Saudade1
I’ll leave the growing grass
the vines in bloom
the barking dog
the sloppiness
of the neighbour
who is no cronopio32
the Pakistani lady
squatting in
to rip the yellow cardosanto3
who cries about her widowhood
every morning
the two-sloped rooftops
hoping for rain
the tree leaves
of the last season
with their faint rustling
my winter coat
with age in its wool
and one missing button
the children
with bright eyes
and violet smiles
the smell
of fresh ginger
and vanilla from Madagascar
I’ll take only the hummingbird
in my small cotton purse
to give it a minimalist garden
as home.
in my small cotton purse
to give it a minimalist garden
as home.
_____________________
- Saudade: (in Portuguese folk culture) a deep emotional state of melancholic longing for a person or thing that is absent.
- A cronopio is a fictional character who appears in works by Argentinian writer Julio Cortázar.
- Cardosanto, prickly poppy in English: Argemone mexicana, a poppy found in Mexico, with bright yellow latex.
Saudade
Dejo creciendo las hierbas
floreciendo las enredaderas
el perro ladrando
el descuido
del vecino
que no es cronopio
la paquistaní arrancando
en cuclillas
el cardosanto amarillo
y llorando su viudez
cada mañana
los techos de dos aguas
esperando la lluvia
las hojas
de la última estación
con su crujido leve
mi abrigo de invierno
con la vejez en su lana y
un botón de menos
los niños
de ojos brillantes
y sonrisa violeta
el olor
a jengibre fresco
y a vainilla
de Madagascar
solo me llevo el colibrí
va en mi cartera
de tela de algodón
para darle un minimalista
jardín de residencia
Signs
It’s the madness of the middle of the rope
the clairvoyance of the acute
the logic lost in the instant
of birth
it’s the refined wrapping of all the confusion
at the return of dusk
it’s the elbow as small as a wing
emaciated and sad
her blind blue eye
Why join the eye to tears
if the body is water
pure and sacred?
How does the pain arise
in an apple
hollow and sweet?
Is it like she says
like she said
like I say?
It all started
before I noticed
in the marks on
my body
a grudge
almost
purple
everything’s planned over time
in an innocent manner
silencing Babel
Signos
Es la locura el centro de la cuerda
la clarividencia de lo agudo
es la lógica perdida en el instante
del parto
es refinado el envoltorio de tanta confusión
en el retorno al crepúsculo
es el ala un pequeño codo
descarnado y triste
con un ojo azul y ciego
Por qué unir ojo y lágrima
si el cuerpo es agua pura
y sagrada
Cómo es que viene el dolor
en una manzana
agujereada y dulce
¿Es así como lo dice
como lo dijo
como lo digo?
todo empezó
antes de que lo
reseñara
en las marcas
de mi cuerpo
un rencor
casi
cárdeno
se planifica en tiempo
de manera inocente
enmudece Babel
Statistics
I venture
in search of
the philosopher’s stone
the storm
is my skin
my shoes
are soiled
if the stone is found
no philosopher follows
cowards get scared
of my presence
I’m still waiting
at the gates of Ur
scorched
with heat
my open jaws
drooling
if born defective
a verse doesn’t make it
Estadística
Me aventuro
a buscar
la piedra de los sabios
la tormenta
es mi piel
mis zapatos
tienen polvo
si aparece la piedra
no aflora el sabio
huyen los cobardes
ante mi presencia
espero todavía
en las puertas de Ur
echada
con calor
mis fauces abiertas
soltando baba
cuando nace defectuoso
el verso no se logra
Anabelle Aguilar Brealey was born in Costa Rica and spent more than four decades in Venezuela. In 2014, she emigrated to Canada for political and family reasons. She has published 19 Spanish-language prose and poetry books in Costa Rica, Venezuela and Spain. These are her work’s first translations into English.
bellissimo!
Please join me in welcoming Anabelle to English language poetry! My big thanks to “The Blue Nib” and editor Clara Burghelea for giving these poems and translations a home and my deepest gratitude to Anabelle for trusting to translate her wonderful poems and helping me do it.