Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
Anne Sexton
itzulpena: Harkaitz Cano
2015, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-92468-66-9
Anne Sexton
1928-1974
 
 

 

Isiltasuna

 

                      Irudiko luke, zenbat eta gehiago idatzi,

                      isiltasunak orduan eta higatuago naukala.

                                                        C. K. Williams

 

 

Nire gela karez zuritua dago,

nekazari giroko polizia-etxe bat bezain zuri

eta hura bezain isil;

ilargipean lixiba-distira duten

zaborretako

oilasko hezurrak baino zuriago,

eta haiek bezain isil.

Bada estatua zuri bat nire atzean,

eta landare zuriak

birjina lizunen modura hazten,

deus esan gabe, euren

mihi lodiak zintzilik.

 

Nire ilea da ilun den bakarra.

Su zuriak kixkalia izan da

ikatz bihurtu arte.

Beltzak dira nire perlak, halaber,

sumendi hondotik berreskuratutako

hogei begi itxura galdu.

 

Nire lumatik irteten diren hitzekin

betetzen ari naiz gela.

Abortu baten eran, tantaka hitzak:

airera txistukatu eta badatoz bueltan,

squash pilotak bailiran.

Bada isiltasunik, hala ere.

Isiltasuna beti.

Haurtxo baten aho itzelaren neurri.

 

Isiltasuna heriotza da.

Egunero dakar bere shocka, txori zuri bat,

ene sorbaldan pausatzera;

eta mokokatzen ditu nire begi beltzak

eta nire ahoko

gihar gorri kartsua.

 

[1972]

 

The Silence

The more I write, the more the silence seems to be eating away at me. C. K. Williams

My room is whitewashed, / as white as a rural station house / and just as silent; / whiter than chicken bones / bleaching in the moonlight, / pure garbage, / and just as silent. / There is a white statue behind me / and white plants / growing like obscene virgins, / pushing out their rubbery tongues / but saying nothing. // My hair is the one dark. / It has been burnt in the white fire / and is just a char. / My beads too are black, / twenty eyes heaved up / from the volcano, / quite contorted. // I am filling the room / with the words from my pen. / Words leak out of it like a miscarriage. / I am zinging words out into the air / and they come back like squash balls. / Yet there is silence. / Always silence. / Like an enormous baby mouth. // The silence is death. / It comes each day with its shock / to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, / and peck at the black eyes / and the vibrating red muscle / of my mouth.