abroad;
The right of every family to a decent home;
The right to adequate medical care and the opportunity to achieve and enjoy good health;
The right to adequate protection from the economic fears of old age, sickness, accident, and unemployment;
The right to a good education.
All of these rights spell security. And after this war is won we must be prepared to move forward, in the implementation of these rights, to new goals of human happiness and well-being.
America's own rightful place in the world depends in large part upon how fully these and similar rights have been carried into practice for all our citizens.
For unless there is security here at home there cannot be lasting peace in the world.

William James as Revolutionary Thinker

2011-08-20T11:09:00.000-04:00

To Hell with Culture

Quoted by Herbert Read from the essay “The Cult of Leadership,” by William James

I am against bigness and greatness in all their forms, and with the invisible molecular moral forces that work from individual to individual, stealing in thru the crannies of the world like so many soft rootlets, or like the capillary oozing of water, and yet rending the hardest monuments of man’s pride, if you give them time. The bigger the unit you deal with, the hollower, the more brutal, the more mendacious is the life displayed. So I am against all big organizations as such, national ones first and foremost; against all big successes and big results; and in favour of the eternal forces of truth which always work in the individual and immediately unsuccessful way, underdogs always, till history comes, after they are long dead, and puts them on top.

William James, Letters II, 90

Tobias Smollet, Author of Don Quixote

2011-08-15T13:41:00.003-04:00

Tobias Smollett, Author of Don Quixote

“Fame is a form of incomprehension—perhaps the worst,” wrote Jorge Luis Borges in “Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote.” It should not be surprising then that the most famous novel of all time is one of the most misunderstood classics of world literature. I’m always outraged when I hear people state, “I read it as a child.” It is possible that an extremely precocious child could read the novel in its entirety, but Don Quixote is not a novel for children. It is one of the bloodiest, most graphically violent, shamelessly sexual, and sadistic novels ever written. Nabokov was not entirely in the wrong for disliking the novel for its appalling violence and cruelty. (Parents who allow their children to read Don Quixote should be arrested for putting at high risk the mental health of their offspring).

Don Quixote is also the best-known least read book of all time. I’ve met hundreds of people who have started it, but never finished it. It’s even all right for an American novelist as prominent and honored as Jonathan Franzen to confess that: “I have started Moby-Dick … Don Quixote, without coming anywhere near finishing them.” In the English-speaking world when I mention the novel in conversation, many people immediately will say, “I love Man of La Mancha;” some even begin to hum a bar or two of the infectious “To Dream the Impossible Dream.”

As befits a work of such importance, there are hundreds of translations of Don Quixote in all known languages, and close to twenty into English—most of them mediocre, but a few of them exceptional works in their own right. When I meet English-born speakers who say to me: “I read it in Spanish and it should never be read in translation,” I know they haven’t read it or didn’t understand much of it. With malevolent satisfaction, I remind these people that Borges (who was obsessed with the novel) said once that he loved it when he read it in English as a child but found it disappointing when he read it as an adult in the original. I should point out, though, that Borges, like his immortal creation, Pierre Menard, had the “ironic habit of propagating ideas that were the exact opposite of those he himself held.”

Still, to read the novel in Spanish (despite Cervantes’s modernity—he’s the first meta-fictional novelist) is a daunting task. The man who practically invented Castilian (the language we know as Spanish) used thousands of words whose meaning time has obscured. Without the aid of profuse footnotes, it is exceedingly hard for most Spanish readers nowadays to grasp their meaning. When Edith Grossman’s magnificent new translation appeared in the United States, I mentioned it to a poet friend during a visit to Spain. His comment: “Now she should translate it into Spanish so we can understand it.”

How often we forget that the novel itself, Cervantes claims, is a translation into Castilian of the work of the Moor Cid Hamet Benengeli, who is often referred to as “a liar.” I have read and studied Don Quixote in its original language, but I’ve always taught Tobias Smollet’s translation, which first appeared in 1755. Smollet must have identified with Cervantes and his hero on many levels. His own novels are influenced by the episodic and picaresque nature of Cervantes’s work. The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle, his vicious and hilarious satire of English society in the XVIII century, owes a great debt to Cervantes’s masterwork, right down to its ramshackle structure. In an act of further madness and identification, Smollett wrote Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves, a rewriting of Don Quixote, set in England.

Salman Rushdie wrote that Cervantes was lucky to find a translator whose “rambunctious personality” ideally matches that of the author. And Cervantes was nothing if not irreverent. Smollet takes other extraordinary liberties with the novel. For example, he does away with all the sonnets that introduce the narrative (even though the one spoken by Don Quixote’s horse, Rocinante, is among the most delightful things Cervantes ever wrote.) In many places, Smollet cuts and adds as he pleases; his own footnotes are masterpieces of irony, playful mimicry of style, and erudition: “Here Don Quixote seems to have been too scrupulous for, tho’ no squire was permitted to engage with a knight on horseback, yet they were allowed, and even enjoined, to assist their masters when they were unhorsed or in danger, by mounting them on fresh steeds, supplying them with arms, and warding off the blows that were aimed at them. Davy Gam, at the battle of Agincourt, lost his life defending Henry V. of England, and St. Severin met with the same fate in warding off the blows that were aimed at Francis I of France, in the battle of Paris.”

There are scholars who claim that Tobias Smollet did not know Spanish, that he must have translated the novel from the French. I’m more impressed with how, following Pierre Menard’s method of writing Don Quixote, Smollet almost became Miguel de Cervantes. He joined the English navy and participated in an epochal battle of his time. He was a surgeon mate on HSM Cumberland, during the Battle of Cartagena in 1741, which turned out to be one of the greatest defeats the mighty English navy ever suffered. Cervantes himself, as is well-known, was a soldier in the Battle of Lepanto, where he lost the use of his left arm. Eventually, the life of the author and translator intersected: Cervantes had petitioned the court of Phillip II to grant him a job in the Colombian port of Cartagena where, after suffering as many defeats as his mad knight, and as Smollet himself, the novelist hoped to have a fresh start.

Tobias Smollett is not only the most audacious and ingenious translator of Don Quixote; we should honor him as being one of its first Pierre Menards. Of all the books I’ve read in translation, it is one of the very few that seems to me to be as great as the original.

Jaime Manrique

Published PEN America 14 2011

Elegía a la muerte de Andrés Caicedo

2011-08-14T17:06:00.001-04:00

A la muerte de Andrés Caicedo

En tu grande y noble deseo de ir a un lugar
Diferente, percibo ese desdén
Ese conocimiento de “il mondo e poco”.
Ahora ha llegado de nuevo la primavera:
Yo quisiera que tus ojos verdigris
Pudieran apreciar el milagro de las tiernas hojas;
Quisiera sostener tu mano y ayudarte a cruzar el río.
Donde tú estás, donde mis palabras ya no te alcanzan
Sé que puedes verme aunque tus cartas
Ya no lleguen entrega inmediata
Ni tus llamadas me despierten a la madrugada.
“Sólo me interesa la pasión que conduce a la muerte”,
Decías en la última. Todas estas noches
Al cerrar los ojos al cielo estrellado
Recuerdo nuestra última tarde juntos
En el tope de una montaña
Nuestros cuerpos desnudos al sol
Maduros e impacientes como frutas salvajes.
Ahora nuestras promesas están truncas
Como los árboles endebles
Que no aguantan el rigor del inverno.
Habíamos planeado escribir un libro
Hacer una película, vivir juntos.
Tú descansas en un cielo azul y calmo
Y quiero recordarte azul y amplio como un cielo.
Querido Andrés, ambos jugamos a la vida
Y ahora la muerte te pasó la cuenta.
Esta nueva primavera cada despertar
Me recuerda que ya no estás entre nosotros.
Yo escribiriré el libro, haré el viaje
Y algún día volveremos a encontrarnos.
De ahora en adelante, donde quiera que esté
Dondequiera que te busque sin encontrarte
Siempre te tenderé la mano para decirte
Que aun te quiero. Esta noche de primavera
Llueve sobre la tierra negra y sé
Que tu corazón escucha las gotas de lluvia
Aunque tus ojos mortals ya no puedan verlas.
Mi corazón es como ese cielo que llora
Mis lágrimas la ligazón entre este mundo y el tuyo.
Tú también, como yo, deseabas el descanso.
Yo también, como tú, me voy poco a poco.
Tú muerte no es una traición. Ni tu me has abandonado.
Cuando la primavera cambia su coraza
El corazón se ajusta a los nuevos elementos.
Espero que tu morada sea amable, querido amigo.
Que los árboles sean verdes.
Que el cielo se abra ante tí sin misterios.
Espero que hayas encontrado el reposo.
Después del hielo del invierno
Estas lluvias primaverales llegan descongelándolo todo.
Yo sé que donde quieras que estés
(Porque no puedo imaginarte en la region del hielo!)
Tú me has perdonado.
El mundo después de todo es poco.
Sólo la primavera como la muerte
Regresa para otorgarnos la vida.
Dime Andrés, ¿es el lugar verde?
¿El campo siempre florido?
¿Y una vez llegado allí
Existe el perdón, la bendicíon del olvido,
La promesa de que el dolor
Como el frío del invierno
Finalmente será abolido?
1979
Jaime Manrique

El Amante de Sevilla

2010-08-13T21:54:00.000-04:00

In Seville, when I was young, the scent of orange trees in permanent bloom attenuated the sweet reek of bodies buried under rose beds, or at the foot of trees. Sevillanos believed that the loveliest and most fragrant roses and sweetest oranges were those fertilized by the flesh of Nubian slaves. This tang of human decay and fruit trees in bloom was the first thing a visitor noticed upon nearing Seville.

