Poesia kaiera
Irudi bikoiztua
1.
Azaroan beteko ditut hogeita hamar urte.
Zu txikia zara oraindik, lau urte baino ez.
Hosto beilegiei begira biok, nola alferrik galtzen diren,
neguko euriak astindurik,
zapal eta blai datoz lurrera.
Eta nik, bereziki, nirekin bizi izan ez zinen
hiru udazkenak dauzkat gogoan.
Medikuek zioten ez zintudala berriro hemen izango.
Sekula egiaz jakingo ez duzuna azaltzera noakizu:
nire garuna ez zela inoiz
hosto alderrai horiek
bezain benetakoa izango,
hala zioten haien hipotesi guztiek.
Nik, birritan nire
buruaz beste egitea hautatu nuen honek,
goitizenez deitu zintudan
mundura negar-zotinka etorri berri.
Sukarraren kriskitina zure lepoaz jabetu
eta ni zure buru gainean
panpina mutua legez balantzaka hasi nintzen arte.
Aingeru zatarren mintzoa aditu nuen orduan.
Erru osoa, hala entzun nien esaten, nirea zen.
Marmarrean zebiltzan
sorgin berdeak nire buruan.
Patuari iturri apurtu batetik uzten zioten
ihes egiten, tantaz tanta;
patuak nire sabela urperatu eta zure sehaska
bete balu bezala:
kitatzeke dudan zor zaharra.
Uste baino errazagoa zen heriotza.
Bizitzak onik jaioarazi zintuenean,
nire arima erruduna ken ziezadaten utzi nien sorginei.
Hil plantak egin nituen
gizon zuriek pozoia erauzi zidaten arte:
besorik gabe eta dutxatu berri,
bozgorailuen eta ohe elektrikoen mordoiloan
sartu ninduten.
Barre egin nuen hoteleko eskuburdina esklusiboak ikustean.
Gaur nagi dabiltza haizetan hosto beilegiak.
Nora ote doazen galdetzen didazu.
Nik diotsut oraina lurrera amiltzen dela
bere buruarengan federik izan ezean.
Gaur, ene laztantxo, ene Joyce,
hura edonon bizi delarik ere,
maitatu zure niaren nia.
Ez dago aholku eskatzeko Jainkorik;
eta balego halakorik,
zergatik utzi nizun ba hazten
beste leku batean?
Zure bila itzuli nintzenean
ez zenuen nire ahotsa ezagutu.
Etorkizuneko zuhaitz zuriaren
eta mihuraren bikaintasun guztiak ere
ezingo lizuke galdu duzun oporraldia itzuli.
Nire burua maite ez nuen
garaian, elurra apartatutako bideetan ibili nintzen.
Zuk eutsi egin zenion nire eskularruari.
Elur berria egin zuen gero.
2.
Postaz jaso nituen zuri buruzko albisteak,
baita sekula jantziko ez ditudan mokasinak egin ere.
Nire burua jasan ahal izateko lain osatzean,
amarekin jarri nintzen bizitzen. Beranduegi da,
beranduegi, zure amarekin bizitzen jartzeko, esan zuten sorginek.
Baina hantxe segitu nuen. Nire erretratua
eginarazi nuen, alde egin ordez.
Zoroetxetik erdi-irtendakoan,
amaren etxera etorri nintzen, Gloucester,
Massachusettsera. Eta halaxe heldu nion amari gogotik;
eta halaxe galdu nuen gero, haatik.
Ezin dizut suizidioa barkatu, esan zidan amak.
Eta ezin izan zuen. Nire erretratua
eginarazi zuen, horren ordez.
Apopilo sumindua nintzen,
adabakiz josia, haur izateko handiegia omen.
Eginahalak egin zituen amak, oroitzen dudanez.
Bostonera eraman eta ile-ebakera aldaraziz, adibidez.
Artistak esan zuen: zeure amaren antzera egiten duzu irribarre.
Ez zitzaidan asko axola. Nire erretratua
eginarazi nuen, horren ordez.
Hazi izan nintzen herrian eliza bat zegoen:
armairu zurietan giltzaperatzen gintuzten,
lerro-lerro, elkarrekin abesten duten arauzale estu
edo eskifaiakideak legez. Nire aitak
txapela pasatzen zuen.
Beranduegi jada barka zaitzagun, zioten sorginek.
Ez zen barkamena eskaini zidatena, hain zuzen.
Nire erretratua eginarazi zuten,
horren ordez.
3.
