Poesia kaiera
Nire sentimenduen oroimenez
Grace Hartigani
1
Nire baretasunak gizon bat du barnean, gardena da
eta bare narama, gondola batek bezala, kaleetan barrena.
Zenbait antzekotasun dauzka, izarren eta urteen antzera, zenbakien antzera.
Nire baretasunak ni biluzi ugari dauzka,
pistola mordo bat neuretzat hartu ditudanak nire niak babesteko
kreatura zenbaitetatik, zeinek aiseegi ezagutzen
dituzten nire armak eta hiltzaile petoak diren!
nahiz eta neguan
arrosa epelak bezalakoak diren, desertuan
anisete izoztuaren zaporekoak.
Batzuetan, bakarturik,
zeru hotzetara goratzen naiz
eta mundu neurtezina begiesten dut nire kideen, mendien,
identifikazio sinplearekin. Manfred nire lepondora igotzen da,
mintzo da, baina ez dut entzuten,
atsekabetuegi naiz.
Elefante batek bere tronpeta altxatzen du,
dirua garrasien leihoetatik hegaldatzen da, zetak bere ispilua
sorbalda-hezurretan du tenkatzen. Errebolber baten “tiro-hotsa”.
Nire nietako batek
13. leihorantz egiten du korrika eta nire nietako batek zartailua altxatzen du eta nire
nietako batek bidexkaren erditik hegoak harrotzen ditu flamenko arrosen artean,
eta beren apoen azpian azken jira egiten dutelarik, nire ezpainak
orbaindurik eta arre dira, isatsek erraztaturik, lohiaren lizunkerian maskaratuak,
definizioa, aho irekiak arnasestuka dabiltza lurraren birikei garrasi
egiten dieten
apustulariengatik.
Nire gardentasunetatik zenbatek ezin izan zioten lasterketari eutsi!
Izualdia lurrean, perretxiko idortuak, luma arrosak, tiketak,
ilargi ezkatatua hortz lohiztatuetan flotatzen,
arnaste itoaren auhen sumagaitza,
sugearen maitasuna!
Bere hostoen azpian nago ehiztariak kraskatzen eta hatsantzen eta tarratatzen
duenean, babes-globoa hodei baten atzean sartzen denean
eta animalia-heriotzak bere eskuargia ateratzen duenean,
txistu joz,
eta armaren katuaren eskutik eskularrua ateraz. Sugearen begiak
gorritu egiten dira azkazal arantzatsu horiek ikustean, hain da leuna!
Nire ni gardenak
inarrosi egiten dira sugegorriak pertz batean nola, bihurdikatuz eta txistuka,
izu-ikararik gabe, erantzuteko justizia moduko batez
eta istantean suge musuluzea Medusaren antza hartzen hasten da.
2
Hildakoak ehizan
eta bizidunak, ehizaturik.
Nire aita, nire osaba,
nire osaba zaharra eta zenbait izeba. Nire
izeba zaharra niregatik hiltzen, talisman bat bezala, gerran,
Borneora joan baino are lehenago
bere odol-hodiak gainaldera kanporaturik
eta suziriak bezala leherturik australiarren inbasio
zimurtuaren gainean, bere begiak saiheska
inbadituenak bezala, baina urdin nireak bezala.
Buru-argitasun goreneko giroa,
humanismoa,
enfasiaren existentzia hutsa,
gabarra herdoildu bat
laranjaz margotua itsasoaren kontra
ideia arabiarrak errezitatzen dituzten marinez beteta
zeinak itsas zorabioaren froga diren
zeina ehizatua izatearen froga den.
Itu bat? ergo igeri.
Nire 10ak nire 19ak,
nire 9ak, eta beste hainbat urte. Nire
12 urteak denak hil zirenetik, zentzu filosofikoan.
Eta gogamen baten hoztasuna orain
Grand Hoteleko suite hertsi bat bezala
non posta gordeka iristen zaidan,
zeinaren fatxada
Grand Canalean hondoratzen ari den mendeak ezkero;
suziriak sposalizio baten gainetik aireratzen,
iheska gauaren erdian
beren memoria txinatarrei, eta ospakizun bat da,
hiltzen ari direlarik haiek etsian zenbatzen saiatzea.
Baina nor geratuko da zenbaki horietan
argi guztiak hilik direnean?
3
Sail idorrena oparoena izaten da sarritan,
esku gosetu bat pikondo baterantz luzatzen da
hondeatuz
eta ura dago, garden, zalu, edo han
harean hondoraturik heriotzak lo egiten duen lekuan, marmar burbuilatsuak
aldarri du belztasun aringarri eta erregarri bat.