The Guadalquivir was barely more than a sandy stream as it ran past Córdoba; but as it got close to Seville, it swelled into a wide olive-colored river. At dawn, the river bustled with barges, swift sloops, feluccas, shallots, tartans, and piraguas. The smaller vessels carried merchandise destined for the bellies of big ships that sailed to the West Indies and beyond. These small boats were like soldier bees that fed the insatiable belly of their Queen.

The river fed my wanderlust, making me hunger for the world beyond the confines of the Iberian Peninsula. The river was the road that led to the Mediterranean and the west, to the Atlantic Ocean and the Canary Islands, halfway to the wondrous New World. Young sevillanos who became sailors—often for the rest of their lives—were referred to as those who had been "swallowed by the sea."

There was no more thrilling sight than the fleets of cargo ships, accompanied by powerful galleons to protect them from English corsairs and privateers, sailing off twice a year for the world Columbus had discovered. The ships sailed away with the hopes of the sevillanos, who would send off their men with festive songs of farewell. If fortune smiled on these adventurers, they would return from the Indies laden with gold and glory.

My imagination was set afire, my eyes bulged, as I watched the ox-drawn carts on their way to the Royal Chambers, carrying open trunks that brimmed with glowing emeralds, pearls, and stacks of blinding bars of silver and gold. Other carts transported bales of tobacco, furs of animals unknown in Europe, spices, coconuts, cocoa, sugar, indigo, and cochineal. For weeks after the arrival of the ships, I remained intoxicated by these sights. A great desire awakened in me to visit New Spain and Peru.

In the heart of the city, buildings faced each other so closely that I could run down the cobblestone passageways with arms outspread to touch the walls on either side. These were the streets that schooled me in the customs and costumes, religions and superstitions, foods, smells and sounds of other nations. Merchants arrived in Seville with white, black, and brown slaves from Africa, the Arab countries, the New World. The names of the countries they came from—Mozambique, Dominica, Niger—were as exotic as their looks. I would get dizzy from hearing so many languages that I didn't understand, whose origins I couldn't pinpoint. What stories did they tell? What was I missing? Would I ever get the chance to learn a few of them and visit the places where they were spoken?

During those years, I felt as though I were living in the future, in a city that had nothing to do with the rest of Spain. Pícaros from every corner of the world—false clerics, false scholars, impostors of every imaginable and unimaginable kind, pickpockets, swindlers, counterfeiters, sword swallowers, gamblers, assassins for hire, soldiers of fortune, murderers of every sort, whores, Don Juans (whose profession was to ruin the most beautiful and chaste maidens), Gypsies, fortune-tellers, fire-eaters, forgerers, puppeteers, ruffians, bon vivants, and snake charmers—came to Seville and made the city their stage. Life there was dangerous and thrilling, as festive and bloody as a bullfight. Successful gamblers were as admired as the bullfighters or famous military heroes. It was common to hear a child say that when he grew up he wanted to be a gambler like Manolo Amor, who on one occasion had gambled away an entire fleet of galleons that was not his.

Seville was the place where I belonged. It was created for me and I wanted to be its historian. Seville was mine and it owned me.

Most Sevillanos stayed inside during the hottest hours, and went out only at night, when the evening breezes, sweeping up the Guadalquivir from the Mediterranean, cooled the city by a few degrees. Then it was as if a curtain rose, and the proscenium that was Seville became a magical stage for the theatre of life. I can still hear in the recesses of my brain the clacking sounds of castanets, coming from every street and plaza. The clacking was a reminder to strut with the arrogant elegance of a peacock displaying all his colors. People rushed out of their homes to sing on the plazas and dance the salacious zarabandas, which were forbidden by the Church. In the plazas, illuminated by torches, beautiful and lascivious women dancers (young and old alike) wiggled their behinds with impudence and rapped their castanets with fury, turning the instruments into weapons that could seduce and then snuff the life out of you.

The dancers' looks were an invitation to dream about the countless pleasures of the body; and the movements of their hands spoke intricate languages and summoned the spectators with seductive signs to caress the dancers' amber-flushed cheeks. It was thrilling to see the male dancers leap high in the air, spinning in circles, as though to exorcise demons that were eating them from the inside out. Mid-air, these men seemed half-human, half-bird. From midnight until dawn, the loveliest señoritas were serenaded by their inflamed wooers. Brawls often broke out during these serenatas, and the corpses of unfortunate lovers were found in the mornings, beneath the balconies of their inamoratas, glued to puddles of coagulated blood.

Seville was a city of witches and enchanters. You had to be careful not to cross a woman, because any female, aristocratic or peasant, married or unmarried, old or young, beautiful or ugly, Christian or Moor, slave or free, could have satanic powers. Witches made red roses bloom in their homes in December. They could make or break marriages, could make grooms hang themselves or evaporate on the eve of the wedding, could make pregnant women give birth to litters of puppies.

Unlucky men who crossed the enchantresses were turned into donkeys. As husbands and lovers disappeared, new donkeys materialized and the women who owned these donkeys took delight in making them carry heavy loads. It was common to see a woman whose husband had vanished go around the city addressing every donkey she saw by her husband's name. When an ass brayed in response, the woman would drop on her knees, cross herself and give thanks to God that she had found her husband. If she wanted her man back, she had to buy the donkey from its owner. Then she would go back home, happy to have found her spouse, and spend the rest of her life trying to undo the enchantment. Or she might be just as happy to keep her husband in donkey form. It was said that some of the happiest marriages in Seville were between a woman and her ass.

The Holy Office whipped many women in the public plazas for the extraordinary pleasures they boasted of receiving from their equine lovers. Debauched cries and crescendos of lust traveled to remote villages in the mountains where herds of wild asses brayed with envy. Gypsies took to bringing donkeys that brayed anytime a desperate woman addressed them. If a donkey became erect and tried to mount a young wife who called him by her husband's name, or a donkey tried to kick an old, withered harpy who claimed him as her husband, or scurried away when an ugly one threw her arms around his neck, that, too, was considered proof of having found her husband. When a sevillano allowed inflated notions to swell his head, he was reminded, "Remember, today you are a man, but tomorrow you may well be a donkey."

During Holy Week people did penance for all the sins they indulged the rest of the year. Then alone would sevillanos fast and drag themselves on their knees to the cathedral. But Seville's cathedral was not oppressive. Instead, it was filled with light, color, ostentatious displays of gold and jewels, illuminated as much by its oil lamps and its candles as by the iridescent light that poured in through its stained-glass windows. It was a place where we went to experience the splendors of the world, not a glum building where we expiated our sins. It seemed to me, as a young man, that God had to be more receptive to our prayers in a place like this, where everybody knew that hope, joy, and beauty were also a part of his covenant with us. I used to walk out of Seville's cathedral content, as if I had just eaten a mariscada and washed it down with wine.

Often, in those days, I escorted my mother on her visits to the cathedral. Our enjoyment of the place was a secret between the two of us that excluded the rest of the family and gave us respite from our dingy house, with its worn-out, second-hand furnishings and leaks in the ceiling of every room. The cathedral's sumptuous altars seemed to relieve Mother, momentarily, of the pain caused by Father's impecuniousness. She loved music above all things. It's true Father played the vihuela at home, but nothing he did gratified her. Only in the cathedral could she listen to music. Her face glowed, her eyes gleamed as the sounds of the clavichord or spinet swelled. Singing made Mother happy. Her untrained voice was clear, and it could hit many of the high notes. I'd only heard it when she sang romances in the kitchen, as she went about her chores, on those occasions when my father left to visit relatives in Córdoba. In the cathedral she would let her voice spill out and rise, with the same abandon and ecstasy I heard in the lament of the flamenco singers.

After church, she would hook my arm in hers, and we would stroll along the banks of the Guadalquivir and stop to gaze at the foreign ships and glorious Armada galleons. One evening, grabbing my hand by the wrist, she implored me, "Don't stay in Spain, Miguel. Go far away from here to some place where you can a make a fortune for yourself. In the Indies you will have a brilliant future awaiting you, my son."

