Poesia kaiera
Arrantzaleen etxeak
Ilunabar hotza den arren,
han behean, arrantzaleen etxeetako baten ondoan
gizon bat dago eserita eta josten;
haren sarea ia ikusezina da arrastirian,
more-marroi iluna,
eta haren anezka maiztua eta dotorea.
Hain da sakona airearen bakailao usaina
non sudurra jariarazi eta begiak bustitzen dituen.
Arrantzaleen bost etxeek piko zorrotzeko teilatuak dituzte
eta pasabide estu eta pataskadunak daude kokatuta, aldapan,
eskorgak hormapikoetako biltegietaraino eta bueltan
garraiatu ahal izateko.
Dena da zilarra: itsasoaren gainazal lodia,
astiro puzten gainezka egiteko aukera aztertzen ariko balitz bezala,
opakua da, baina bankuen, otarrain-tranpen,
eta masten zilarrak, koskadun arroka
basatien artean barreiatuta,
zeharrargia ematen du,
kostaldeko hormetan esmeralda koloreko goroldioa
zabaltzen ari zaien etxetxo zaharrek bezala.
Sardinzar-ezkata ederren geruzak
zimurka daude pilatuta arrain-kaxa handietan
eta eskorgak ere hala estaltzen dituzte
sare-ehun irideszente krema kolorekoek,
eta horiek ere eulitxo irideszenteek josten.
Etxeen atzeko aldapatxoaren goialdean,
han-hemengo belar-zipriztinen gainean,
egurrezko tornu birakari bat dago, antzinakoa;
arraildua dago, kolorgetutako helduleku luze bi dauzka
eta orban goibel zenbait, odol sikuaren antzeko,
metala herdoildu den tokietan.
Gizon zaharrak onartu du Lucky Strikea.
Nire aitonaren laguna zen.
Biztanleria-beherakadaz aritu gara
eta bakailaoaz eta sardinzarrez
sardinzar-ontzia itzul dadin itxaroten duen bitartean.
Ezkatak dauzka txalekoan eta atzamar lodian.
Ezin konta ahala animaliari karrakatu dizkio, kendu dio
haren edertasun-iturri nagusia labana beltz zahar horrekin,
zeinaren ahoa ia desagertzeraino maiztua baita.
Behean, ur-ertzean, ontziak
uretarainoko aldapa luzean zehar herrestan igo
eta lehorreratzen dituzten tokian, zuhaitz-enbor
fin eta zilarrezkoak daude horizontalki etzanda
harri grisen gainean, beheraino
lau edo bost oineko tarteetan.
Hotz ilun sakon eta guztiz garden,
ezein izaki hilkorrek pairatu ezin duen elementua,
ez arrainek ez itsas txakurrek... Itsas txakur bat, berbera
ikusi izan dut hemen hainbat arratsaldetan.
Jakin-mina piztu nion. Gustuko zuen musika;
nik bezala erabateko murgilketan sinesten zuen,
beraz ereserki baptistak abesten nizkion.
“Gaztelu indartsua dugu Jainko” ere abestu nion.
Ur gainean altxatu eta tentuz
begiratzen zidan, burua apur bat mugitzen zuela.
Gero desagertu egiten zen, eta berriz azaldu
ia toki berean, sorbalda-jasotze moduko bat eginez
zentzuak agintzen zionaren kontra ariko balitz bezala.
Hotz ilun sakon eta guztiz garden,
ur gris garbi izoztua... Beste aldean, gure atzean,
hasten dira duintasunez beteriko izei garaiak.
Urdinkara, beren itzalekin loturan,
milioi bat Gabonetako zuhaitz daude
Gabonen zain. Ura airean zintzilik dagoela ematen du
harri biribildu gris eta gris-urdinen gainetik.
Behin eta berriz ikusi dut, itsaso berbera, berbera,
ia mugitu gabe, axolagabe kulunkan harrien gainetik,
izoztu eta aske harrien gainetik,
harrien gainetik eta munduaren gainetik gero.
Eskua murgilduko bazenu,
berehala minduko litzaizuke eskumuturra,
hezurrak minduko litzaizkizuke eta eskua erretzen sentituko zenuke
ura suaren transmutazioa balitz bezala
harrietan bazkatuko balitz bezala gar gris ilunez.
Dastatuko bazenu, gustu garratza luke lehenengo,
gesala gero, eta gero seguruenik mihia erreko lizuke.
Jakintza nola irudikatzen dugun, halakoxea da:
iluna, gazia, garbia, higikaria, askea guztiz,
munduaren aho hotz eta gogorretik
ateratakoa, bular harritsuetatik eratorritakoa,
betiko, behin eta berriz badoa eta badator, eta nola
gure jakintza historikoa den, badoa, eta hegaldatu zaigu.
At the Fishhouses
Although it is a cold evening, / down by one of the fishhouses / an old man sits netting, / his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, / a dark purple-brown, / and his shuttle worn and polished. / The air smells so strong of codfish / it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water. / The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs / and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up / to storerooms in the gables / for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. / All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, / swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, / is opaque, but the silver of the benches, / the lobster pots, and masts, scattered / among the wild jagged rocks, / is of an apparent translucence / like the small old buildings with an emerald moss / growing on their shoreward walls. / The big fish tubs are completely lined / with layers of beautiful herring scales / and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered / with creamy iridescent coats of mail, / with small iridescent flies crawling on them. / Up on the little slope behind the houses, / set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, / is an ancient wooden capstan, / cracked, with two long bleached handles / and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, / where the ironwork has rusted. / The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. / He was a friend of my grandfather. / We talk of the decline in the population / and of codfish and herring / while he waits for a herring boat to come in. / There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. / He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, / from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, / the blade of which is almost worn away. // Down at the water’s edge, at the place / where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp / descending into the water, thin silver / tree trunks are laid horizontally / across the gray stones, down and down / at intervals of four or five feet. // Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, / element bearable to no mortal, / to fish and to seals... One seal particularly / I have seen here evening after evening. / He was curious about me. He was interested in music; / like me a believer in total immersion, / so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. / I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” / He stood up in the water and regarded me / steadily, moving his head a little. / Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge / almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug / as if it were against his better judgment. / Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, / the clear gray icy water... Back, behind us, / the dignified tall firs begin. / Bluish, associating with their shadows, / a million Christmas trees stand / waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended / above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. / I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, / slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, / icily free above the stones, / above the stones and then the world. / If you should dip your hand in, / your wrist would ache immediately, / your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn / as if the water were a transmutation of fire / that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. / If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, / then briny, then surely burn your tongue. / It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: / dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, / drawn from the cold hard mouth / of the world, derived from the rocky breasts / forever, flowing and drawn, and since / our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.