None of you know what it’s like to live with Matt Sweeney.

Two poems by Melcion Mateu translated from the Catalan by Rowan Ricardo Phillips and a musical composition by Alexis Cuadrado. 

Photo by Patricia Tagliari

Photo by Sue Kwon

The composer and bassist Alexis Cuadrado wrote music for “The Ballad of Matt Sweeney” that was performed and recorded as a part of POETICA, a collection of original compositions by Cuadrado based on my poems and the poems of Melcion Mateu [pictured on the left]. The collaborators were Alexis Cuadrado on bass, Andy Milne on keyboards, Miles Okazaki on guitar, and Tyshawn Sorey on drums; with Melcion and myself [pictured on the right] providing voice. The band performed during a four-night residency at SEEDS::Brooklyn and a two-night, two-set per night stay at The Jazz Gallery in Manhattan. The following is from a studio session (recorded at The Bunker in Brooklyn) for the forthcoming album. Listen and enjoy.

–Rowan Ricardo Phillips 

Balada De Matt Sweeney

by Melcion Mateu

I

Matt Sweeney, el meu company de pis,

és alt i és gras; podria,

si volgués, actuar en un musical.

I és que té un do (de pit) realment insòlit,

gairebé com el seu do

de donant –el seu do d’amant, volia dir.

El seu do i el seu re

i el seu mi. Matt Sweeney

ronca al quarto del costat.

 

L’hauríeu de veure quan es lleva,

amb la calba, amb el cap ple d’antenes retorçades.

Li hauríeu de veure els ulls verds de Heineken,

les ulleres i el nas d’intel·lectual

i la gota del nas, li hauríeu de veure

la boca i les dents i

la llengua i la papada i els pits i el cor

(tatuat damunt del cor), li hauríeu de veure

la panxa i l’esquena i el cul

guaitant-li per damunt dels calçotets.

 

Matt Sweeney només s’assembla a Matt Sweeney,

sobretot als matins

(sis llaunes de cervesa es beu totes les nits

davant la tele, mirant una soap-opera):

té un cert posat d’entertainer triomfador,

amb el cap embotit de marihuana i un somriure feliç de bon vivant;

Matt Sweeney s’enlaira com un globus,

em mira, obre la boca i diu:

«Good morning, dude!», talment com si acabés de tornar de Califòrnia.

«Mornin’», li responc.

 

II

Matt Sweeney, el meu company

de pis, és un poc especial.

Va tenir un amant filipí

que estava boig pels óssos.

L’abraçava i li deia teddy bear

i en Matt li responia I wanna be your teddy bear

movent el cul com n’Elvis.

 

Vosaltres no sabeu el que és viure al costat de Matt Sweeney.

(És un ofici tan difícil!)

Sweeney! Sweeney! Sweeney! Sweeney!

«Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd»,

alguns dies em canta.

Jo per ara us explico la vida de Matt Sweeney

i un poc de la meva. Permeteu-me per tant que desafini.

 

III

Realment és un porc:

deixa la pica del lavabo plena de pèls,

la tapa del vàter esquitxada

i sovint es descuida d’estirar la cadena.

No renta els plats fins que no són plens de verdet.

Deixa els calçotets bruts al damunt del sofà,

una sabata a sota,

restes de porro a terra.

Acumula diaris i revistes.

Va perdre un dia el seu raspall de dents

i em va demanar de fer servir el meu. Ni en broma!

 

Cada nit el sentia masturbant-se al seu quarto

i en acabat roncava fins l’endemà.

Per sota de la porta s’escapaven les xinxes.

Li vaig demanar sisplau

que abaixés el volum de tant en tant.

I em va dir, ben afaitat i fent-se el nus de la corbata:

«I got my hair I got my head I got my brains I got my ears

I got my nose I got my mouth I got my teeth

I-got-my-tongue…!»

I encara sense treure’s

els auriculars va afegir:

«Benvingut, fill meu,

a l’imperi de Matt Sweeney,

observa al teu voltant i sàpigues que algun dia, estimat»

–i aquí es va dur una mà al pit i l’altra a l’entrecuix–,

«tot això que veus, tot això que t’envolta (i el que no veus i ni tan sols

imagines) serà teu,

serà teu tot l’imperi –el meu imperi–,

l’imperi de Matt Sweeney!»

The Ballad of Matt Sweeney

by Melcion Mateu

I

My roommate, Matt Sweeney,

is tall and fat; if he wanted

he could be in a musical.