Nahiago zenituzten arabiarrak? Baina ez ziren beren asmakizunak
kontatzeko geratu, hondarretarantz korrika joan ziren, beren buruak beste
hainbestetan ugaldurik,
beren buruen imajina amultsuenak besarkatu zituzten, Ramadanean,
arradatutako ehundaka zakilekin, gamelu batek
ahuntz bat behartzen duen bezala.
Eta adimen menditsuko greziarrek ibai baten
gisara hitz egin dezakete denboraz eta ibaia gurutzatu Persiara, oinazea
etxean utzita estatua-bilduma bihurtzeko. Adoratzen ditut kopia erromatarrak.
Eta irensten dudan gamelu-listuaren kiratsa,
eta ahuntz osoaren kiratsa. Zeren elkarrekin egin baitugu aurrera, Frantzia,
lur berri baterantz, greziarrek bezala, non ideiengatik soilik
nostalgiko sentitzen zaren, non egia bere herio-ohantzean datzan osaba bat bezala
eta nire nietako batek zenbakien oroimin sentimentala duen,
beste batek Directoire-ko dantza-soinekoena duen bezala eta oraindik
beste batek “Helmuga, Paris, helmuga!”
edo “Errege batek soilik hil dezake errege bat”ena.
Zenbat ni daude izenetan lokarturiko gerra heroi batean? Pelotoi
eta ontzidiko burusi baten azpian, txukun. Begi bat beldurrez ixten duen
eta Lord Nelsonengatik hasperen eginez besoa luzatzen duen itsasgizon ororentzat,
hilik da; eta orain menpeko otzan bat mila lagunen furiaz
iraulkatzen da maindire-tapakietan, eta amorante ero bat bortxatzen du
zeinak bere burua soilik baitauka jendetzari eskaintzeko.
Altxatzean,
bere burua biltzen du memorien txabusinan bizitzaren beroaren kontra
eta hondarretan doa in re kokapen aljebraikoa hartzeko,
beldur-eguzki batek kemen askorik gabe distira egiten duelarik. Dardara sentitu baino
lehen beldurrari emateko botoa eskatuko die beren niei,
mezulariak mendietatik elurrez kargaturik
iristen diren bitartean, erakutsiz gogamenaren zaharkitzea gai dela oraindik
intimitaterako. Amoranteak desertuan zehar jarraituko dio
ahuntz batek bezala, ilusio baterantz zeina ezaguna zaion
bere ezin konta ahalezko eskumuturretan,
eta egun batez oasi batean etzanda,
koko harrapaketan jolasten, bat-batean petrolioa usaintzen dute.
4
Bizitza horien azpian
historiaren maitale suharra ezkutatzen da,
mingaina kanpoan
listu-anpulu bat ipintzen du belar-izpi tenkatuan
eta isatsa astintzeari uzten dio une batez
bandera hori miresteko.
Nire Shangai Lil-a bilatzen ari naiz.
Duela bost urte, sute-eskailerez enamoraturik, Chicagora joan nintzen,
bidaia bizi bat: iturriak! Art Institutea, bi sexuentzako
ymca, kristautasuna absente.
7etan, Jane altxatu
aurretik, kobrezko aintzirak zamaontzi norvegiar baten
karela astintzen zuen; ontzigainean gizon zikin gutxi batzuk,
gauaz nekaturik, beren buruei uretan begira
urte batzuk lehenago Prinz Eugen-eko preso alemaniarrek
beren zauriez Pazifikoa orbandu zuten bezala, zeinak itsas armadako
mediku batek morez margotu zituen.
Bizarrak hazten ari, eta itxurarekiko
antsietate etengabea. Bizarra egingo dut neska altxatu aurretik. Sam Goldwynek
2.000.000 $ gastatu zituen Ann Sten-engatik, baina Grushenkak Amerika utzi zuen.
Nire nietako bat olatuetan zutik da, ozeanoko bainularia,
edo biluzik nago deabruzko plater bat aldakan.
Ahal
bezain ugari jaiotzearen eta bizitzearen grazia. Maskara-festaren
sortzeak apenas ditu iradokitzen identifikazio likitsak.
Hitita bat naiz zaldi batekin maitemindurik. Ez dakit zein odol dudan
nire baitan printze afrikar baten antzera sentitzen naiz neska bat naiz soineko gorri
tolesduna soinean eskailerak takoiekin jaisten txapeldun bat naiz amiltzen
jockey bat naiz ipurtzulo bihurritu batekin lanbro arina naiz
zeinetan aurpegi bat agertzen den
eta beste aurpegi ilehori bat den babuino bat naiz banana bat jaten
diktadore bat naiz emazteari begira mediku bat naiz haur bat jaten
eta haurraren ama irribarrez txinatar bat naiz mendi bat igotzen
haur bat naiz bere aitaren barruko arropa usaintzen indiar bat naiz
ilaje batean lo
eta nire poneya urkietan aztalka,
eta Niña, Pinta eta Santa Maria begiztatu berri ditut.
