Tres Carvers
domingo, abril 16, 2006
Los domingos son largos, fatigados. Quizá por eso, de tanto en tanto siento el impulso de ajustar cuentas con mis archivos, inspeccionar las gavetas, los estantes de la biblioteca.
Entre tantos papeles inservibles, entre tanta mecanografía olvidada, me encuentro con una copia con tres poemas de Raymond Carver. No me animo a deshacerme de ellos. Al menos no del todo.
Hago las pases con el olvido: aquí los copio.
The Current
These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pocket of my brain.
But there´s one that comes--
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.
Fear
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I´ve been told won´t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though the people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children´s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear of they´ll die before I do, and I´ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and
mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I´ve said that.
The scratch
I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I´m sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It´s this and similar questions
I´m trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
Entre tantos papeles inservibles, entre tanta mecanografía olvidada, me encuentro con una copia con tres poemas de Raymond Carver. No me animo a deshacerme de ellos. Al menos no del todo.
Hago las pases con el olvido: aquí los copio.
The Current
These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pocket of my brain.
But there´s one that comes--
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.
Fear
Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I´ve been told won´t bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though the people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children´s handwriting on envelopes.
Fear of they´ll die before I do, and I´ll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and
mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.
I´ve said that.
The scratch
I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I´m sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It´s this and similar questions
I´m trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.
Etiquetas: La literatura está en todas partes
