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Translation of Marigloria Palma
Pensive light. Light
with folded hands, a shrug
of song in the shoulders.
Light that sullies the sea’s
Sunday best, the foam
moving blind over it.
I’ve lost the waistline
of my violet mountains
in the sky’s mouth.
El Yunque is an ancient flute;
retrospective leap.
Blue swallow, blue choke.
Here lives San Juan.
There’s a light that might
save you in the gold
pigeon coop, its womb
made of glass. Here
the rays of the sun
keep growing towards
the dense eyes
of blank harmony.
Passionate
from the balcony I watch
the living death of the sun
high above the shoulders
of the stricken minute.
To the sound of trumpets
I defend my feeling
from the grey bite
of disenchantment.
And the day grows through me
like a magic tree
from nothing to nothing—
grows and sings,
fragrant, shaken,
fills up with promises
and hours.
Nothing changes.
Everything is just twilight.
Physical laws.
I make this light
because I love it.
It’s mine because we are,
eye to eye,
mute correspondence.
We are twilight, luz mía,
just twilight.
Luz pensativa.
Luz de manos cerradas
y hombros de canto breve.
Luz que ensucia al mar
su camisón de fiesta.
Anda ciega la espuma.
Mis montañas violetas
han perdido su talle
en la boca del cielo.
El Yunque es flauta histórica;
Salto en retrospectiva.
Bocado azul que ahoga.
Acá vive San Juan.
Hay luz que salva
en palomar de oro
su vientre hecho de vidrio.
Aquí siguen creciendo
las espigas del sol
para los ojos densos
de la blanca armonía.
Apasionada
desde el balcón yo miro
la muertevida del sol
alto sobre los hombros
del fenecido instante.
A trompetazos de alma
defiendo mi emoción
de la mordida gris
del desencanto.
Y crece el día por mí
como mágico árbol
de la nada a la nada.
Crece y canta,
fragante, estremecido
y se llena de promesas
y horas.
Nada cambia.
Todo es sólo twilight.
De leyes físicas.
Yo hago esta luz
porque la amo.
Es mía porque somos,
de mirada a mirada,
muda correspondencia.
Somos twilight, luz mía,
Sólo twilight.
translated by Julia Sanches
The light retires to the lamp and suddenly all is dark again who out there has caught the night-moth and instructs it in shadow? After countless drills the torn-winged moth no longer knows how to fly and trails through the twilight crawling snail-slow toward the light.
translated by Natascha Bruce
1. Two Worlds this city I come from when I come here its deep recesses wield twilight like a knife slicing the world in two the world begins with a slot machine but its end is nowhere to be found within the world someone detonates the night knocks at the gates of ruin a flash of fortune and the night is purgatory hot in the city's heart people and fire are as one “Save me! Oh, save me!” the flash bulbs no longer neutral no longer recording no longer capturing “Save me! Oh, save me!” chroniclers become victims history can be like that unclear whom to blame beyond this world unclear who belongs where we remember only after-dinner drinks nighttime within the world chatting at a harbor-view bar perfume fancy clothes hair spray and English-Chinese-Portuguese mixing like makeup melted on a face hard spirits at Opiarium vodkas at Casablanca ice cubes leaching color then spilling over with it wave after wave of neon faces mixed up like melted makeup cologne-scented men raising glasses to toast the slow procession of headlights merry christmas and a happy new year welcome back, happy reunion happy twenty-first century happy happy down this drink and we're happy amid the happy sounds people sing raucously in Kun Iam’s bay urinate beneath her lotus dais, a drunken stream toss glasses in the water, an arc of laughter at the harbor-view bar, our laughter drowns the song atop her lotus dais beautiful as a mermaid out of place as concessions and colonies history can be like that while gods can switch their faces we remain the same 2. The Last Night of Hotel Bela Vista this city I come from when I come here at its high points in an old sea-view building Westerners are reminiscing Chinese are disputing with foreigners reunification or handover we raise half-glasses of red wine to mourn Bela Vista thinking of a hundred-year-old hotel on this new page of history kept chaste as a young maiden for a single representative of a single country the jazz musician can't help but play a sad postcolonial tune waiters in starched white uniforms approach the walkway’s pale-yellow pillars to water oleanders redder than wine the blossoms count lamp shadows that come with the falling mist misty recesses obscure the lanterns at the end of the walkway and high above a white ceiling fan sheds no color still as days not yet begun there is no today, no tomorrow no need to weep or say good-bye but the days will start with this sad farewell song before the tune is over secret lovers drain their cups dry, red-eyed glances saying let’s keep hold of this night let’s linger beneath the oleanders like a clichéd war romance history can be like that a constant cycle of invasion and retreat thinking of tomorrow they return to the long table forget that intoxicating floral scent and with the red-jacketed musician in the background sit as wooden as colonial ladies among the glint of glasses a silver knife traces scar after scar men and women are careful, gracious meat juices on snow-white porcelain are slick, crimson we clink glasses drink up the scenery we cannot fall in love with 3. That’s how it goes this city I come from when I come here across its wide expanses the century says good-bye to the insatiable desire of flash bulbs and zoom lenses for shot after shot of wiped-away tears gone then here again, here again then gone the lone eye of the lighthouse must stay silent he long since saw through all this it's nothing but the money-making game of the chroniclers and chronicled when the lone eye blinks once again beneath the flash bulbs and the zoom lenses the Chinese Westerners Macanese will be as one no disputes chroniclers and chronicled as one reunification, yes, reunification across the wide expanses within the century night mists whip darkness across the sky the glimmer in the lone eye dims like God's glory it can only rally, never meet where the black mists settle the night is as heavy as history weighing on my eyes it aches, how it aches and I'm sleepy thinking of before the mists of the flash bulbs and zoom lenses and the city they sought but we the chroniclers and the chronicled in a flash, a few fleeting moments forget that era forget that city's name to forget, oh, to forget the chroniclers and the chronicled this city I come from has no name that’s how it goes neither do I that’s how it goes
India-Pakistan War: 1965 Since our lights were extinguished I have been searching for a way to see; my eyes are lost, God knows where. You who know me, tell me who I am, who is a friend, and who an enemy. A murderous river has been unleashed into my veins; hatred beats in it. Be patient; a flash of lightning will come from another horizon like the white hand of Moses with my eyes, my lost diamonds.