She did not mention my father's name, yet I sensed she was pushing me to look for a life completely different from his. Because I was a dreamer, like my father, she feared that, like him, I would become a ne'er-do-well. She had begun to see me as another unrealistic Cervantes male: I would live surrounded by criminals, constantly borrowing reales from my friends and relatives, incapable of understanding how to put food on the table. But If I let my imagination flow, the wide waters of the Guadalquivir would eventually lead me to the Indies in the West, or to Italy in the East, or to burning Africa in the South, or to the Orient, beyond Constantinople, to the splendors and mysteries of Arabia, and perhaps even to the fabled court of the Emperor of China.

Jaime Manrique
Published in PEN America Issue 11
Fall 2009

El patio de la Calle 58

2010-04-18T08:11:00.003-04:00

En la habitación de mi madre
una ventana miraba
el callejón donde
criabámos patos; la otra
se abría hacia el patio
--con sus matas de plátano y yuca--
donde las gallinas, palomas y conejos
se engordaban para nuestra mesa.
Al fondo del patio
por encima de la alta paredilla
se desbordaban los gajos
de los palos de mango y naranja
de los vecinos en la Calle 57.

Recuerdo a mi madre
recostada contra la ventana
contemplando las arenas negras
del patio como una Tahitiana
de Gaugin con ojos brillantes
hipnotizados por una jungla oscura
donde pernoctaba
el tigre de su infancia.

Mi madre colgaba sus manos
del marco de la ventana
para que la brisa le secase
el esmalte rosa
de sus uñas recién pintadas.
Serían las cuatro de la tarde
una hora muerta
entre la luz y la oscuridad
que se avecinaba.

Una noche oscura y helada
en Nueva York, me instalo
frente a la ventana del tiempo
para ver lo que ya
no puede ver mi madre.
Ante mí se abre el camino
de nuestras vidas, las estaciones
de buses y trenes
en las cuales nos bajamos,
las casas donde vivimos,
otros patios con diferentes
árboles frutales y animales,
y contemplo con mis ojos
disminuídos, el destino
final de mi madre
mas no el mío, pues mis ojos
solo sirven para ver
el pasado, no para descifrar el fluir oscuro
del tiempo que los devora.

Publicado en El malpensante, abril 2010

Don Quixote on the Decoration of the Soul

2010-02-25T08:33:00.006-05:00

The following are the "First Series of Instructions" which Don Quixote gives his squire, Sancho Panza, before Sancho leaves to become governor of the imaginary Barataria island. Great posts and offices of state, Don Quixote says, are a profound "gulph" of confusion.

The instructions appear so late in Book II that some readers of Don Quixote overlook these words of wisdom. Though Don Quixote is giving these instructions to Sancho, I can't help but think that he's also addressing the readers of the novel.

Translation by Tobias Smollett

"In the first place, O my son, you are to fear God: the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom; and, if you are wise you cannot err.

"Secondly, you must always remember who you are, and endeavour to know yourself; a study of all others the most difficult. This self-knowledge will hinder you from blowing yourself up like the frog, in order to rival the size of the ox: if, therefore, you succeed in this learning, the consideration of thy having been a swineherd, will, like the peacock's ugly feet, be a check upon thy folly and pride." "I own I once kept hogs, when I was a boy," said Sancho; "but, after I grew up, I apprehended, that matter is not of great consequence; for, all governors are not descended from the kingly race." "No, sure," answered the knight; "and, for that reason, those who are not of noble extraction, ought to sweeten the gravity of their function, with mildness and affability; which, being prudently conducted, will screen them from those malicious murmurs that no station can escape. Rejoice, Sancho, in the lowness of your pedigree, and make no scruple of owning yourself descended from peasants: for, no body will endeavour to make you blush for that of which they see you are not ashamed: and value yourself more upon being a virtuous man of low degree, than upon being a proud sinner of noble birth: innumerable are those, who, from an humble stock, have risen to the pontifical and imperatorial dignity; a truth which I could prove by so many examples that you would not have patience to hear them.

"Take notice, Sancho, if you choose virtue for your medium, and pique yourself upon performing worthy actions, you will have no cause to envy noblemen and princes; for, blood is heredity, but virtue is acquired; consequently, this last has an intrinsic value which the other does not possess.

"This being the case, as undoubtedly it is, if peradventure any one of your relations should come to visit you in your island, you must not discountenance and affront him, but, on the contrary, let him be kindly received and entertained; and, in so doing, you will act comfortably to the will of heaven, which is displeased at seeing its own handywork despised; and, perform your duty to the well concerted rights of nature.

"If you send for your wife, and, indeed, those who are concerned in governing, ought not to be long without their helpmates, take pains in teaching, improving, and civilizing her: for, all that a sagacious governor can acquire, is very often lost and squandered by a foolish, rustic wife.

"If, perchance, you should become a widower, (a circumstance that may possibly happen) and have it in your power to make a more advantageous match, you must not choose such a yokefellow as will server for an angling hook, fishing rod, or equivocating hood: for, verily, I say unto thee, all that a judge's wife receives must be accounted for at the general clearance, by the husband, who will repay fourfold after death, what he made no reckoning of during life.

"Never conduct yourself by the law of your own arbitrary opinion, which is generally the case with those ignorant people who presume upon their own self-sufficiency.

"Let the tears of the poor find more compassion in thy breast, tho' not more justice, than the informations of the rich.

"Endeavour to investigate the truth from among the promises and presents of the opulent, as well as from the sighs and importunities of the needy.

"When equity can, and ought to take place, inflict not the whole rigour of the law upon the delinquent; for, severity is not more respected than compassion, in the character of a judge.

"If ever you suffer the rod of justice to be bent a little, let it not be warped, by the weight of corruption, but the vowels of mercy.

"If ever you should have an opportunity to judge the process of your enemy, recall your attention from the injury you have received, and fix it wholly upon the truth of the case.

"In another man's cause, be not blinded by private affection; for, the errors thus committed are generally incurable; or, if they admit of remedy, it will be greatly at the expense of your fortune and credit.

"If a beautiful woman should come to demand justice, withdraw your eyes from her tears, and your hearing from her sighs, and deliberate at a distance upon the substance of her demand, unless you have a mind that your reason should be overwhelmed by her complaint, and your virtue buried in her sighs.

"Abuse not him in word whom you are resolved to chastise in deed: for, to such a wretch, the pain of the punishment will be sufficient, without the addition of reproach.

"In judging the delinquents who shall fall under your jurisdiction, consider the miserable object Man, subject to the infirmities of our depraved nature; and, as much as lies in your power, without injury to the contrary party, display your clemency and compassion: for, although all the attributes of God are equally excellent, that of mercy has a better effect in our eye, and strikes with greater luster than justice.

"If you observe, and conduct yourself by these rules and precepts, Sancho, your days will be long upon the face of the earth: your fame will be eternal, your reward complete, and your felicity unutterable: your children will be married according to your wish; they and their descendants will enjoy titles; you shall live in peace and friendship will all mankind: when your course of life is run, death will overtake you in an happy and mature old age, and your eyes will be shut by the tender and delicate hands of your posterity; in the third or fourth generation.

"The remarks I have hitherto made, are documents touching the decoration of your soul; and, now you will listen to those that regard the ornaments of the body."

Note by Don Jaime: And these ornaments of the body are so wonderful indeed that they deserve a new chapter.

William Burroughs: The Writer as Prophet

2010-01-20T21:05:00.002-05:00

Words by William Burroughs and a few of my thoughts on them.

In 1983, my novel Colombian Gold was published in English by Clarkson N. Potter. My editor, Carol Southern, solicited from William Burroughs a blurb for my book. Burroughs was one of my culture heroes, and his Yage Letters one of my favorite books.

Burroughs responded to my editor's request with the following words:

"What is happening? The West will have to defend their preposterous living standard against the Third World: by sheer force; by torture and extermination; by systematic terror; by silencing any voice of dissent. Suppose that a potentially industrialized country like Brazil should go Communist? Where would the U.S.A. be? Right where we deserve to be. We have struck out. We have failed. All we stand for is naked force.

"Latin American governments on the way to becoming democracies? What an utter, transparent travesty and farce. Democracies where people are dragged out of bed and tortured and shot. The government is investigating... Yes, and they will still be investigating ten, twenty years from now, if the flimsy structure holds together that long.

"Does Reagan know about all this? The torture and terror? Of course he does. He isn't a moron. Everybody knows... To quote Dr. Alexander King: 'I regard the next thirty or forty years as a period of great transition in human affairs. In Mexico, fifty percent of the population is under 15. This constantly escalating population will mean a huge increase in the work force, in countries already suffering from unemployment and underdevelopment. Can we envisage a world in which presently developed countries - U.S.A., Europe, the Soviet Union, Australia and New Zealand - are living in a ghetto of middle-aged people, relatively rich, protected by sophisticated weapons against hordes of people outside: young, hungry, unemployed? Such a situation couldn't persist for very long.'

"Well, Reagan and Co. don't care. They don't have much time left in any case."