It’s that his High C is really extraordinary,

almost like his gift

Of giving––his gift as a lover, I meant.

His do and his re

And his mi. Matt Sweeney

snores in the room next door.

 

You should see him when he wakes up,

his bald-spot, his head full of twisted antennae.

You should see his Heineken-green eyes,

his glasses and his intellectual

nose and his runny nose, you should see

his mouth and his teeth and

his tongue and his chest and his heart

(tattooed over his heart), you should see

his belly and his back and his ass

jutting out from just above his underwear.

 

Only Matt Sweeney looks like Matt Sweeney,

especially in the mornings

(he drinks a six pack of beer in front of the TV

every night, watching a soap opera):

he has the assured air of a triumphant entertainer,

with his head stuffed with marihuana and a happy bon vivant smile;

Matt Sweeney rises like a balloon,

looks at himself, opens his mouth and says,

“Good morning, dude!,” as though he’s just gotten back from California.

“Mornin’,” I say back.

 

II

My roommate Matt Sweeney

is a little weird.

He had a Filipino lover

who was crazy for bears.

He’d hug him and call him teddy bear

and Matt would respond with I wanna be your teddy bear

shaking his ass like Elvis.

 

None of you know what it’s like to live with Matt Sweeney.

(What a pain in the ass it can be!).

Sweeney, Sweeney! Sweeney! Sweeney! Sweeney!

“Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd,”

he sings sometimes to me.

For the moment, I’m telling you about the life of Matt Sweeney

and a little bit about me. So don’t mind if I sing out of key.

 

III

He’s a real pig:

he leaves the sink full of hairs,

the lid of the toilet splattered,

he often forgets to flush;

he’s doesn’t wash the dishes until they’re covered in grime,

he leaves his dirty underwear on the sofa,

a shoe under it,

spliff ash on the floor;

he lets his newspapers and magazines pile up.

One day he lost his toothbrush

and asked to use mine and I said there was just no way.

 

Every night I’d hear him jerking off in his room

and when he finished he’d snore until the next day.

Bedbugs fled from under his door.

Once, I asked him nicely

if he could lower the volume once in a while

and, clean shaven and fixing the knot of his tie, he told me:

“I got my hair I got my head I got my brains I got my ears

I got my nose I got my mouth I got my teeth

I-got-my-tongue…!”

And then without taking off

his headphones he added:

“Welcome, my child,

to the kingdom of Matt Sweeney,

observe all around you and know that some day, my beloved”

––and here he placed one hand on his chest and the other on his crotch––,

“all that you see, all that surrounds you (and all that you neither see nor

imagine) will be yours,

all of this kingdom will be yours––my kingdom––

the kingdom of Matt Sweeney!”

translated from Catalan by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
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Gap

by Melcion Mateu

Puc fondre el gel amb la Mirada,

puc esborrar una multitud amb un sol parpelleig.

Si m’ho proposés,

podria fer créxer la palmera més alta

al mig d’aquesta plaça.

Puc agafar un grapat d’aigua, palpar-lo i prémer-lo

fins que en surti una pedra.

Els guàdies m’aturen quan vaig pel carrer

i em demanen per mi:

sempre els indico la direcció oposada.

Al matí, en despertar-me,

és normal que el llençol m’arribi al sostre.

Puc veure alguns planets que han deixat d’existir,

i també les estrelles que no han sortit encara.

El meu horòoscop sempre s’acompleix,

el meu destí és el destí dels éssers immortals.

Puc decidir entre la vida i la mort,

entre el somni i allò que no gosem pensar.

Puc fer-te patir

o fer que et sentis l’ésser més feliç de la Terra.

 

El meu nom és antic,

sóc el rei de la llum.

Quan plou o quan fa fred, em torno una crisàlide.

Al meu costat les papallones sempre tremolen,

no puc fer res per evitar-ho:

el que els alters poetes escriuen,

el que els alters poetes diuen en els seus versos és només una part

––una part molt petita––del que dir i puc fer.

 

Gap

by Melcion Mateu

With just a glance I can melt ice.

I can wipe out multitudes with a single blink.

If I were to suggest it

I could make the tallest of palms rise

right here in the middle of this plaza.

I can grab a fistful of water, palm its surfaces and squeeze

until a stone ekes out.

The cops stop me when I’m out on the street

and ask me if I’ve seen me . . .

