Poems by Jordi Doce
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El cuerpo es esta plaza soleada
donde unos viejos hacen tiempo y el café de la esquina con su toldo raído y sus sillas metálicas es el castillo de los indolentes que han hecho su negocio del hablar por hablar. Tu oído, demasiado humano, no capta lo que dicen: carece de la astucia del animal terrestre. Ahora un perro dispersa las palomas que bullían unánimes entre migas de pan. Es un trabajo diurno: una mano de luz sobre el muro encalado del verano, el volumen del campanario barriendo con su sombra el pavimento. La salud de los vínculos es esta sencilla homeostasis. • Esta mano que se crio en cautividad no sabe valerse por sí sola. Teme extraviarse en la selva de su albedrío, su entusiasmo animal. Y por respeto al laberinto de la vida voluble cayó en el laberinto de sí misma. La piel del dorso es la cara visible de una luna que guarda su distancia de este mundo, del mar electrizante del temblor y el sobresalto. Y esos dedos de araña que acechan a lo lejos no sabrían marchar de cacería aunque quisieran. The body is this sun-filled plaza where some old men make time and the café on the corner with its tattered awning and metal chairs is the castle of the indolent who have made a profession out of talking for the sake of talking. Your ear, too human, doesn’t catch what they say: it lacks the ground animal’s astuteness. Now a dog scatters the pigeons who bustled unanimously between breadcrumbs. It’s a day job: one hand of light upon the limed wall of summer, the bell tower’s shape sweeping the pavement with its shadow. The health of our bonds is this simple homeostasis. • This hand which was raised in captivity doesn’t know how to fend for itself. It fears getting lost in the forest of its free will, its animal enthusiasm. And out of respect for the labyrinth and the voluble life it fell into the maze of itself. The skin of its back is the visible face of a moon that keeps its distance from this world, from the electrifying sea of what trembles and startles. And these spider fingers which lay in wait in the distance wouldn’t know how to go hunting even if they wanted to. Translated into English by Lawrence Schimel |
Jordi Doce (Gijón, 1967) has translated the poetry of W.H. Auden, John Burnside, Anne Carson, T.S. Eliot and Charles Simic, among others, and has published six volumes of his own poetry and several books of essays and articles. He has two books of poetry published in the UK by Shearsman, Nothing is Lost (2017) and We Were Not There (2019), both translated by Lawrence Schimel. He worked as Language Assistant at The University of Oxford (1997-2000). Currently he lives in Madrid, where he works as translator and teacher in creative writing. He is also poetry editor at Galaxia Gutenberg Publishers.
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