Carol Southern wrote back to Burroughs thanking him for his statement but saying that we were hoping for a pithier blurb. William Burroughs obliged her with the traditional kind of blurb that publishers plaster on the back cover of their books. But almost thirty years later, his statement still continues to fascinate, and haunt, me for its prophetic accuracy about the world in which we live nowadays. I want to share it now with anyone whose eyes land on this page.

Susan Sontag: Vassar College Commencement Address

2010-01-08T08:23:00.003-05:00

Despise violence. Despise national vanity and self-love. Protect the territory of conscience.

Try to imagine at least once a day that you are not an American. Go even further: try to imagine at least once a day that you belong to the vast, the overwhelming majority of people on this planet who don't have passports, don't live in dwellings equipped with both refrigerators and telephones, who have never even once flown in a plane.

Be extremely skeptical of all claims made by your government. Remember, it may not be the best thing for America or for the world for the President of the United States to be the president of the planet. Be just as skeptical of other governments, too.

It's hard not to be afraid. Be less afraid.

It's good to laugh a lot, as long as it doesn't mean you're trying to kill your feelings.

Don't allow yourself to be patronized, condescended to - which, if you are a woman, happens, and will continue to happen, all the time.

Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead.... Pay attention. It's all about paying attention. It's all about taking in as much of what's out there as you can, and not letting the excuses and the dreariness of some of the obligations you'll soon be incurring narrow your lives. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.

You'll notice that I haven't talked about love. Or about happiness. I've talked about becoming - or remaining - the person who can be happy, a lot of the time, without thinking that being happy is what it's all about. It's not. It's about becoming the largest, the most inclusive, most responsive person you can be.

5

2010-01-06T09:12:00.002-05:00

And suddenly
as unannounced
as a summer shower
a strange man appeared
barefoot
smiling
singing
giving
away his verses to the people
In the newspapers
of the capital
his photo
along with a commentary
full of praise
said
he was one
of the greatest of the great
poets of his country
and the public authorities
who knew him
since he was a boy
gave orders to drag him
to prison
sixteen times
in four months
to teach him
the rich
are deeply disturbed
by the topic of art
regarding which
a lawyer type
from a poor family
but an aristocrat in spirit
announced the sad news
that art was important
in a manner
unattainable by the mighty
but as is so often the case
ignorance
lost the battle
against intelligence
Today
when this poet's work
is admired by many
his tormentors make haste
to greet him as a friend.
But he has not forgotten.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published in BOMB Magazine

4

2010-01-06T09:10:00.005-05:00

To go back to the village
and find the streets
unchanged.
The same elderly people.
The same beautiful faces
of boys and girls.
The same river
coursing round and round.
My heart
is heavy and somber.
My parents are dead
the family house
in ruins
flattened by a cyclone
of death and solitude.
All I have left is poetry
and the young men
who ask me about it
and read me.
What wouldn't I give
for my parents
to know I am loved
for what I write.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published In BOMB Magazine

3

2010-01-06T09:10:00.004-05:00

His old friends are bitter
that despite the ups
and downs of life
he has never abandoned
the adventure of being
a poet who writes.
They find it peculiar
he doesn’t live in wards
or hasn’t died in jails
and they miss him.
They're all winners
in prestige and gold.
What is it about poetry
that incites a kind of avarice.
The doctors and sad
businessmen bite the deaf anger
of feeling anonymous
blind to themselves
and to the uncharted world
of spirit.
I take pleasure in knowing
they envy me.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published In BOMB Magazine

2

2010-01-06T09:08:00.002-05:00

In the mental wards
the worse ones are the nuns
more violent
than hypodermic needles
than fever and madness
the nun is a quiet gorgon.
In the mental wards
when I cry the nun laughs.
I could say the nun
is neither evil nor good
she simply hates
all that moves
all that lives
all that has a heartbeat
all that is
not her dead God.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published in BOMB Magazine

1

2010-01-06T09:07:00.003-05:00

Oh God
you who do not exist
are so fortunate
not to care
for the whole human race.
Instead I
die every day
anguished, mad
destroyed by others
With the beggar
I die
with the distraught lover
I suffer
with the whore trapped
in a cantina
I weep
then go back to being
alone
gnawing the rock-hard bread of exile
among so many people
I sometimes
love.

Poem by Raúl Gómez Jattin

Translated by Jaime Manrique and Dean Kostos
Published in BOMB Magazine

Cavafiana

2010-01-06T09:04:00.010-05:00

Desire shows up suddenly,
Out of no where, for no reason.
In the kitchen, out walking in the street.
One look, one wave is enough, one accidental touch.
But two bodies
will also have their twilight,
their routines of loving and dreaming,
of gestures repeated until weariness.
Smiles fall away.
Ashes smother the mouths
With quiet disdain.
Two bodies fill up with death
One in front of the other.
The rest is silence.

Poem by María Mercedes Carranza

Translated by Jaime Manrique and David Cameron
Published in BOMB Magazine

Love Poem

2010-01-06T09:04:00.009-05:00

Outside the wind. The streets smell of metal.
Once inside, she abandons everything she’s wearing
starting with the smile and the pocketbook.
She erases all the faces she’s seen all that day,
The missed connections, the feigned serenity,
The sickly-sweet taste of having done her duty,
She undresses herself as if to touch
all the sorrow that is in her flesh.
Once she finds she is naked
She searches herself for her animal scent.
She crouches and lies in wait;
She begins a long tender confidence,
She demands answers, perhaps her eyes have glazed over
She spreads her knees apart and devours herself like a wolf.
Outside the wind. The streets smell of metal.

Poem by María Mercedes Carranza

Translated by Jaime Manrique and David Cameron
Published in BOMB Magazine

Malediction

2010-01-06T09:02:00.004-05:00

I will pursue you for centuries upon centuries.

I will dig under every rock and stone
And scan every horizon for your shadow.

From wherever my voice speaks
It will fall upon your ears without mercy
And my footsteps will always fall
Inside the labyrinth that traces your own.

Millions of suns will rise and fall again.
The dead will rise and return to death
And there, wherever you are:
Dust, moon, nada; I will find you.

Poem by María Mercedes Carranza

Translated by Jaime Manrique and David Cameron
Published in BOMB Magazine

The Award

2010-01-06T09:01:00.009-05:00

That man
(since we must call him something)
without children, wife or friends,
nor loving mother nor grandmother--
one day the Heavens graced him
with a powerful enemy.
Since then he's never been alone.
It's rumored he has secret dreams
and already has acquired a friend or two.

Poem by Reinaldo Arenas

Translated by Jaime Manrique
Published in The World Magazine

When They Informed Him

2010-01-06T09:01:00.008-05:00

When they informed him he was being watched,
that at night when he went out
someone with an extra key searched his room
looked in the medicine cabinet
and in the suspicious manuscripts;
when they informed him that dozens of policemen
were assigned to his case,
that they had bribed his closest relatives,
that his intimate friends
hid their commas and scribblings
in their private parts,
he wasn't scared,
just barely irritated
which he instantly corrected.
He thought: They are not going
to get me to think I am that important.

Poem by Reinaldo Arenas

Translated by Jaime Manrique
Published in The World Magazine

The Will to Live Manifests Itself

2010-01-06T09:00:00.004-05:00

They're feeding on me:
I feel them crawl all over me, pulling out my nails.
I hear them gnawing my scrotum.
They cover me with sand,
dancing, dancing on the mound
of sand and stone covering me.
They roll over me and insult me
ranting out loud a deranged judgment against me.
They've buried me.
They've flattened the ground,
dancing on top of me.
They've left, leaving me for dead and buried.
Now I can relax.

Poem by Reinaldo Arenas
El Morro Prison, 1975

Translated by Jaime Manrique
Published in The World Magazine

Voices

2010-01-06T08:59:00.005-05:00

We came by air
We came by sea
We arrived tied to a car's seat,
arrived clutching the wheel of a plane
We left dodging sharks and coastguards
We left drilling a hole in the air,
left holding onto a comet's tail
We arrived swimming, vomiting our guts out
our lungs collapsed
our bones scorched, dehydrated.
The others are lost on the floor of the sea
and condemn our escape
secretely, desperately hoping to follow in our steps.

Poem by Reinaldo Arenas

Translated by Jaime Manrique
Published in The World Magazine

Final Moon

2010-01-06T08:56:00.008-05:00

What is this feeling of looking for you
certain I won't find you?
What is this timeless dread that makes
me evoke you despite my fear?
My longing will not be quelled
(to quell it would be more torment)
so I'll never stop gazing at you.

Moon, once more I find myself
pondering the dangerous roads open to me.
The past is everything that's been lost;
if I survive the present
(despite my wounds)
I shall ask for nothing in the future--
a man who's lived in hell
that’s all he can hope for.
You are a strange lover, moon,
I admire your face
(I own it)
you and I are a river
we cross a tundra,
endless, circular, infinite
where I howl your name.