Zer lurralde da hau, hain librea?
Itsasoa
ikusten dut nire begien hondoan, bakardadean pentsatzen dudan
lekuaren alboan pinuek intziri egiten duten bitartean eta haize alimalekoei eusten,
L’Oiseau de feu ari dira isilean kantari!
Jainkoak dirudite, gizon zuri horiek,
eta maitemindu ninduen zaldia ari zaizkit fresko batean ekartzen.
5
Eta orain sugearen txanda da.
Ez naiz guztiz zu, baina ia, bisiolariaren kontrakoa.
Figura nagusiaren inguruan biribilkatzen zara,
mamu gorriz
bor-bor egiten duen bihotza, mugitzea maitatzea baita
eta gauza guztiak arakatzea silogistikoa,
antilopearen begi zurtuak, bandera zuriz beteriko
zuhaixka ihes egiten ehiztariarengandik,
zeina gure demokrazia baita
baina
harrapakina beti da ahul eta zerbaiten antzeko, maskor bat Courbet goren
bat izan daitekeen bezala, nahiko balu. Kanpoko munduari belarria makurtzeko.
Burua biratzen duzunean
orpoak senti al ditzakezu, ondulaturik? Hori da
suge izatea. Ez dizkizut kontatu nire bizitzetako
gauzarik ederrenak, eta begira haien galeraren uhina nola desagertzen
den urertzean, iratzeen azpian,
iratzeetan ahuspez
nire gorputza, nire ni ugarien anfitrioi biluzia, gerrillari
batek tirokatua edo auto batetik jaurtikia iratzeetara
zeinak journalières-ak baitira.
Heroiak, bere paraxuta askatu nahian,
nire gainera egiten du estropezu. Gure azkeneko besarkaldia da.
Eta haatik,
nire maiteak ahaztu ditut, eta nagusiki hura, nire gorputzak
hartu ezin zuen estatua minbiziduna,
nire borondatearen kontra
nire maitasunaren kontra
arte egin zen,
ezin dut historia bihurtu
hura gogoratzeko,
eta beti leku orotan presente dagoena
galdu dut, nire nien eszena, amarru horien aitzakia,
neronek eta bakarrik hil behar dudana orain
haien artean dagoen sugea salbatzeko.
In memory of my feelings
to Grace Hartigan
1
My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent / and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets. / He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals. / My quietness has a number of naked selves, / so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves / from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons / and have murder in their heart! / though in winter / they are warm as roses, in the desert / taste of chilled anisette. / At times, withdrawn, / I rise into the cool skies / and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification / of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape, / speaks, but I do not hear him, / I’m too blue. / An elephant takes up his trumpet, / money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror / across shoulder blades. A gun is “fired.” / One of me rushes / to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me / flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes, / and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips / are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt’s lust, / definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs / of earth. / So many of my transparencies could not resist the race! / Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets, / a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth, / the imperceptible moan of covered breathing, / love of the serpent! / I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants / and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud / and animal death whips out its flashlight, / whistling / and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent’s eyes / redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth! / My transparent selves / flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing / without panic, with a certain justice of response / and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.
2
The dead hunting / and the alive, ahunted. / My father, my uncle, / my grand-uncle and the several aunts. My / grand-aunt dying for me, like a talisman, in the war, / before I had even gone to Borneo / her blood vessels rushed to the surface / and burst like rockets over the wrinkled / invasion of the Australians, her eyes aslant / like the invaded, but blue like mine. / An atmosphere of supreme lucidity, / humanism, / the mere existence of emphasis, / a rusted barge / painted orange against the sea / full of Marines reciting the Arabian ideas / which are a proof in themselves of seasickness / which is a proof in itself of being hunted. / A hit? ergo swim. / My 10 my 19, / my 9, and the several years. My / 12 years since they all died, philosophically speaking. / And now the coolness of a mind / like a shuttered suite in the Grand Hotel / where mail arrives for my incognito, / whose fagade / has been slipping into the Grand Canal for centuries; / rockets splay over a sposalizio, / fleeing into night / from their Chinese memories, and it is a celebration, / the trying desperately to count them as they die. / But who will stay to be these numbers / when all the lights are dead?