Zipriztintze-hodiek arku batekin ureztatu zuten
itsas ondoko belarra uda osoan.
Sikateaz mintzatu ginen
gatzak txepeldutako zelaia
gozatu bitartean.
Saiatu nintzen belarra mozten,
hartara denboraren joana azkartuko zelakoan,
eta egunsentian nire erretratua
egina neukan jada. Itxuroso geratu arte
eutsi nion irribarreari.
Untxi baten marrazkia igorri nizun behin
eta bat zenbakidun postala.
Ama izan eta alde egitea
normalena balitz bezala.
Iparraldeko argi hotz pean
zintzilikatu zuten nire erretratua,
gogorarazteko-edo haren antzera
nola egon behar nuen ondo.
Nire ama soilik gaixotu zen.
Aldendu egin zen nigandik, heriotza ote zuen atzetik,
heriotza sartzear bailitzan bere baitara.
Nire hiltzen-saiatze-hura barrutik jaten ari zitzaion ustean.
Zuk bi urte zenituen abuztuan, baina nik zalantzati
neurtzen nituen egunak.
Irail hasieran begietara so egin zidan amak
eta minbizia eragin niola leporatu.
Erauzi zizkioten muino samurrak,
baina nik ezin zer esan asmatu.
4.
Uda hartan, mediku sorta antzutik
eta X izpietan ontziratu osteko zorabiotik
eta zelulen aritmetika zorotik
itzulbidean jarri zen gure emakumea.
Kirurgia: osatu gabea;
besoa: potoloegi;
etorkizun hurbila, eskasa;
hala entzun nien medikuei.
Itsas-ekaitzaren garaian
bere erretratua
eginarazi zuen.
Ispilu baten leizea
hegoaldeko horman jarria;
bat zetorren silueta, bat kolorea.
Eta nire antza zeneukan; soinean zeneraman
nire aurpegira
ohitu gabe zinen artean. Baina nirea zinen,
azken batean.
Bostonen pasa nuen negua,
seme-alabarik gabeko ezkongai,
sorginak ondoan neuzkala,
samurtasuna emateko ezgai.
Zure haurtzaro hasiera galdu nuen,
bigarren aldiz suizidagai,
hotel zigilatuari beste aukera bat emateko lain.
Adarra jo zenidan Arrain
Egunean. Barre egin genuen, ondo
egon zen hori.
5.
Maiatzaren lehenean
utzi nuen azkenean hotela;
lizentziaturik buru-eritasunetan
eta nire analistak balekoa emanik.
Hiztegi errimatua, idazmakina eta maletak
banuen nirekin ekartzerik.
Uda oso bat atzera berriz ere
bizitzen ikasteko,
nire zazpi gelatara itzultzeko,
zisneen txalupak eta merkatua
bisitatu eta telefonoari erantzuteko,
emazte batek beharko lukeen ganoraz koktelak prestatu
eta nire gonazpikoekin
eta abuztuko azal betzaranarekin
larrua jotzeko. Asteburuero etorri zinen bisitan.
Gezurra. Lantzean behin baino ez.
Bertan zeunden itxurak egiten nituen nik,
nire antxumetxoa, nire tximeleta-neska,
gaztanberak zituena masailtzat, esana betetzen
ez zuen hiru zenbakia,
nire atzerritar
zoragarria. Eta ikasi behar izan nuen
zergatik nuen nahiago
hil, maitatu baino, nolatan zure xalotasuna
zitekeen zaurgarri eta erru-uztaren biltzaile.
Halaxe batzen ditu praktiketan den medikuak
zantzuak, ebidentzia lasaigarriak.
Gloucesterrera joan ginen urriko
egun hartan, muino gorrikarek
nire azeri larru gorri lehorreko
jaka gogorarazi zidaten,
umetan jolasteko janzten nuena;
erabat geldi,
hartz edo kanpin-denda bilakaturik,
leize bat nintzen irribarrez,
edo azeri gorrizta, bestela.
Arrain-haztegia igaro genuen,
amua saltzen duten txabola,
Pigeon Cover igaro genuen, Yatch Club, Squall's
Hill, oraindik itsas ondoko mendi-kaskoan
zain dagoen etxerantz, non
bi erretratu parez pare dauden bi hormatan.
6.
Finkatu egiten zait irribarrea ipar argitan;
itzala hezurraren azpimarra da.
Nire izate osoa begietan zain, gune
irribarretsua, aurpegi gaztea,
azeriaren lakioa...
Zer amets ote nerabilen hor eserita nintzela?