Poem by Reinaldo Arenas
New York, December 1985

Translated by Jaime Manrique
Published in The World Magazine

Ricordi

2009-12-18T11:49:00.000-05:00

Ricordo che al mio risveglio
rami frondosi di lillà
entravano dalla finestra.
Ricordo l’odore persiano delle rosacee
e come, quando scostavo un grappolo di lillà,
la valle, il cielo, i fiori del bosco,
le api e il sole brillavano;
il fiume scintillava
come un viale acquatico d’argento,
e navi con vele come veli da sposa
lo solcavano.
Ricordo le scogliere in distanza
verdi e rugose come la coda
di un’iguana gigantesca.
Ricordo l’eccitato pigolio delle rondini
e le loro demenziali piroette aeronautiche.
Ricordo il paesaggio affabile, addomesticato,
e la brezza tra gli alberi di mele,
dolce come una lingua appassionata.
Ricordo come le mie carni gridavano,
“Oggi, in questo istante, sei amato ed ami.”

Ricordo come all’ora della sera,
nel punto più lontano di Manhattan,
l’Hudson passa
tra Ellis Island e la Statua della Libertà.
Ricordo che, di spalle ad un iperbolico tramonto,
le torri di vetro di Wall Street,
misteriose e mistiche come torri millenarie,
nel brillio della loro dorata prepotenza,
sono anthurium smisurati
che si accendono d’oro e d’argento, di turchino
e di smeraldo.
Ricordo che quest’isola,
in cui ho assaporato ogni piacere,
non è la mia casa.
Ricordo di aver osservato da un quarantesimo piano
i gabbiani planare tra i grattacieli,
e un elicottero simile a un’ape meccanica
atterrare su di un tetto come fosse una corolla.

Ricordo che in una notte insonne,
sdraiato su di un sofà,
guardavo da una finestra
le magnolie in fiore
e la luna bianca come un sudario.
Ricordo i fantasmi sfuggenti
che danzavano sulle punte
in circolo, sul bordo del bosco
ed attorno ad un falò di luce bianca.

E ricordo una distesa di zucche mature,
come un campo di battaglia di lune cadute.
Mi ricordo di essermi alzato dal sofà,
mi vedo aprire la porta e camminare sul sentiero.
Mi ricordo che gli uccelli notturni
gorgheggiavano un invito a cantare alla luna.
“Non ti ci azzardare, idiota” mi disse infuriata
la voce selenita.
Ricordo che le risposi sorpreso:
“Luna, non essere ingrata: ti ho cantata
in tutte le mie notti di veglia.”
Ricordo la lunga lista di improperi
che la luna rivolse a Saffo e a Lorca,
a Cavafis, Shelley e Keats,
a Silvia Plath ed a Leopardi.

Ricordo una quantità di cose e di immagini:
all’ora della siesta,
vedo mia madre tagliare le unghie dei piedi
al suo benamato.
In quella posa mia madre pareva Maria Maddalena.

Altre volte mi ricordo di Giulio Cesare, il romano.
Ricordo che il mese di luglio,
quando tutto è verde e l’universo canta,
porta il suo nome.
Ricordo come lo chiamavano i romani
uomo di tutte le femmine
femmina di tutti gli uomini.
Ricordo che fu aristocratico, playboy e soldato.
Ricordo che passò il Rubicone, sconfisse Pompeo e disse:

ma lo sanno tutti ciò che disse!
Ricordo che fu dittatore a vita,
che i suoi compari lo assassinarono;
che combatté cinquanta battaglie e massacrò milioni,
che credeva nelle previsioni astrologiche
ma non diede ascolto alla profezia della sua morte.
Mi ricordo che Bruto
lo pugnalò all’inguine:
che morendo disse:
ma che importa ciò che disse!

Ricordo tutto questo e molto ancora.
Ricordo migliaia di gesti, centinaia d’uomini
il cui cuore palpitò sul mio.
Quel che ricordo non è un collare,
un pendente con una chiusura perfetta,
un braccialetto che adorna la mano
che smuove le montagne,
una catena attorno ad un collo che è stato amato
ma non a sufficienza.

Ricordo tutti gli amori e gli odi.
Non ricordo invece il momento in cui nacqui,
né come fu che concepii la mia prima poesia.
E non voglio ricordare il mio volto e me stesso, soli
nell’affrontare uno specchio.
Ricordo che la morte è il non ricordare.
Ricordo, ergo sono.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

La mia notte con Federico García Lorca

2009-12-18T11:48:00.000-05:00

(secondo Edouard Roditi)

Accadde a Parigi.
Pepe mi invitò a cena
con un tale Federico
che era di passaggio per New York.
Io avevo diciannove anni.
Federico undici di più
ed era appena uscito
da una relazione in Spagna
con uno scultore
che molto lo aveva maltrattato.
Federico ebbe solo due amanti,
lui detestava le checche promiscue.

Eravamo Gemelli entrambi.
Siccome per lui l’astrologia
era molto importante,
Federico si interessò a me.
Parlavamo spagnolo.
Io lo avevo appreso
da mia nonna, un’ebrea
sefardita che mi aveva
insegnato termini
del XVI° secolo.
A Federico tutto ciò
piaceva molto.

Abbiamo bevuto molto, moltissimo
vino quella notte.
Al mattino, al risveglio,
la sua testa giaceva sui miei capezzoli.
Centinaia di persone
mi hanno chiesto i dettagli:
A letto Federico era fantastico?
Do sempre la stessa risposta:
Federico era emotivo
e vulnerabile: per lui
la cosa più importante non era il sesso,
ma la tenerezza.

Non l’ho mai più visto.
Se n’è andato a New York
e poi a Cuba e in Argentina.
Più avanti, il secondo amore
della sua vita fu assassinato
mentre difendeva la Repubblica.

Tutto ciò accadde a Parigi
quasi sessant’anni fa.
Fu solo una notte d’amore
ma é durata tutta la mia vita.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

Elegia del cigno

2009-12-18T11:47:00.000-05:00

Adagiato su una sedia a sdraio
mi commuove l’umiltà dell’oceano,
le distanze che ha percorso
per sciorinarsi ai miei piedi in riccioli spumosi.
Con l’alta marea iridescenti ondulanti serpenti
si formano sotto un’epidermide color acquamarina.
Il cielo è una splendente cupola scarlatta;
l’imbrunire primaverile, un cliché perfetto.

Nel caldo splendore del sole che si posa
le immagini sono serene, pacate, spoglie di ogni urgenza.

La pace di questa docile quiete
mi induce a chiudere gli occhi,
ed ecco riappare il vecchio cigno bianco
che ieri mi ha incantato nel crepuscolo.
Lo vedo tendere il collo verso il cielo,
aprendo il becco brevemente
per trafiggere il mio cuore
con un canto desolato.
E, nell’oscurità circostante,
ascolto il disperato sventolio delle sue piume spettinate

quando salpa verso il purpureo sudario del suo destino.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

Lo spaventapasseri

2009-12-18T11:45:00.000-05:00

a mia sorella

Dopo molti mesi oggi mi sveglio
nella dolcezza degli aranci. Fiori bianchi
ne copriranno i rami nelle settimane che verranno,

finché i fiori non diventeranno frutti,
e le api ronzeranno sin dall’alba
finché il sole non si poserà.
È tempo di svegliarmi dal mio sogno.
Questi ultimi giorni ho ascoltato il fattore
bardare i cavalli, arare la terra, preparare i solchi
che accolgono e proteggon le sementi.
In queste notti, anche se da qua non posso vederla,
la luce del soggiorno si spegnerà coi primi grilli

e si riaccenderà coi primi galli.

Domattina il fattore con la moglie e i figli
entreranno qui cercandomi; entreranno ridendo
e mormorando come ogni anno. Ho scordato le facce

dei bambini. La bambina, quasi una donna
questa primavera,
con i suoi seni come meloni di maggio,
vorrà rammendarmi ed infilarmi un abito nuovo
come se fossi la bambola con cui ha giocato
tutto l’inverno, ma suo padre si opporrà,
perché è il mio destino essere brutto e spaventoso.
Ma lo stesso, in questa soffitta dove vengo
sempre riportato a nuova vita,
ci saranno da riparare i danni inflittimi dai roditori
e dal rigore degli anni, che mi passano sopra –
a me, allo spaventapasseri.
Aspetto sempre ansiosamente questo momento,
le piogge torrenziali di marzo,
la luce che ogni giorno si allunga in questo spazio,
il canto degli uccelli che ritornano
(come guardano passare le allodole gli uccelli in gabbia!)
e il verde delle ciliege acerbe, ancora amare.

Oggi, svegliandomi di nuovo,
se penso ai mesi che verranno e passeranno
nel lento processo di tutte le cose mortali,
provo un brivido leggero quando sento l’acqua correre

nel ruscello sul fianco della casa,
profonda nel suo letto oscuro,
che porta con sé chiocciole e immondizia
perché anche noi spaventapasseri abbiamo un cuore
e ci chiediamo dove va l’acqua dei fiumi.

