blessed by vagabond hands
with a box of wine

Four poems from the Chilean poet Enrique Winter, translated by Mary Ellen Stitt

 

El piso sucio y la luz prendida

by Enrique Winter

Ningún servicio es tan básico, ni la luz ni el agua

y si de noche la ciudad pestañea sus brillos

tanto mejor se ve a oscuras. El ojo se acostumbra a todo.

El viaje en bus durará algunos meses

se habituará a dormir sentado, al pan con jamón y al café,

a ser discreto como un lago

y no como esta lluvia sobre el techo de cinc.

Un poco de baba sobre la almohada

que diga “aquí durmió”

repetirá temas siempre variables

como el clima y su opinión del país extranjero,

porque usted está en contra de la belleza que se note

―que parezca agarrable como un plato:

Andrés lava su auto en un pasaje

de Lima, Monterrey o de Santiago,

su esposa es güera o rubia como un sable.―

El bus, en cambio, es un país donde están de paso todos,

un poco trasnochados y malolientes

donde nadie hace el amor ni en los asientos ni en los baños.

Dirty Floor and the Light Stays On

by Enrique Winter

No utility is that basic, not power and not water

and if the nighttime city blinks out its glow

we see so much the better in the dark. The eye can get used to anything.

The bus ride will go on for months

you’ll grow accustomed to sleeping in a seat, to bread and ham, to coffee,

to being discreet like a lake

not like the rain on this metal roof.

A little drool on the pillow

announcing “—slept here”

you’ll repeat constantly variable topics

like the weather and your opinion of this foreign country,

because you are against conspicuous beauty

—which looks there for the taking, like a dish:

Andrés washes his car on a private street

in Lima, Monterrey, or Santiago,

his wife is fair, blonde as a saber.—

The bus, on the other hand, is a country where everyone is passing through

a little sleep-deprived and beginning to smell

where no one makes love: not in the seats, not in the bathroom.

translated from Spanish by Mary Ellen Stitt
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Ritos de paso

by Enrique Winter

Andrés repasa mentalmente lo que Miguel recién le dijo:

―Cuatro son las amigas de tu novia

en su primer trabajo. De veintiséis son justo esas cuatro

las que tienen jardín.―

Brillante como escupo sobre escarcha.

Miguel dice que todo lo que soy es anterior a que naciera,

que con saber el sueldo de mi padre, podría haber predicho

los invitados a este cumpleaños.

Nada me constituye, y si lo hay, no cambia a los presentes

que visitaron Cusco y Memphis con sus papás, pero encontraron

a su mujer en el colegio.

Yo no la conseguí allí, sino como gerente

y por eso llevamos cinco años y no diez en el cine.

Agrega que a mi matrimonio no irá ninguno de los pobres que ayudo,

ni los que ordeno como cartas de bridge o futbolistas de consola.

Ni yo, ni nadie que frecuente, ha decidido algo alguna vez.

La crueldad con que me juzga no tiene nombre

y por eso la olvido. Siempre fui igual y preferible

al severo Miguel que un día

dirá―fui todo, nada vale

la pena.

Rites of Passage

by Enrique Winter

Andrés turns over in his mind something Miguel recently said:

―Your girlfriend has four friends

from her first job. Out of twenty-six it’s exactly those four

who have lawns.―

Brilliant like spit on frost.

Miguel says everything I am is prior to my birth,

that given my father’s salary, he could have predicted

all of the guests at this birthday party.

I stand on nothing, and even if I did, that wouldn’t change the people present here

who have been to Cuzco and Memphis with their parents but met

their wives in high school.

I didn’t find mine there but later, as a manager

so we’ve spent five years and not ten together at the movies.

He adds that none of the poor people I help will come to my wedding,

nor will those I arrange like bridge cards or sports figures.

Neither I nor anyone here has ever decided anything.

The cruelty with which he judges me is nameless

so I forget it. I have always been the same and preferable

to severe Miguel, who someday

will say―I’ve been everything, nothing

is worth it.

translated from Spanish by Mary Ellen Stitt
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Mantra

by Enrique Winter

Con las heridas de los dedos pinto

unos cuadros que compran a buen precio

quienes me las hicieron.

Mantra

by Enrique Winter

With the wounds of my fingers I paint

works that are bought at a good price

by those who left me bleeding.

translated from Spanish by Mary Ellen Stitt
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Tres cajas vacías

by Enrique Winter

Filipino, bigote blanco y largo

Ya nadie viene al cementerio, Marco,

a excepción de ti, que hace cinco años

jubilaste y perdiste a un hijo sano.

Hoy barres tumbas como voluntario.

 

Tres meses sin la regla como los tres semáforos en rojo

Espera un hijo como quien espera el bus

a las cinco de la mañana. Un hijo

que morirá atropellado como Marco Antonio Vidal Parraguez,

muerte de la cual nos enteraremos quince días tarde.

El cuerpo un recipiente de pisco y líquido amniótico,

porque le parece obvio no haberse embarazado:

tres meses sin la regla como los tres semáforos en rojo

que Marco cruzó antes que tumbaran su cara de NN

viviendo mientras tanto.