Finkatu egiten zaio irribarrea hego argitan,
Zimeldu egiten zaizkio masailak, orkidea
lehor baten modura; nire ispilu burlatia,
eraitsitako maitasuna, nire lehen irudi.
Aurpegi horretatik egiten dit soa
txikiegi geratu zaidan
heriotzaren buru harrizkoak.
Mamitu garen unean
ondo harrapatu gaitu artistak;
etxetzat dugun lientzoan irribarretsu,
aurreikusitako bideetan bereizi aitzin.
Azeri larru gorri lehorra sutarako egin baitzen.
Usteltzen da horman neronen
Dorian Gray.
Eta hauxe zen ispiluaren leizea,
denboran izoztuta balego legez
bere buruari so egiten dion emakume bikoiztua
—aulki ilun banatan eseritako bi emakume—.
Musu eman zenion zure amonari
eta hark negar egin zuen.
7.
Ezin zintudan nirekin izan,
baldin ez bazen asteburuetan. Beti
etortzen zinen behiala bidali nizun
untxiaren irudiari helduta. Azken aldiz
atera ditut maletatik zure gauzak.
Badugu elkar ukitzeko ohitura.
Nire izena galdetu zenidan lehen bisitan.
Orain betirako geratuko zara. Ahaztu
egingo dut nola talka egin eta aldendu ginen,
sokaz lotutako txotxongilo.
Ezin zitzaion maitasun deitu
asteburuak gu bere altzoan hartze hutsari.
Belauna urratu duzu. Nire izena ikasi,
espaloian aldaroka, oihuka eta negarrez.
Ama esaten didazu eta nire ama datorkit burura berriz,
Boston handian ariko dena hiltzen nonbait.
Joyce izendatu zintugun ustez
laburtzeko Joy hitzaren pozez.
Gonbidatu gogaikarria zinen
etorri berritan, tapakietan bilduta eta heze,
arrotz ene bular astunean.
Zure premia nuen. Mutilik ez,
neska bat baizik, neska baten sagutxo esnetsua,
jada maitatua, jada builosoa, bere buruaren
baitako etxean. Joy izendatu zintugun.
Nik, nire neskatasunaz sekula ziur
egon ez den honek, beste
bizitza bat behar nuen, nire burua oroitzeko
beste irudi bat.
Eta hauxe da nire errurik latzena: zuk ezin zenuen
hura sendatu, ez eztitu.
Nire burua topatzeko egin zintudan.
[1960]
The Double Image
1.
I am thirty this November. / You are still small, in your fourth year. / We stand watching the yellow leaves go queer, / flapping in the winter rain, / falling flat and washed. And I remember / mostly the three autumns you did not live here. / They said I’d never get you back again. / I tell you what you’ll never really know: / all the medical hypothesis / that explained my brain will never be as true as these / struck leaves letting go. // I, who chose two times / to kill myself, had said your nickname / the mewling months when you first came; / until a fever rattled / in your throat and I moved like a pantomime / above your head. Ugly angels spoke to me. The blame, / I heard them say, was mine. They tattled / like green witches in my head, letting doom / leak like a broken faucet; / as if doom had flooded my belly and filled your bassinet, / an old debt I must assume. // Death was simpler than I’d thought. / The day life made you well and whole / I let the witches take away my guilty soul. / I pretended I was dead / until the white men pumped the poison out, / putting me armless and washed through the rigamarole / of talking boxes and the electric bed. / I laughed to see the private iron in that hotel. / Today the yellow leaves / go queer. You ask me where they go. I say today believed / in itself, or else it fell. // Today, my small child, Joyce, / love your self’s self where it lives. / There is no special God to refer to; or if there is, / why did I let you grow / in another place. You did not know my voice / when I came back to call. All the superlatives / of tomorrow’s white tree and mistletoe / will not help you know the holidays you had to miss. / The time I did not love / myself, I visited your shoveled walks; you held my glove. / There was new snow after this.
2.
They sent me letters with news / of you and I made moccasins that I would never use. / When I grew well enough to tolerate / myself, I lived with my mother. Too late, / too late, to live with your mother, the witches said. / But I didn’t leave. I had my portrait / done instead. // Part way back from Bedlam / I came to my mother’s house in Gloucester, / Massachusetts. And this is how I came / to catch at her; and this is how I lost her. / I cannot forgive your suicide, my mother said. / And she never could. She had my portrait / done instead. // I lived like an angry guest, / like a partly mended thing, an outgrown child. / I remember my mother did her best. / She took me to Boston and had my hair restyled. / Your smile is like your mother’s, the artist said. / I didn’t seem to care. I had my portrait / done instead. // There was a church where I grew up / with its white cupboards where they locked us up, / row by row, like puritans or shipmates / singing together. My father passed the plate. / Too late to be forgiven now, the witches said. / I wasn’t exactly forgiven. They had my portrait / done instead.