***

I fulmini come lampi d’argento
hanno illuminato la notte,
e per la prima volta in tanti anni di estate
ho provato timore e un brivido leggero.
Giù per le guance la pioggia bagna il mio volto.
Chi potrebbe capire il pianto di uno spaventapasseri?

Da mesi sono appeso qui,
senza poter muovere la testa, condannato a fissare
lo stesso orizzonte,
a sentire che la brezza estiva mi spezzetta a poco a poco,
e che leggere tempeste cercano invano di strapparmi
il mio cappello –
senza di esso non assomiglierei più al fattore
e forse gli uccelli dimenticherebbero le
inutili battaglie di questi anni
e si avvicinerebbero abbastanza da sventagliarmi
con le loro ali.
Non che mi temano; non che abbiano paura di me.
La paura la conosce solo chi è immobile, chi non vola.

Li ho visti avvicinarsi mese dopo mese
cercando semi e vermi in aprile,
attaccando le foglie tenere in maggio,
aspettando il fiore, finché in giugno non cresca il frutto
e in agosto la vite sia un’offerta nella mano,
un invito a spegnere la sete vorace dell’estate.
Anche così, questa vita inclemente,
fatta di continue umiliazioni, la preferisco
al granaio, alla soffitta oscura,
all’oblio tra le cianfrusaglie e gli stracci consunti.
Meglio essere appeso qui
che non poter vedere il sole, né l’orgogliosa luna,
né gli astri.
Qui almeno odo il canto degli uccelli,
ascolto le loro gioie e i loro affanni
nello stormire dei rami.
Ascoltandoli parlare tra di loro posso immaginarmi il mare,
perché per anni ed anni ho visto i gabbiani
bianchi e flemmatici
disdegnare i frutti della terra. Essi sono creature incantate

dall’acqua, e solcano i cieli.
O potessi essere una sirena e non un servo su di un piolo…

Potessi esser io a scegliere le stagioni
e non loro prigioniero.
Quando il calore di questa stagione sarà una benedizione
sulla riva dell’oceano, io starò facendo la guardia ai frutti
che posso solo odorare, perché non sono
niente più di uno schiavo degli uomini.

***

È luglio ormai, i miei occhi sono affaticati da tanto verde
e dal colore rossiccio della terra. Ha cominciato
a fare più caldo
e le piogge sono scarse ma torrenziali.
Le ciliegie, le pesche e le susine sono quasi mature;

ed io sento necessità di qualcuno o di qualcosa,
di qualcosa di più del contatto
del fattore che mi sistema, del gracchiare degli uccelli,
delle carezze degli elementi.
Sì, penso pure ai viandanti lungo le strade,

ai loro destini simili al mio,
e vorrei parlare le loro lingue, incoraggiarli, dir loro ciao.

***

A fine agosto comincia la vendemmia
ed in settembre si scatenano le piogge;
ed ogni giorno gli alberi e la terra, ormai spogli,
rimangono come me – più soli.
Tra poco gli uccelli cominceranno
ad emigrare nuovamente,
con lo stomaco pieno del rosso della frutta,
come se portassero nelle viscere un carico di liquidi rubini.

Verrà il giorno in cui io sarò il solo signore
di questo campo vuoto
e non ci sarà nulla cui stare attenti, nessuno da terrorizzare
col mio disordine. Verso la fine di settembre le notti

si faranno più chiare e trasparenti,
le fasi della luna non sembreranno tanto urgenti
ed io resterò appeso qua, finché l’ultimo frutto
non sarà stato raccolto. Allora, una mattina
o forse meglio un pomeriggio
prima di dar per terminato il lavoro quotidiano,
il mio fattore mi tirerà giù e mi porterà alla mia caverna
come un orso docile allo zoo.
Passeranno giorni in cui resterò sveglio,
con gli occhi sbarrati nella notte, guardando i topi
mangiarmi le budella, e gli scarafaggi entrarmi nel cervello.

Poi verrà la stanchezza. Il silenzio.
Finalmente comincerò a sognare la prossima primavera,
le piogge fredde, e il giorno in cui
mi tireranno su dalle mie rovine
e mi metteranno sul mio piolo ed io potrò
salutare lo spaventapasseri
della fattoria di fronte,
che si sveglia anche lui.
Ad inizio ottobre dalle notti verrà un raccolto di stelle.

In novembre verrà la morte
ed io sarò il suo anfitrione.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

Il giardino delle delizie

2009-12-18T11:37:00.001-05:00

a mia madre

1

Questa stagione che cala sottovoce
- come chiamarla? come chiamarne il primo giorno,

qui dove i fiori bramiscono,
dove le stagioni arrivano distrutte?

Rinchiuso per giorni interi come una orchidea,
che cresce in una serra,

era estate, era autunno,
era primavera e inverno assieme.

Ma oggi esco di nuovo in questo giardino
per percorrerne i sentieri,

ma come ha cambiato d’aspetto in pochi giorni,
ma come si è vestito per un ballo, questo
camaleonte del vento.

2

Qui vicino al mare
una brezza fredda e penetrante

arriva in una carrozza invisibile. Io mi genufletto,
con le ginocchia piantate in terra

e temo per queste piante che ho portato di lontano, temo che il primo vento dell’inverno

le riporti al loro stato naturale -
polvere alla polvere, foglia alla foglia.

Nei miei occhi la brezza seppellisce grani di giardino.
La luna in cielo non è una metafora –

col suo colore di neve, piena di buchi trasparenti,
una mezza luna di cui disconosco le fasi.

3

Lo so che l’inverno è giunto
perché la sua tenue luce mi accarezza scendendo.

Non devo sostenere battaglie contro gli elementi.
Questa è la stagione perfetta,

ed io rinuncio a logorarmi in questa mia carne.
Voglio vivere, oggi; voglio tenere tra le mie
mani l’ambrosia della luce.

Queste sono le piante del mio giardino,
così si preparano per l’inverno.

In un bel mattino con il cambio dell’aria,
con un cielo immacolato come quello d’oggi,

con un vento che soffia dal lato opposto
allo zefiro della sera,

le più forti fioriranno su verso il cielo,
le più nobili sprigioneranno essenze,

le più coscienziose daranno frutti, le più dolci
offriranno rifugio alle api ed ombra

contro il sole cocente. E quelle sagge
sussurreranno canzoni alle stelle.

4

Questo giardino è permanente. Cambiano le piante,
si biforcano i sentieri, i vecchi alberi

crollano ed io continuo a muovermi
cercando le stagioni. Oggi è solo il primo

giorno d’inverno. Fa freddo.
L’aria profuma di miele e di magnolie.

I pini conservano i nidi dell’estate,
sugli aranci già si colorano strane lampadine,

i mandarini arrossiscono,
le rose crescono tenaci,

il papiro sprofonda
le sue egizie radici,

le palme raffreddano il succo
dei loro cocchi, ed alle poinsettias occorrerà

tutto il loro sangue quando arriverà
l’ultimo giorno del calendario e la sua brina.

Canto le melanzane, i cavolfiori –
benedetti voi siate, frutta ed ortaggi.

5

Questo transitorio giardino è il giardino
delle delizie. Il giardino in cui

ho deciso che passerò il mio tempo.
Questo è il giardino dove il contatto

con la terra mi àncora alla vita,
il giardino in cui in sere come questa,

la notte, questo uccello
dalle ali oscure, mi sorprende

come un fiore che chiuda i suoi petali
per proteggere la corolla.

Questo è il giardino dove un giorno deciderò
di vivere per sempre,

in una casa circondata da fiori e piante
che crescono fino al firmamento,

un luogo senza steccati né erbe alte
dove gli uccelli possano riposare

prima di riprendere il volo.
Proprio questo è il luogo dove voglio vivere

con una grande scrivania vicino alla finestra
davanti ad un enorme susino.

Oggi tutto è pesante nella solitudine di questo verde
ed io mi sollevo come questo vento vespertino,

mi apro il passo col mio corpo,
tagliando lo splendore arancione di quest’ora.

Un giorno ritornerò a questa stagione senza fine
dove il vento mi fa lacrimare gli occhi.

Oggi voglio vivere quest’ attimo
in cui scelgo di racchiuderti nella mia memoria,

circondato da piante da piante ancor vive
prima dell’inverno,
in questa stagione che scende a visitarmi e non scompare.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

Ode a un colibrì

2009-12-18T11:33:00.001-05:00

Se tu fossi uno di quegli uccelli
che cantano canti millenari,
ti porterei delle briciole o forse una trappola.
Ma tu non puoi stare in gabbia
privo del tuo habitat naturale.
Sulle scale che risalgono il parco,
svolazzando tra rose ed orchidee,
giorno per giorno compiamo il rituale della nostra visita.
Nessuno annuncia il mio arrivo, né il tuo.
Ogni giorno vengo a te con un monologo diverso.
Oggi, è quello dell’amore.

