posted morning of Thursday, October 25th, 2012
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(from Peter's diary)
I'm haunted by an image and a name.
The image is one of absense, a line from Bolaño -- "I don't know anything about you, except that you're my sister" -- I wrote a short and mediocre poem from that prompt while we were in Oaxaca; and the name is Ãvala, Maximiliano Josner Ãvala, I recognized his name when The Modesto Kid dropped it in the middle of quoting Bolaño's line -- "I don't know anything about you, Ãvala, except that you're / my poet brother / and you live / in a silent house" -- "The silent house" is one of two Ãvala poems that appear in the anthology of Chilean poets that I carried around with me all that year in Oaxaca. (The other one was "La madre paralizada de la noche"; and now I think of Hernán and Soledad when I hear Ãvala's name.) But I can't figure out what is going on with the juxtaposition -- is TMK trying to render homage to both poets with one stroke? I can't make any sense of it.
posted evening of October 25th, 2012 by peter conlay
y un otro, el primero verso del Canto funebre a la muerte de JoaquÃn Pasos por Carlos MartÃnez Rivas:
Con el redoble de un tambor
en el centro de una pequeña Plaza de Armas
como si de los funerales de un héroe se tratara;
asà querrÃa comenzar. Y lo mismo
que es ley en el Rito de la Muerte,
de su muerte olvidarme y a su vida,
y a la de los otros héroes apagados
que igual que él ardieron aqui abajo, volverme.
Porque son muchos los poetas jóvenes que antaño han muerto.
A través de los siglos se saludan y oÃmos
encenderse sus voces como gallos remotos
que desde el fondo de la noche se llaman y responden.
Poco sabemos de ellos: que fueron jóvenes y hollaron
con sus pies esta tierra. Que supieron tocar algún instrumento.
Que sintieron sobre sus cabezas el aire del mar
y contemplaron las colinas. Que amaron a una muchacha
y a este amor se aferraron al extremo de olvidarse de ellas.
Que todo esto lo escribÃan hasta bien tarde, corrigiendo mucho,
pero un dÃa murieron. Y ya sus voces se encienden en la noche.
posted evening of October 26th, 2012 by peter conlay
Funeral song at the death of JoaquÃn Pasos
by Carlos MartÃnez Rivas/tr. Peter Conlay
The steady beat of a drum,
in the middle of the village square,
as at a hero's burial;
that's how I'd like to begin. I'd like
to follow the established rule in mourning,
to forget his death; to his life
and to the lives of other heroes now extinguished
who burned as bright as he down here below, I'll turn.
For it's many young poets dead in our times.
Across the centuries they greet each other; we hear
Their voices bursting forth like distant roosters
calling out and answering from the depth of the night.
We know little of them: that they were young, that their feet
walked on this earth. That they could play some instrument.
That they felt on their foreheads the sea's cool air
and looked up to the hills. That they loved some girl
and clung so tightly to this love that they forgot her.
That they scribbled all this down till late at night, erasures and revisions,
but one day they died. And now their burning voices shine forth in the night.
posted morning of October 27th, 2012 by peter conlay
That's a lot of roosters to bring up the sun over and over ,generation after generation. Poetry is more specific when I like it best.
posted morning of October 27th, 2012 by l Young
Aullidos
by The Modesto Kid/tr. Peter Conlay
escucho los aullidos de Allen a Carlos
que hagan ecoes en la calle desnuda
histérico busco mi propia voz,
aúllo: desanimadamente aúllo que
son muchos los poetas jóvenes muertos
en las calles de Modesto;
transfigurado:
se han muerto cuando eramos joven
a ellos ya olvido
Hear Allen's howls for Carl
they echo in the naked street
hysterical I'm looking for my voice,
I howl: howl listlessly
for the many poets dead before their time
in the streets of Modesto;
transfixed:
they died when we were young
already I've forgotten
posted morning of October 27th, 2012 by peter conlay
l Young (glad ta meetcha) -- that's the introduction to a longer poem which is quite concrete in points, abstract in others. Dig the next stanza:
Sin embargo nosotros, JoaquÃn, sabemos
tanto de ti. Sé tanto... Retrocedo
hasta el dÃa aquel en brazos de tu aya
en que, de pronto, te diste cuenta de que existÃas.
posted morning of October 27th, 2012 by peter conlay
Oh! l Young -- your last name is Young now? Did not know who you were at first. Glad to see you on my blog!
posted afternoon of October 27th, 2012 by peter conlay