3
The most arid stretch is often richest, / the hand lifting towards a fig tree from hunger / digging / and there is water, clear, supple, or there / deep in the sand where death sleeps, a murmurous bubbling / proclaims the blackness that will ease and burn. / You preferred the Arabs? but they didn’t stay to count / their inventions, racing into sands, converting themselves into / so many, / embracing, at Ramadan, the tenderest effigies of / themselves with penises shorn by the hundreds, like a camel / ravishing a goat. / And the mountainous-minded Greeks could speak / of time as a river and step across it into Persia, leaving the pain / at home to be converted into statuary. I adore the Roman copies. / And the stench of the camel’s spit I swallow, / and the stench of the whole goat. For we have advanced, France, / together into a new land, like the Greeks, where one feels nostalgic / for mere ideas, where truth lies on its deathbed like an uncle / and one of me has a sentimental longing for numbei, / as has another for the ball gowns of the Directoire and yet / another for “Destiny, Paris, destiny!” / or “Only a king may kill a king.” // How many selves are there in a war hero asleep in names? under / a blanket of platoon and fleet, orderly. For every seaman / with one eye closed in fear and twitching arm at a sigh for Lord Nelson, / he is all dead; and now a meek subaltern writhes in his bedclothes / with the fury of a thousand, violating an insane mistress / who has only herself to offer his multitudes. / Rising, / he wraps himself in the burnoose of memories against the heat of life / and over the sands he goes to take an algebraic position in re / a sun of fear shining not too bravely. He will ask himselves to / vote on fear before he feels a tremor, / as runners arrive from the mountains / bearing snow, proof that the mind’s obsolescence is still capable / of intimacy. His mistress will follow him across the desert / like a goat, towards a mirage which is something familiar about / one of his innumerable wrists, / and lying in an oasis one day, / playing catch with coconuts, they suddenly smell oil.
4
Beneath these lives / the ardent lover of history hides, / tongue out / leaving a globe of spit on a taut spear of grass / and leaves off rattling his tail a moment / to admire this flag. / I’m looking for my Shanghai Lil. / Five years ago, enamored of fire-escapes, I went to Chicago, / an eventful trip: the fountains! the Art Institute, the Y / for both sexes, absent Christianity. / At 7, before Jane / was up, the copper lake stirred against the sides / of a Norwegian freighter; on the deck a few dirty men, / tired of night, watched themselves in the water / as years before the German prisoners on the Prinz Eugen / dappled the Pacific with their sores, painted purple / by a Naval doctor. / Beards growing, and the constant anxiety / over looks. I’ll shave before she wakes up. Sam Goldwyn / spent $2,000,000 on Anna Sten, but Grushenka left America. / One of me is standing in the waves, an ocean bather, / or I am naked with a plate of devils at my hip. / Grace / to be born and live as variously as possible. The conception / of the masque barely suggests the sordid identifications. / I am a Hittite in love with a horse. I don’t know what blood’s / in me I feel like an African prince I am a girl walking downstairs / in a red pleated dress with heels I am a champion taking a fall / I am a jockey with a sprained ass-hole I am the light mist / in which a face appears / and it is another face of blonde I am a baboon eating a banana / I am a dictator looking at his wife I am a doctor eating a child / and the child’s mother smiling I am a Chinaman climbing a mountain / I am a child smelling his father’s underwear I am an Indian / sleeping on a scalp / and my pony is stamping in the birches, / and I’ve just caught sight of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. / What land is this, so free? / I watch / the sea at the back of my eyes, near the spot where I think / in solitude as pine trees groan and support the enormous winds, / they are humming L’Oiseau de feu! / They look like gods, these whitemen, / and they are bringing me the horse I fell in love with on the frieze.
5
And now it is the serpent’s turn. / I am not quite you, but almost, the opposite of visionary. / You are coiled around the central figure, / the heart / that bubbles with red ghosts, since to move is to love / and the scrutiny of all things is syllogistic, / the startled eyes of the dikdik, the bush full of white flags / fleeing a hunter, / which is our democracy / but the prey / is always fragile and like something, as a seashell can be / a great Courbet, if it wishes. To bend the ear of the outer world. // When you turn your head / can you feel your heels, undulating? that’s what it is / to be a serpent. I haven’t told you of the most beautiful things / in my lives, and watching the ripple of their loss disappear / along the shore, underneath ferns, / face downward in the ferns / my body, the naked host to my many selves, shot / by a guerrilla warrior or dumped from a car into ferns / which are themselves journalières. / The hero, trying to unhitch his parachute, / stumbles over me. It is our last embrace. / And yet / I have forgotten my loves, and chiefly that one, the cancerous / statue which my body could no longer contain, / against my will / against my love / become art, / I could not change it into history / and so remember it, / and I have lost what is always and everywhere / present, the scene of my selves, the occasion of these ruses, / which I myself and singly must now kill / and save the serpent in their midst.