Non so se tu usi promettere
che non rifarai gli stessi errori,
e che resisterai a qualsiasi battito d’ali inatteso
vicino al tuo cuore –
per questo ci avviciniamo a poco a poco.
Non ti spingi mai più in là delle rose
e quando mi guardi fisso,
i tuoi occhi paiono caverne piene di perline scure.
Sulla scalinata mentre ti parlo, mentre tu mi fai
una corte aerea
e ti avvicini, io mi blocco
tra le fucsie per osservarti;
e quando le tue ali frullano la luce meridiana
sei come un piccolo vortice che scintilla nell’aria.

Anche se non seguo i passi della tua danza
posso osservare le tue piroette tra tronco e rami.
Come l’amore, sei fugace e risplendente
e non so quale pegno sacrificale offrirti.
Perciò vengo qui ogni giorno,
sperando che tu abbia appreso a fidarti di me
e che un giorno, senza che te lo debba chiedere,
ti avvicinerai per accarezzarmi.
Gli altri passanti non possono vederti
e pensano che io stia parlando al verde infinito.
Un colibrì si lascia vedere solo dagli occhi dell’amore.
Ma tu sei bello, e la tua bellezza mi
impedisce di conoscerti.
La tua forma è dentro di me da sempre.
Quand’ero bambino volevo scalare gli alberi più alti
e prendere tra le mani i tuoi piccoli, in segno di amicizia.
Anche quando il mare serpeggiava nelle mie ossa
tu eri la promessa di qualcosa di irraggiungibile.
Nei miei sogni hai continuato a crescere.
Cogli anni ho imparato che ci si abbandona
con frequenza, dimenticandosi l’uno dell’altro –
tu per altri climi ed altre rose,
io cercando la promessa della tua bellezza
nei giardini della carne.
Sono certo che se non ci temessimo
oggi potremmo incontrarci tra i fiori
e sfidare i passanti con la nostra audacia.
Ma io non ho imparato a propiziarmi l’amore
con le offerte che l’amore esige.
Tentando di toccare le porte del cielo
ho solo imparato a distinguere i colori.
Se veramente fossi audace,
se potessi ancora credere che basta scalare un albero,
il più alto, per arrivare a ciò che ha un nome
ma è al di là delle parole,
se credessi che solo la pazzia di un gesto
potrebbe avvicinarci e portarci oltre i giorni oscuri,

senza pensare né alla morte né alla felicità,
se dopo tanti contatti con altri esseri
avessi imparato a fare le offerte che contano,
con una ghirlanda di orchidee attorno alle tempie,
verrei a te -
o mia luce di ogni giorno, o mio elicottero
verde dell’anima.
Verrei a te offrendoti il fiore più raro, il nettare
più pregiato.

Ad Amherst, le tue visite a qualcuno
che aveva scelto il silenzio come intrattenimento
suggerivano i fiori esotici del Brasile color di cocciniglia.
Un’orchidea brasiliana, ora lo so,
è il corpo che io amo,
è la tua bocca che cerca la mia senza paura
nell’oscurità o alla luce di una candela.
Oggi neppure se lo desiderassi potrei offrirti un’orchidea,

tu hai scelto di cercare altri climi,
di congelarti là sulle frontiere esterne.
Un giorno tornerai ad avvicinarti:
ed io vedrò i tuoi occhi notturni,
mi meraviglierò dell’arcobaleno del tuo piumaggio,
mi torneranno in mente i miei ricordi di bambino,
anche se adesso so che per raggiungerti
non basta credere ai miracoli,
non basta scalare la chioma
dell’albero più alto che ci abbia offerto la vita.

Published in POESIA (Italy)
Traduzione di Antonio Della Rocca

The Stranger

2009-12-18T11:28:00.000-05:00

Dusk descends on the plaza
coated with desert dust.
We sit under the solitary tree
and drink coffee out
of miniature cups half-filled with sugar.
The hour is swollen
with jasmine.
Bands of swallows swirl
above us like airborne carpets
in the darkening sky.
The ruined buildings around the plaza
are not Roman but colonial
French, the language spoken by the men
—in twos and threes—around us
sitting at metal tables on iron chairs.
This is the time of day when Dr. Rieux,
in Camus’s The Plague, would open
the door to his empty apartment.
Far away, his wife is convalescing.
Rieux heads straight for the bathroom and soaps
his hands, that all day long have
handled dying Oranians.
But the doctor cannot wash away
the stench of death all over himself.

I haven’t come to Oran looking
For Camus—who is hated here.
He was on the wrong side of history,
or was he? I’m about to remark
on this to my companion when,
faintly at first, I hear a voice
not meant for us, but instead
for Heaven, a flute-like prayer
rising from the speaker attached
to the golden tip of the mosque.
Is it the appearance of the Pole Star,
in the wine-blue sky, the voice sings?
In four days, my mother
will be dead.

Published in Downtown Brooklyn, 2009

Escribí el más hermoso poema

2009-12-18T11:27:00.001-05:00

de amor, te escribí un canto,
una oda a la felicidad que me embargaba
mientras yacías, dormido, a mi lado.
Escribí mi más hermoso poema de amor
para celebrar tu dulzura, tu encanto,
tu piel, las hebras de tus cabellos,
tus hombros desnudos, tu aliento
en mi cuello, el vaso de agua
que tocaron nuestros labios, tu abrazo,
tus tersos ronquidos,
las uñas de tus manos, la forma
en la cual tu labio superior,
mientras dormías, me instaba
a apresarlo en mis labios.
Empecé a escribir este poema
de amor, con mis labios,
mientras yacías a mi lado aunque bien sabía
que pronto habría un beso
y un abrazo final, una vana
promesa de llamarmos.
Pero te escribo este poema de amor
--y ningún instante de amor
me atrevo a negarlo--
porque por unas horas, a tu lado,
sentí renacer
el milagro del canto.
Te escribí el más hermoso poema
de amor, aunque sabía (o porque sabía)
que nuestro instante había terminado.

Meditación

2009-12-18T11:26:00.002-05:00

Ese espacio de tu piel
encima del tobillo
--tu zapato se ha comido la media--
es una planicie de oro
con suaves hondonadas.
Cierro los ojos,
me imagino acariciarla
y al pisar tu carne
atravieso valles
de arenas movedizas.
Después de explorar
tu superficie--
te penetro una vena.
Linfa arriba, navego
raudales desconocidos
que no aparecen en ningún mapa
y arriesgo mi vida.
Zurco corrientes peligrosas
altas cataratas
llego al ombligo
del mundo. Allá, a millones
de años luz, parpadea
tu corazón.
Entonces salto
sobre la selva amazónica
navego los estrechos
de los Dardanelos, recorro
las estepas de Mongolia
las capas congeladas
de la tierra, escalo
las Himalayas,
las estrellas
una
a
una
mi adoración
hasta llegar
a ti.

Cardinal Heart

2009-12-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

A brilliant red speck
sits on the denuded tree
like an ornament
from another season.

Hard to believe you
were not a sign, with Bill
in the hospital his bad heart
giving up, blood-filled
tubes sticking out
of his body, his blood
the color of your feathers.
We were in early Spring--the new
life inspired and hurt.

Some nights I barely slept.
Each dawn, along
the street where
I live, your desperate
calls awakened me.
You were calling your
mate with a song
I’d never heard before. Your
notes rippling
in the air like silver bells
making such heart-breaking
music I was reminded
of all my loves
everything that time sweeps away
the days that beat
like a heart until something
shatters then stops.

As Bill’s new heart began
to mend, growing new
roots, you left
weeks after your arrival
when the crocuses had broken
the ground and the leaves
on the trees hid the muted birds
that began to arrive.
Soon after you left,
the world was again
green not cardinal red.

Published in Bloom Magazine

Angry

2009-12-14T14:46:00.000-05:00

with death
that has taken
Josefina, I grab
a pair of scissors
at dusk
and attack
the perfumed stems
of white bells
of basil on my porch
that, in the pregnant days
of August, attract stingers
and legions of tiny
honey bees. In the engulfing
darkness, I cut
the stems and make
a bouquet for you,
dear friend,
who died much too soon when
so many other things
take too long to die.
Let the bees go
and feed elsewhere—
not on my porch, where I mourn
you with rage.
Who needs bees,
I fume as I cut
the sweet basil flowers
to adorn my grief.

Published in Cimarron Review, 2007

Your Next Lover

2009-12-14T14:45:00.000-05:00

No matter what other wonderful
qualities he has, your next lover
should live in an air-conditioned
place so that on sweltering
summer nights you can
tune out the wails of Manhattan,
and lie oblivious
in each other’s embrace.

Whatever your next lover’s
beliefs, you should be
tolerant of his views.
If you are not convinced
he is the love
of your life, (or even one
of the top fifty-eight)
do not be cynical
about the guy.

