Ordinary Men and Women
brave man in the upper part of light
as far as it is known a passenger from the season
of the dinosaurs to the future ones
a failed experiment of equipping monkeys
with algebra and a certain modest dullness a very discreet charm
essential elements in looking for your secret
like a seamstress who searches in her little boxes
and cannot really find anything among her scattered objects
because man begins in the eyes
and ends there where jumping from one floe to another
eventually there is nothing other than water
of the ocean of what is known forever
(it still smells of the beasts leaving)
an abandoned car is your metaphor
a building with lights turned off our species may soon be over
in these gray soldiers of the night
whipped by all delinquents and criminals
that today are raising the invisible and so present
lance of the clan chief the virtual crown of bones
that rests on the sword of power they too
ordinary men and women but like shamans
able to invoke all the spirits of fear
every time when necessary such an effective meeting
always has lucrative results
oh you pragmatists assassins thieves and frauds
heirs of the first who smiled secretly
after getting the forecast of an eclipse right
the mammoth’s migration the flooding of the river nile
lords of the ordinary man and woman
their most appreciated and eternal possessions
with the tenderness of a nazi
and the sincerity of a liar
I asked and they who learn the language of fear told me
they are ready to migrate like desperate thoughts
always willing to consider the origin of their birth
the sum of many heaps of skulls death’s official coin
shame’s small change
during the first frost of the year appearing like rain
a stern goddess sets fire to our homes and only fear is audible
men bow their heads when she arrives
taxidermy
take a good poem and carefully take out its innards
as poisonous as the blow fish
fill it with academic hay
comb its hair as it is fashionable although
the hair insists on moving to the other side
place it on a pedestal and put at the base
a bronze plaque with its name imagined in modern latin
and the motionless beast will never disturb us
the language of gods
“What happens in poetry will happen in the future”
Alejandro Schmidt
Alejandro Schmidt
I would like to know if you speak
or understand the language of gods
of course gods do not exist
and all metaphors are a translation
I would like to know if when looking at the tree
you can see the seed as well as the trunk ablaze
if you feel how the great weight of centuries
comes together in a single moment
if in your heart the planets and the atoms
have the same size because this is the key
I would like to know if
words mean things to you and something else too
much more than that and after this much more
they go on life and feet the hand
always remains extended towards that mask
ours is a syntactic conspiracy
and those who reorder the words
put the world itself in order
we are born in córdoba london or in burzaco
that boy who is now scribbling on paper
in a courtyard in prague
is not yet aware he is making
his first downstrokes in the language of gods
ours is not a language
frozen and secret it is the language of gods
with infinite dialects and regional accents
or perfect colloquialisms
mestizo dark and impure as it is
it is also transparent and clear
speaking it you speak with the living and the dead
time is a lie space an illusion
and as someone once said
reading is another form of telepathy
there are false minters speculators
word traders childish beggars
but no one speaks about or understands what they are told
restless time and time again the language of gods
one merely babbles another distorts another prostitutes
but the language is always ignored
gods do not hear it when they speak it
they only listen rustling their silences
we have had warrior priests
and martyrs it is our tradition
to know to love to dare and to keep quiet
as the good health of words dictates
this is why I would like to know if you speak
if you understand the language of the gods
you had different horizons, country
although the ugly days and the years of fire
have baked you like a sponge cake you still seem to be
this matter made up of landscapes and families
where every so often somebody asks another what happened
what made you do those things to us
similar to crime or those things nobody dares to fully mention yet
like some shame hidden in photos burned at the right time
or blood relatives buried at the back of the house at dawn
when nobody is awake and those who might be
do not want to see and seek shelter in the worn-out history
of nightmares and insomnia
I was educated to love you country
as a child I cried singing the pledge of allegiance
I was the last possible generation the last bullet of your Russian roulette
the knock on the temple after which you wake up to another world map
where I uselessly searched for your silhouette of a bad girl
slapping you every time with more fury aimed at the world
