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No. 4 & 5

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Ricardo Feierstein  

Translated from the Spanish by  Stephen A. Sadow and J. Kates  

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buenos aires

enormous and attenuated green bug
naked in its riverine monotony
choking on peoples and persons
who open their used-up udders
and who, one of those strange days, just because

it will explode though the middle of the umbilicus
near the cinema district, you fashion the center
for spitting beyond the clouds
the anger held in its guts
wracked by unhappy whirlwinds

just like that
 

WORDS

The sun halts and stumbles through clouds
its tongue like a dirty bottle
cigarettes of earth pile up their hair
a wide-bellied turtle wheels through the gravel
crumpled papers hang in the branches
and shrug off caramels of smoke given birth by the rain
in uneven plots of grass
In chimneys that drool like frogs
In playful, steaming soups of tar

I get there by walking among hawthorns and almonds
in order to exorcise the monsters I have hidden in the trees
I sandpaper them with my teeth
I fit their syllables in against my will
and almost without breathing I break its eyes as I go
I, the sad guardian of the plaza.
 

ORCHESTRA OF WORDS

Blue light blue air my throat is raining
curved and crystal ribbons pour down
vowels laden with omens
squadrons of drunken flowers
libertines
with the ungraspable magic of signs
stirring consonants at their fingertips
into the sound of rings and castanets
audible only to the sensibility of the poet
a receding irreplaceable language
encrusted with lights in the body

Blue light blue air my throat is raining
and the language is drunk on the vice
that impregnates like the sun or bruises
the rhythm living in corners
of the air
growing and changing from a bird into smoke
a treasure you carry in ignorance 
that lets you guess the agreements
to know that dawn and brick donít get along
that triptych and chains are friends
that loneliness and nubile barely stand each other

Blue light blue air my throat is raining
a shower an orchestra of words
invading without inviting explanation
growing incomplete inside us
like death
that barely allows us to unveil
the subtle interplay of letters
melodies that skip school
that add perception to the tongue
that let me listen better with equal tonalities
that I can know it by skin, know it by ear

Blue light blue air my throat is raining
inestimable words like willow,
stone, orange, impious, gracile,
those that fill the mouth like musical
heraldry
javelin, gillyflower, physiognomy
foam, pomegranate, pyrotechnics
roller skate, copula, hawthorn, cornet
I can see in all of these correspondences
that unfold like a trumpeting iris
and be a musician with rain in my throat.
 

(untitled)

it is this world of caramel and rose
this world so susana and so loved
this world so much mine and only mine.

i am speaking, gentlemen, of this world
that slides through the forest of silence
goes climbing over the skin and the walls
with its slow, inaudible persistence
kneels down in the night of the night
and in the hours of afternoon and mid-day.
it is a world of tomatoes, sun and wine
the borderless back of the rain
a crystal I discover in every gesture
an autumn born for me every day.

i donít know if you understand me.

it is like entering a fable
an enchanted and underwater fable
it is her hair that caresses the smooth neck 
it is her laugh, pushed along by the wind
it is her hand, so small and so fecund
a border of clouds in the sky
a deluge of purities and whispers
they are, how do I say it, those pupils
a look of amazement still unshadowed
playful, childlike, without prejudice.

I hope now you understand.

it is a world aflame with colors
that navigates recovered time
with patient sweetness, like children
girlfriend and lover, friend, world-child.
it is like entering a concert whistling
going up on stage, step by step
breathing in an aroma of violins
with the ardor of stones between your hands
flying after wrinkled marquees
making fun of a labyrinth of onlookers.

it is this world of caramel and rose
this world so susana and so loved
this world so much mine and only mine.
 

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