Please make sure your next lover
is generous not just toward you,
but toward the people
who beg for coins in the streets.
Your next lover
should not be interested
in tax cuts or welfare reform
and he should definitely
not be a Republican.

Your next lover should appreciate
your sense of humor, the way
your friends do. If you can’t
laugh with your next lover
the way you laugh with, say, Melanie
or Silvio, forget about it, you might
as well have fallen in love
with a fire hydrant or a sea urchin
because where there’s no laughter
there’s no freedom
where there is a need for locks and frontiers
there is no room for love’s bloom.

I do not mean that your next lover
should be a stand-up comedian,
a glib jerk who has to be funny
all the time. There is plenty
to be sad about, and sadness
can be a useful feeling
to artists on rainy days
and in dark November afternoons.
Some of the greatest joys
are deliciously sad —
think of the moonlit bayou of the soul
in Roy Orbison’s songs
or the way Greta Garbo stared
into the void at the end of Queen Christina.

Your next lover should
not have bad breath
his breath should
transport you like
a magic carpet gliding over
fields of verbena by the sea
in early May.

Your next lover
should be enamored
of the radiance of the night
sky, the intimacy of dawn.
He should give
you bouquets, just to remind
you how much you are loved.
When you go to sleep in
his arms, you should feel
wrapped in the blanket of the sky
on a late august night.

Now, pay attention,
this is crucial information,
your next lover should be
HAPPILY EMPLOYED and know
how to give a great
foot massage. He should be
a sex machine, full
of surprises, going down on you
in an airplane
in a cave, under a waterfall
in positions you never thought
you’d find yourself in.
When you go to the country
for a weekend with him spend
days and nights making love,
until you emerge
from your cocooon of passion
exhausted but renewed, a survivor
of the flood that swept away
your foundations. Outside
it will be a new season.
Because love is the finest
season of all, though it seldom
lasts that long.

Your next lover will wear
a bracelet of tiny rubies
that looks exactly
right on him, not just an adornment
but an expression of his
enraptured soul.

Your next lover should write you poems
on your birthdays, on your anniversaries—
no occasion is too small. He should go on
writing you poems after you’ve dumped him
for a guy with a sports car
the way I find myself writing this poem
to you—who shall remain unnamed—
impossible love of mine
you who hacks me
open from my skull to my toes
consuming flame that flares up
as I invoke your lips
sweetened with the poison of love.

If he’s any good, your next lover should
prepare you FOR THE ONE WHO’LL COME
AFTER him; because your next lover
should not be the end
of love, but just a resting place,
a subway station playing Stan Getz,
a queen-sized bed, a silken pillow,
a window that opens to a pellucid sea
a harbor from which you’ll keep
departing to other destinations
as of yet undreamt by you.

Published in Lungfull

1962

2009-12-14T14:44:00.000-05:00

I made the kites
myself using
onion paper
the color
of dream
jungles.

With the arrival
of the trade winds
in December
I flew kites at dusk
in Recostadero Park
where Barranquilla’s
sweethearts met.

The days
flew by
like kites
in the wind.
At night,
exhausted from kite-flying,
I lay in my bed
neither boy nor man
and night-dreamed
with a kite that flew
all the way to the bloody
moon of the tropics
while below,
on planet earth where
I lived,
all the glaciers melted
all the seas overflowed
and the African continent
went up in flames.

Published in Gival Press, 2005

Don Quixote

2009-12-14T14:42:00.000-05:00

I woke up; it was the hour
of nocturnal terrors. My head
still on my pillow—in the unsettling
darkness of my room—I thought:
“I’m old.”

I couldn’t
go back to sleep.
I slipped my bony toes
in my slippers
ragged and thread-bare
like the life I’d lived.
Like so many nights
of late, I wrapped a blanket
around my shivering frame
opened the door of my room
and slipped out of the hushed house.

Outside, the ground
was damp, the night
abloom with stars
screaming silently
as they fell toward
God knows where—but certainly
far from my barren fields.
From the barn
an owl’s gold stare
questioned me. Not my presence
in the lateness of the night--
but my entire existence.

Spring was near, I could feel
the ground turning under my feet.
Then a second thought occurred to me:
“Soon I’ll be dead; soon my flabby
flesh, my brittle bones, my dried up brain
will be enriching the soil-- the earth
will be my roof, daisies my constellations.”

“No, this cannot be the end,” I heard
myself say. “There has to be more
to life than all the stories I’ve read
everything I haven’t seen or felt
the hardness of my cold bed.”

It was then the idea came
to me: I must take
to the open road
to redress the grievances,
rectify the wrongs, amend
the errors, and reform
the abuses in the world.
“Before it gets too late,” I added,
“I have to find love.”

It took a few days to prepare
before I rode away
on my Rocinante, my neighbor Sancho
for my squire, and the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso as the compass
of my loveless heart.

The rest of the story is well-known.
But what has never been
written about before
was that instant when I woke up
in my frigid bed, stepped out in
the chilly dawn, and felt
worms stirring the ground under me
reminding me I
had one more spring to live
and it was my duty to live it.

Published in Cimarron Review, 2007

Return to the Country of My Birth

2009-12-14T14:40:00.000-05:00

As I arrive in my old country
the smell of ripe mangoes
welcomes me.
In the fruit trees
sated birds sing:
“It’s a good season,
food is abundant,
in many flavors.”

At home awaits an e-mail
from my friend Tatiana:
“I am sad--my brother
was killed in the war.
I’ve returned from the country
of our birth to the cold north.”

Later, lured by the smell
of honeysuckle,
I walk in the garden
of the ancestral home.
The air teems with black moths.
Moistened by moon glow
the cannon balls glisten,
hibiscus offer
their lustrous red tongues.

When the moon transits
out to sea, in the high branches
vampire bats feed on
broken-necked nightingales,
and the stars’ light reveals
corpses lounging on the grass,
ruby hearts cupped
like split-pomegranates
in their hands.

Back in the house
I answer my friend’s e-mail.
“All these dead people
among the plants,
are too much for my first
night back home.
Sorry, but I
did not recognize
your brother among them.
Twenty years away,
I have forgotten
the customs of this place.”

Published in Gival Press, 2005

Cometas

2009-12-11T14:58:00.001-05:00

En diciembre
arribaban
los vientos alisios.
Al atardecer
izaba cometas
en el Parque recostadero.
Armaba las cometas
con goma, varitas
de paleta y papel cebolla
de colores selváticos.
Los días
transcurrían raudos
como cometas
al viento.
Entrada la noche,
exhausto de correr
con las cometas
en las lomas de El Recostadero,
donde se reunían
los amantes de Barranquilla,
yacía en mi lecho
con mis ojos abiertos
y soñaba con una cometa
que me transportara
hasta la luna sangrienta
del trópico
mientras abajo, en la tierra
donde yo vivía,
los glaciares
se derretían
todos los mares
se sublevaban
y el continente de Africa
se consumía en llamas.

The Blue Hour

2009-12-11T14:56:00.001-05:00

Sometimes it happens here
in Manhattan late in the afternoon
as a helicopter or a seagull
crosses the sky and I remember
my grandparents’ town when
the late hour was an invitation
to the bats to enter our house
like a dark invasion of tiny spaceships.

I saw that light caressing
the bricks of the building
on the other side of my window,
and I got up from the bed
where you and I lay
and I touched
January’s frost on the glass.
You asked
me for the time as if I—
like my grandfather—
had the talent to read the heavens.

It was the blue hour
in Manhattan, we were in love
and I wanted it to prolong it
so I could live in it always.

Weeks later,
on a snowy morning
I walked with you to the avenue
helping to carry your luggage.
As we waited for a taxi
—you were returning
to your city of bridges and warm stars—
I felt how irrevocable the moment was,
your eyes avoided mine. You
climbed into the cab and while
I looked in the direction in which
you were disappearing, perhaps forever,
you did not turn around
as a final punctuation mark.
At the corner nearest my house
I tripped and almost crashed
against the sidewalk.
I felt an enormous weight
on my shoulders, as if I they were
propping a brownstone;
I felt the full weight
of my fifty years.

Published in Bloom Magazine, 2007

A friend sent me this quote by Martin Luther King

2008-11-26T21:38:00.002-05:00

The arc of history bends toward justice.
- Martin Luther King

And some lovely verses by Wallace Stevens:

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

One More Thought

2008-07-30T14:26:00.002-04:00

"There is a quality even meaner than outright ugliness or disorder, and this meaner quality is the dishonest mask of pretended order, achieved by ignoring or suppressing the real order that is struggling to exist and to be served."
- Jane Jacobs, Life and Death

On the Fourth of July 2008

2008-07-02T11:13:00.002-04:00

A thought for the day:

"In these days of difficulty, we Americans everywhere must and shall choose the path of social justice...the path of hope, and the path of love toward our fellow man."
- Franklin D. Roosevelt