I always send them in the opposite direction.

In the morning it’s normal for me to wake up and discover

my tented bed sheet touching the ceiling.

I can see some of the planets that have ceased to exist

as well as the stars that still have yet to be.

My horoscope always comes true.

My destiny is the destiny of immortals.

I get to choose between life and death,

between the dream and the thing that we don’t like to think.

I can make you suffer

or make you feel you’re the happiest being on Earth.

 

My name is ancient:

I am the king of all light.

I become chrysalis when it rains or when it’s cold.

There are always butterflies trembling at my flanks.

I can’t do anything to avoid it:

what other poets write,

what other poets say in their lines,

it’s all only a part –– a very small part –– of what I can say and what I can do.

translated from Catalan by Rowan Ricardo Phillips
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Photos of Melcion Marteu and Rowan Ricardo Phillips by Patricia Tagliari and Sue Kwon, respectively.

with no more authority or force
than pale, stripped branches

Two poems by the 16th century French poet Pierre de Ronsard, translated by Diane Furtney.

A La Royne Catherine de Medicis  

by Pierre de Ronsard

. . . L’autre jour que j’etois au temple à Sainct Denis,

Regardant tant de Rois en leurs cachottes mis,

Que n’agueres faisaient trembler toute la France,

Qui tous enflex d’orgueil, de pompe et d’esperance

Menoient un camp armé, tuoient et commandoient,

Et de leur peuple avoient les biens qu’ils demandoient,

Et les voyant couchez, n’ayans plus que l’escorce,

Comme buches de bois sans puissance ny force,

            Je disois à par moy:  Ce n’est rien que des Rois:

D’un nombre que voicy, à peine ou deux ou trois

Vivent apres leur mort, pour n’avoir este chiches

Vers les bons escrivains et les avoir fait riches. . .

To Queen Catherine de Medici  

by Pierre de Ronsard

. . . The other day, when I’d stepped inside

the church of Saint Denis and saw them, side by side

 

in their shallow niches, so many great

rulers lying in state

 

in stone, each inside a jail of death,

though everyone in France took a startled breath,

 

sometime, at the sight of his flying

colors—each leading out his armed camp, trying

 

for glory, and always receiving more

goods and help from his people than he’d asked for—

 

seeing them lying there, my lady,

on their backs, finally

 

unescorted, unhorsed,

with no more authority or force

 

than pale, stripped branches,

just rows and rows of impotence,

 

I said to myself, “There’s nothing

in here but Kings,

 

and quite a few of them.  No more than three

or two live on in anyone’s memory,

 

and only because it did not occur

—not to these monarchs—not to be meager

 

toward their writers, but rather make much

of them—even make them rich.”

translated from French by Diane Furtney
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Sonnet

by Pierre de Ronsard

 

Les villes et les bourgs me sont si odieux

Que je meurs, si je voy quelque tracette humaine:

Seulet dedans les bois pensif je me promeine,

Et rein ne m’est plaisant que les sauvages lieux.

 

Il n’y a dans ces bois sangliers si furieux,

Ni roc si endurci, ny ruisseau, ni fontaine,

Ny arbre tant soit sourd, que ne sache ma peine,

Et qui ne soit marri de mon mal ennuyeux.

 

Un penser, que renaist d’un autre, m’accompaigne

Avec un pleur amer qui tout le sein me baigne,

Travaillé de soupirs qui compaignons me sont:

 

Si bien, que si quelcun me trouvoit au bocage,

Voyant mon poil rebours, et l’horreur de mon front,

Ne me diroit, pas homme, ains un monstre sauvage.

A Thought

by Pierre de Ronsard

The villages and cities

are so odious to me,

 

I feel myself dying

if I see even a sign

 

of a human being.  I stay

in the deep woods, away,

 

and nothing pleases me except extreme,

savage places.  And yet, no scream

 

of a boar is furious enough,

no boulder dense enough,

 

no stream or waterfall or tree

deaf enough to stop the grief in me

 

and this evil weariness.  A thought

brings up another thought,

 

and with them tears that wet

my chest, pushed out by sighs that

 

stay my only companions.

If any person

 

crossed my tracks and noticed,

through the twigs, this

 

tangled hair

and the horror

 

on my face, he’d say, “That’s not a man,

it’s a monster!  Monsters have come again!”

 

 

translated from French by Diane Furtney
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