TRILCE X
Pristine and the latest
of unfounded joy, it just died
with soul and everything, october room and pregnant,
Three months of absence and ten of sweet
How fate,
monosyllabic priest, laughs.
How in the rear give up togetherness
of contraries. How always the number appears
under the line of every transformation.
How whales undress doves.
How in turn these leave the beak
marked out in third wing.
How we harpoon, at face monotonous rumps.
It is towed ten months toward the decennia,
Toward something else further away.
Two al least are left still in diapers.
And the three months of absence.
And the nine of gestation.
There is not one single violence.
The pacient raises,
And once sat shows off quiet mixtures.
TRILCE XI
I have found a girl
in the street, and she has hugged me.
X, ausculted, whoever found her and finds her,
will not remember her.
This girl is my cousin. Today, after touching
her waist, my hands have entered into her age
Like into a pair of badly finished tombs.
And by the same desolation she left,
delta on to the darkening sun,
warble between us.
“I got married”,
she tells me. With what we did as children
at the house of the dead aunt.
She got married.
She got married.
Late latitudinal years,
what true wishes have come to us
to play to the bulls, to the yokes,
but everything teasingly, in candor, like it was.
2006/12/07
cesar vallejo in english
(Let me enjoy myself at presenting this personal attempt to translating Vallejo's poetry into english. The world knows well it is damned hard)
TRILCE XII
I flee in a feint, lint to lint.
A bullet unknowing where will hit down.
Uncertainty. Move away. Cervical juncture.
Crackle of a fly that dies
halfway in its flight and falls to earth.
What does Newton say now?
But, naturally, you are children.
Uncertainty. Heels that do not turn.
Grimace in a knot, maid
five thorns on one side
and five on the other. Shash! It’s coming.
TRILCE XIII
I think of your sex.
Simplified the heart, I think of your sex,
in front of the sacred womb of the day.
I fell the tip of joy, it is at its best.
And an old sentiment dies
rotten in brain.
I think of your sex, most prolific and
harmonious groove than the belly of the Shadow,
Though death conceives and gives birth
By God himself.
Oh Conscience,
I think, indeed, of the brute free
that rejoices wherever he wants, wherever he can.
Oh, squandered honey of the twilights.
Oh silent fanfare.
Erafnaftnelis!
TRILCE XII
I flee in a feint, lint to lint.
A bullet unknowing where will hit down.
Uncertainty. Move away. Cervical juncture.
Crackle of a fly that dies
halfway in its flight and falls to earth.
What does Newton say now?
But, naturally, you are children.
Uncertainty. Heels that do not turn.
Grimace in a knot, maid
five thorns on one side
and five on the other. Shash! It’s coming.
TRILCE XIII
I think of your sex.
Simplified the heart, I think of your sex,
in front of the sacred womb of the day.
I fell the tip of joy, it is at its best.
And an old sentiment dies
rotten in brain.
I think of your sex, most prolific and
harmonious groove than the belly of the Shadow,
Though death conceives and gives birth
By God himself.
Oh Conscience,
I think, indeed, of the brute free
that rejoices wherever he wants, wherever he can.
Oh, squandered honey of the twilights.
Oh silent fanfare.
Erafnaftnelis!
cesar vallejo in english
TRILCE X
Pristine and the latest
of unfounded joy, it just died
with soul and everything, october room and pregnant,
Three months of absence and ten of sweet
How fate,
monosyllabic priest, laughs.
How in the rear give up togetherness
of contraries. How always the number appears
under the line of every transformation.
How whales undress doves.
How in turn these leave the beak
marked out in third wing.
How we harpoon, at face monotonous rumps.
It is towed ten months toward the decennia,
Toward something else further away.
Two al least are left still in diapers.
And the three months of absence.
And the nine of gestation.
There is not one single violence.
The pacient raises,
And once sat shows off quiet mixtures.
TRILCE XI
I have found a girl
in the street, and she has hugged me.
X, ausculted, whoever found her and finds her,
will not remember her.
This girl is my cousin. Today, after touching
her waist, my hands have entered into her age
Like into a pair of badly finished tombs.
And by the same desolation she left,
delta on to the darkening sun,
warble between us.
“I got married”,
she tells me. With what we did as children
at the house of the dead aunt.
She got married.
She got married.
Late latitudinal years,
what true wishes have come to us
to play to the bulls, to the yokes,
but everything teasingly, in candor, like it was.
Pristine and the latest
of unfounded joy, it just died
with soul and everything, october room and pregnant,
Three months of absence and ten of sweet
How fate,
monosyllabic priest, laughs.
How in the rear give up togetherness
of contraries. How always the number appears
under the line of every transformation.
How whales undress doves.
How in turn these leave the beak
marked out in third wing.
How we harpoon, at face monotonous rumps.
It is towed ten months toward the decennia,
Toward something else further away.
Two al least are left still in diapers.
And the three months of absence.
And the nine of gestation.
There is not one single violence.
The pacient raises,
And once sat shows off quiet mixtures.
TRILCE XI
I have found a girl
in the street, and she has hugged me.
X, ausculted, whoever found her and finds her,
will not remember her.
This girl is my cousin. Today, after touching
her waist, my hands have entered into her age
Like into a pair of badly finished tombs.
And by the same desolation she left,
delta on to the darkening sun,
warble between us.
“I got married”,
she tells me. With what we did as children
at the house of the dead aunt.
She got married.
She got married.
Late latitudinal years,
what true wishes have come to us
to play to the bulls, to the yokes,
but everything teasingly, in candor, like it was.
2006/12/06
More on Vallejo's poetry in english
The black heralds
There are some blows in life, so hard... I don't know!
As from the hatred of God, as if in front of them
the back undercurrents of all suffering
welled up in the soul... I don't know!
They are few; but they are... And open obscure crevasses
in the fiercest face and in the hardest back.
They might be the horses of barbarous atilas,
or the black heralds that Death sends to us.
They are the pitfalls of the Christs of our souls,
of some adorable faith that Destiny blasfames.
Those bloody blows are the cracklings
of some bread loaves burnt just at the oven door.
And man... poor him... poor him! Turns up his eyes, as
when a pat upon his shoulder calls him from behind;
turns up his maddened eyes, and everything lived by him
wells up, as a pond of guilt, in his look.
There are some blows in life, so hard... I don't know!
There are some blows in life, so hard... I don't know!
As from the hatred of God, as if in front of them
the back undercurrents of all suffering
welled up in the soul... I don't know!
They are few; but they are... And open obscure crevasses
in the fiercest face and in the hardest back.
They might be the horses of barbarous atilas,
or the black heralds that Death sends to us.
They are the pitfalls of the Christs of our souls,
of some adorable faith that Destiny blasfames.
Those bloody blows are the cracklings
of some bread loaves burnt just at the oven door.
And man... poor him... poor him! Turns up his eyes, as
when a pat upon his shoulder calls him from behind;
turns up his maddened eyes, and everything lived by him
wells up, as a pond of guilt, in his look.
There are some blows in life, so hard... I don't know!
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