Ahi van cinco poemas en inglés de Demolición del Arco Iris camino de Los Ángeles traducidos con tiempo, amor e inspiración por mi cuñada Arlette, que nació en Montreal (Canada), y por Alicia Navarro aka Malicia Cool, filóloga y traductora, compañera de mi buen amigo Pejo, batería de Polanski y el Ardor, que tocó conmigo en la época de Qué es el optimismo? cuando llegué a Madrid a principios de los ochenta.
THERE IS A STORM TONIGHT ON EARTH
The sea is wild – I am scared –
and I breastfeed Yousuf.
I embark to your country, to an imperfect future,
I am a lonely cloud tonight,
a plastic bag. I leave everything behind.
Get into my skin, you were born with everything,
but your grandfather, most likely,
travelled as well to another place between heaven and nothing.
You are overweight while my village
is on a terror and famine diet .
You have a bed and suffer from insomnia,
I bring to you the dreams that give names to things.
You wear an expensive watch on your wrist
and I bring to you the time of a jungle in silence,
of a love without hurries, of non electric light.
(There’s always room for one more at the table).
You are mortgaged up to the hilt,
me just a hypothesis of roots and desire.
Make me room in your world,
give me the world in your rooms,
and let life kiss you in small letters.
FLOWERS OF THE DEMOLITION
I loved you, oh yes I did
with tigers in bed and ambushes.
No tracks left
of our thirst over the Milky Way,
the pyrotechnics are asking me about you,
the flowers of demolition are starting to sing.
Now that you’re not here there is no destiny,
nor streets for wine and summer.
We have touched the plane trees in heaven
and woken up in Popocatepelt.
The Earth is round again
the book of smiles has been extinguished by the rain.
Purgatory rotating round its hinges.
That time and memory be benevolent with you.
THE RAINBOW’S SECRET
Oh, fear is the hard core of atoms,
dwelling at the deep of pupils,
it governs the rainbow´s secret,
and an army of a thousand pure men
are just unable to tumble down the wall.
The new religion
has swollen the sperm of all the exorcists
and the game of suspicion
is the best fuel for a democrat´s heart.
Captives of that uneasy moon,
buttery and fevered,
suicides, watchmen,
adolescents repeating course,
men picking up abandoned dogs
and homunculus of abortion clinics
dial the numbers, once and again,
of an unhooked phone.
The circus Pain
has camped out on the outskirts of town.
THE RAFT OF THE MEDUSA
The sea is not sleeping tonight, and nor am I.
With a voice of centuries and shipwrecks
the sea´s speaking slowly tonight
like a walkman with wasted batteries.
When I was little I ran into an anchor
on top of a mount. I dug with my fingers around it
and sea shells and anemone shone under the sun.
How much insanity of a man fits in the sea?
As a grown up, mother,
I want to a be a civil servant of the sea,
a watchman that starts fires
and makes signs from the tower to ships.
The sea and I need dreams,
a sleep cure from here to the Apocalypse…
It opens its music boxes, that Chameleon:
of cooing, ecstasy, cholera and pain.
The sea hates God´s Son,
It is full of altars and catacombs,
you´ve no idea of how it detests God´s Son.
From the miracle of bread and fishes
men scratch their silence
to extract more than necessary.
The sea hates Bill Gates and the Net of nets
because now kids sail only on the Internet.
The sea is a horn of plenty,
an ancient faith,
for us burners of all flags.
But, tonight, the sea
as stoned between ropes
mumbles incoherent things:
¡Géricault, Theodore Géricault,
don’t let him paint The Raft of the Medusa!
AFTER THE RAIN
I am a city with only one man.
A woman with many men in her womb.