Cuarenta y cinco años, calvo: treinta y cinco atendiendo

a esta familia que vota por el enemigo y cría

a quien quiere encamarse con la futura madre,

que de las drogas duras va y vuelve al alcohol

como un columpio con un niño.

Tu tenías uno, Marco, pero de eso nunca hablaste.

 

Dos bajo el par

Se suicida un amigo allá en Colombia

y en la noche de plaza a mi pareja

la bendicen las manos vagabundas

con la caja de vino. Flota mares,

como muerte navega acompañada,

llegó a esta pieza y no se irá tan fácil.

No puedo hacer el amor entre muertos:

Patricio Hernández, profesor de nado,

más Alejandro Galvis, el poeta,

son desde hoy puñado de cenizas,

como las del cigarro que ella apaga

conmigo en los moteles de Santiago.

 

Three Empty Boxes

by Enrique Winter

Filipino, long white mustache

No one comes to the cemetery anymore, Marco

but you, who five years ago  

retired and lost a healthy son.

Now you sweep graves as a volunteer.

 

Three months without a period like three red traffic lights

She’s expecting a child like someone waiting for a bus

 

at five o’clock in the morning. A child

who will be trampled to death like Marco Antonio Vidal Parraguez,

a death we’ll learn of fifteen days too late.

Her body a receptacle for liquor and amniotic fluid,

because she’s sure she couldn’t be pregnant:

three months without a period like the three red traffic lights

that Marco ran before they struck down his anonymous face

living while life passed him by.

Forty-five years old, bald: thirty-five serving

this family that votes for the enemy and brings up                             

a son who wants to lay this future mother

who goes from alcohol to hard drugs and back

like a child on a swing.                                                                       

You had one, Marco, but you never spoke of that.

 

Two under par

A friend commits suicide back in Colombia

and in the plaza’s night my lover

is blessed by vagabond hands

with a box of wine. It floats across seas,

as death sails accompanied,

arrives in this room and won’t leave so easily.

I can’t make love among dead bodies:

Patricio Hernández, swimming teacher,

and Alejandro Galvis, the poet,                                               

are now a fistful of ashes,

like those from the cigarette she puts out

with me in the motels of Santiago.

translated from Spanish by Mary Ellen Stitt
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dreaming of three scrambled eggs

Five poems from Izet Sarajlić’s 1993 collection Sarajevska Ratna Zbirka (Sarajevo War Journal), translated by Sara Nović

 

Ratovi U Našim Životima

by Izet Sarajlić

Marko Bašić je preturio preko glave

dva balkanska i dva svjetska rata.

Ovo mu je peti.

 

Meni i mom pokoljenju—drugi.

 

A za Vladimira

s njegovih osamnaest mjeseci

u ovom trenutku mogli bi se reći

da je čak polovicu svog života

proveo u ratu.

by Izet Sarajlić

Marko Bašić is in over his head

with two Balkan and two World wars.

This is his fifth.

 

Me and my generation—the second.

 

Even for Vladimir,

at eighteen months old,

in this moment one can say

half his life

has been carried out in war.

translated from Bosnian by Sara Nović
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Uz (Ako Je Izašla) Moju Čileansku Knjigu

by Izet Sarajlić

Početkom proljeća,

kako su me,

dok je Sarajevo još preko pošte

komuniciralo sa svijetom,

obavijestili njen prevodilac pjesnik Huan Oktavio Prenz

i njen izdavač, također pjesnik, Omar Lara

u čileu je trebalo da izađe

moja knjiga na španskom jeziku.

 

Ako je izašla

sada se možda neki čileanski čitalac pita:

Šta je s njenim autorom?

 

Šta je?

 

Sjedi u podrumu,

skuplja drva,

loži na balkonu vratu,

vodi ratni dnevnik

 

i sanja o kajgani s tri jaja.

An Addition (If It's Been Released) To My Chilean Book

by Izet Sarajlić

In early spring

I was—

when Sarajevo was still communicating via mail

with the rest of the world—

informed by the translator poet Juan Octavia Prenz,

and his publisher Omar Lara, also a poet,

that the Spanish edition of my book

was going to be released in Chile.

 

If it was

some Chilean reader might now be asking:

What about the author?

 

What’s become of him?

 

He’s sitting in a cellar,

gathering wood,

setting fire to the balcony,

starting a war journal

 

and dreaming of three scrambled eggs.

translated from Bosnian by Sara Nović
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U Predvečerje

by Izet Sarajlić

Na igralištu

jedan mladić

svira na gitari

a iznad njega

prolijeće granata s Poljina.

 

Budući sarajevski Bulat Okudžava?

 

Mladiću,

samo mi ostaj živ,

a umjetnost,

koja je meni bila sve,

umjetnost je,

vjeruj mi,

sasvim nevažna!

At Dusk

by Izet Sarajlić

On the soccer pitch

a boy

strums his guitar;

overhead

a grenade flies in from Poljina.

 

Could he become Sarajevo’s own Bulat Okudžava?

 

 

Young man,

just focus on staying alive.

Art,

which for me was everything once,

art is,

trust me,

totally unimportant.

translated from Bosnian by Sara Nović
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