3.
All that summer sprinklers arched / over the seaside grass. / We talked of drought / while the salt-parched / field grew sweet again. To help time pass / I tried to mow the lawn / and in the morning I had my portrait done, / holding my smile in place, till it grew formal. / Once I mailed you a picture of a rabbit / and a postcard of Motif number one, / as if it were normal / to be a mother and be gone. // They hung my portrait in the chill / north light, matching / me to keep me well. / Only my mother grew ill. / She turned from me, as if death were catching, / as if death transferred, / as if my dying had eaten inside of her. / That August you were two, but I timed my days with doubt. / On the first of September she looked at me / and said I gave her cancer. / They carved her sweet hills out / and still I couldn’t answer.
4.
That winter she came / part way back / from her sterile suite / of doctors, the seasick / cruise of the X-ray, / the cells’ arithmetic / gone wild. Surgery incomplete, / the fat arm, the prognosis poor, I heard / them say. // During the sea blizzards / she had her / own portrait painted. / A cave of a mirror / placed on the south wall; / matching smile, matching contour. / And you resembled me; unacquainted / with my face, you wore it. But you were mine / after all. // I wintered in Boston, / childless bride, / nothing sweet to spare / with witches at my side. / I missed your babyhood, / tried a second suicide, / tried the sealed hotel a second year. / On April Fool you fooled me. We laughed and this / was good.
5.
I checked out for the last time / on the first of May; / graduate of the mental cases, / with my analyst’s okay, / my complete book of rhymes, / my typewriter and my suitcases. // All that summer I learned life / back into my own / seven rooms, visited the swan boats, / the market, answered the phone, / served cocktails as a wife / should, made love among my petticoats // and August tan. And you came each / weekend. But I lie. / You seldom came. I just pretended / you, small piglet, butterfly / girl with jelly bean cheeks, / disobedient three, my splendid // stranger. And I had to learn / why I would rather / die than love, how your innocence / would hurt and how I gather / guilt like a young intern / his symptoms, his certain evidence. // That October clay we went / to Gloucester the red hills / reminded me of the dry red fur fox / coat I played in as a child; stock-still / like a bear or a tent, / like a great cave laughing or a red fur fox. // We drove past the hatchery, / the hut that sells bait, / past Pigeon Cove, past the Yacht Club, past Squall’s / Hill, to the house that waits / still, on the top of the sea, / and two portraits hang on opposite walls.
6.
In north light, my smile is held in place, / the shadow marks my bone. / What could I have been dreaming as I sat there, / all of me waiting in the eyes, the zone / of the smile, the young face, / the foxes’ snare. // In south light, her smile is held in place, / her cheeks wilting like a dry / orchid; my mocking mirror, my overthrown / love, my first image. She eyes me from that face, / that stony head of death / I had outgrown. // The artist caught us at the turning; / we smiled in our canvas home / before we chose our foreknown separate ways. / The dry red fur fox coat was made for burning. / I rot on the wall, my own / Dorian Gray. // And this was the cave of the mirror, / that double woman who stares / at herself, as if she were petrified / in time — two ladies sitting in umber chairs. / You kissed your grandmother / and she cried.
7.
I could not get you back / except for weekends. You came / each time, clutching the picture of a rabbit / that I had sent you. For the last time I unpack / your things. We touch from habit. / The first visit you asked my name. / Now you stay for good. I will forget / how we bumped away from each other like marionettes / on strings. It wasn’t the same / as love, letting weekends contain / us. You scrape your knee. You learn my name, / wobbling up the sidewalk, calling and crying. / You call me mother and I remember my mother again, / somewhere in greater Boston, dying. // I remember we named you Joyce / so we could call you Joy. / You came like an awkward guest / that first time, all wrapped and moist / and strange at my heavy breast. / I needed you. I didn’t want a boy, / only a girl, a small milky mouse / of a girl, already loved, already loud in the house / of herself. We named you Joy. / I, who was never quite sure / about being a girl, needed another / life, another image to remind me. / And this was my worst guilt; you could not cure / nor soothe it. I made you to find me.