you old hooker
I know you have been though a lot
(the last two hundred years have not been good at all
for neither of us)
and hope that tomorrow you would choose your gigolos better
for the best possible for your children
the boarding school where you left us smells of dog pee
and nobody is very friendly anywhere
plus you do not come to see me very often
I miss all these promises of love
when you gave birth to me in a municipal hospital
so typical giving birth among water leaks
and making innocents weep at the expense of others
smiling as if you were faultless
waiting for congratulations and flowers and sweets
among pillows and attentions where
whole and worn and in a new part
your old blood stood out
marcelo dughetti speaking with montale
let the boy come here
the one who joined together past figures
as a weaver from Rimini as somebody
who skillfully uses the bobbins
let him eat trout with me this roman night
they have already brought that old one we opened
only when joseph brodksy visited me
diminishing the lamps so you can
turn them up again past the windows
the running horizon and let it shine again
strange the light of the oil tanker
it is me an old poet all ears
and since I do not know who comes and goes
I want to hear what one of my sons says
I want to know him and to recognize him
although his voice is rough and rude
for my old taste at some point
because he knows the matter we are made of
where what once was is now
how much a patio weighs in our memory
let the awkward young rascal in
he who speaks only crossing the streets of the earth
long will our conversation be in this deserted hall
empty for so long
and if you hear him raise his voice do not worry
that is how young people speak
sometime ago I too pretested this way
angry with the passing of years of love and of hours
what is maddening is knowing that leaving is ultimately for the best
so that things still remain with us
let the boy get angry because by getting angry
he understands still better what the dust covers
what he says is what the day hides
let him suffer and cry and
when he can let him laugh
a poet’s laugh is a rare thing
the most precious thing in the world
nobody knows where we have been
it has rained all afternoon
and nobody knows where we have been
from now on
I will remain in your shadow
I will live in the end of seasons when
the insect returns to its larval state
ready to believe that everyone who walks
in the street is somebody I know
but I shall stay in my room
made of your shadow
in a dark room
where death is a disorientated messenger
where I come in this poor dim light
let it be like that
hombres y mujeres comunes
hombre bravo en la parte superior de la luz
por toda referencia pasajero desde la estación
de los dinosaurios a la de lo que vendrá
un experimento fallido que dotó al mono
de álgebra y un cierto discreto romo muy discreto encanto
elementos esenciales para buscar en tu secreto
como una costurera que revuelve sus cajitas
y nada en verdad encuentra entre las dispersas cosas
porque el hombre empieza en los ojos
y termina allí donde saltando de témpano en témpano
no se halla finalmente otra cosa que el agua
del océano de lo conocido para siempre
(él ya tiene el olor de las bestias que se van)
un automóvil abandonado es tu metáfora
un edificio apagado acaso terminará la especie
en estos grises soldados de la noche
fustigados por todos los delincuentes y criminales
que hoy levantan la invisible y tan presente
lanza del jefe de los clanes la tácita corona de huesos
que ciñen la espada de poder ellos también
hombres comunes mas como los chamanes
capaces de invocar a todos los espíritus del miedo
cada vez que sea necesario tan efectiva cita
da siempre lucrativos resultados
oh pragmáticos asesinos ladrones y farsantes
herederos del primero que sonrió a escondidas
tras acertar el pronóstico de un eclipse
la migración del mamut la crecida del río nilo
señores del hombre y la mujer común
sus más preciadas y eternas posesiones
con la ternura de un nazi
y la sinceridad de un mentiroso
pregunté y me dijeron los que aprenden el lenguaje del temblor
que listos a migrar como los pensamientos desesperados
están dispuestos siempre a dar por la primavera natal
la suma de muchas pilas de calaveras la moneda oficial de la muerte
el cambio menudo de la vergüenza
en la primera helada del año que se levanta como la lluvia
una diosa severa enciende nuestros hogares y solamente se escucha el miedo
sus cabezas los hombres inclinan cuando ella ha llegado
taxidermy
tomar un buen poema y quitarle cuidadosamente las tripas
que son tan venenosas como las del pez globo
rellenarlo de paja académica
peinarle los pelos como está a la moda aunque
insistan en irse para el otro lado
colocarlo sobre un pedestal y aplicarle en la base
una placa de bronce con su nombre imaginado en moderno latín
y la bestia inmóvil nunca más joderá
lengua de los dioses
“lo que sucede en la poesía, ocurre en el porvenir”
Alejandro Schmidt