Spanish versions by Sandra Toro
WHEN I LIVED
When I lived, I passed through a place
inhabited by ghosts.
If you slow your step
you can feel them hiding
in their fancy clothes among the trees.
My shadow remains in that place,
retreating midday
and stretching its lonely arms
in early morning and late afternoon
as it sings offkey to itself.
Those who find themselves there by chance
may feel my presence, the nudge
of my elbow or smoldering of my desire,
may hear the rustle of my words
caught in the highest branches.
But those who seek out that place
as destination
receive complete sentences, a music
beyond their imagination, a certainty
in the quickening of their pulse.
Danger shows itself in many disguises,
plays a rough game
and gives you to know that only risk
will take you where you want to go,
leaving your name as cairn.
CUANDO VIVÍA
Cuando vivía, pasé por un lugar
habitado por fantasmas.
Si caminás más despacio
podés sentirlos escondidos
entre los árboles con su ropa elegante.
Mi sombra sigue en ese lugar,
retirándose al mediodía
y tendiendo los brazos solitarios
a la mañana temprano y al final de la tarde
mientras se canta a sí misma desafinado.
Los que andan por ahí de casualidad
pueden sentir mi presencia, el empujón
de mi codo o lo ardiente de mi deseo,
pueden oír el susurro de mis palabras
atrapadas en las ramas más altas.
Pero los que buscan ese lugar
como destino
reciben frases completas, una música
más allá de su imaginación, una certeza
en la aceleración del pulso.
El peligro se muestra con muchos disfraces,
juega rudo
y te hace saber que solamente el riesgo
va a llevarte adonde quieras ir,
dejando tu nombre como un hito.
GEODE
You need a hammer and strong hand
to split this lump of gray rock
hiding its crystal beauty, a world
where geology’s heart takes you
into its wonder.
It is nature’s piñata, shining star
deeper and more hidden
than that shower of candy and trinkets
giving way to the birthday child’s
final blow.
I would crawl inside it if I could,
curl my body into its mystery:
roam its billions of years,
become one with the energy
of its desire.
GEODA
Hace falta un martillo y una mano fuerte
para partir el terrón de roca gris
que esconde su belleza cristalina, un mundo
a cuya maravilla te lleva
el corazón de la geología.
Es la piñata de la naturaleza, estrella radiante
más profunda y oculta
que esa lluvia de golosinas y chucherías
que desploma el golpe final
del cumpleañero.
Si pudiera me arrastraría dentro de ella,
enroscaría mi cuerpo en su misterio:
vagar por sus miles de millones de años,
volverme una con la energía
de su deseo.
Becoming Ourselves
Where we go next depends upon a landscape
etched by wind.
Color sings, a golden sax paints purple
on orange cliffs.
Climbing or descending, brown spars with green
behind our eyes.
Clashing childhood stories send us
in different directions.
Becoming ourselves, we begin to move
toward one another.
Promises sing anthems
in our veins.
Temperature is a magnet in bodies
that yearn.
Now we are closer to the exit
than the launch
and the questions still weigh more
than the answers.
Where we go next depends upon a landscape
etched by wind.
CONVERTIRNOS EN NOSOTROS MISMOS
Adónde vayamos ahora depende de un paisaje
grabado por el viento.
El color canta, un saxo dorado pinta de violeta
los acantilados naranjas.
En la subida o el descenso, el marrón pelea con el verde
detrás de nuestros ojos.
Las historias de la infancia que no encajan nos mandan
en distintas direcciones.
Al convertirnos en nosotros mismos, nos empezamos a mover
el uno hacia el otro.
En nuestras venas
las promesas cantan himnos.
La temperatura es un imán en los cuerpos
que anhelan.
Ahora estamos más cerca de la salida.
que del lanzamiento
y las preguntas pesan todavía más
que las respuestas.
Adónde vayamos ahora depende de un paisaje
grabado por el viento.
THE ACEQUIAS
The acequias are dry, dust blowing
where water once ran,
dead alfalfa, corn stalks
bearing sad ears, blighted kernels.
The news came first in sweeping
predictions: photos of
cracked earth and sinking water tables,
millions of plastic bottles deformed.
Then neighbors spoke of dying farms,
their losses touching you
where regret pinches your flesh
with its bony fingers.
This morning you turn the handle
above your sink and nothing
issues from the spigot
but the hiss of parched regret.
Meanwhile, a multi-billion dollar
space program announces
the discovery of water on Mars
in small but promising quantities.
LAS ACEQUIAS
Las acequias están secas, vuela el polvo
donde una vez el agua corrió,
la alfalfa muerta, los tallos de maíz
con espigas tristes, granos marchitos.
La noticia llegó primero en predicciones
radicales: fotos de
la tierra agrietada y los mantos freáticos hundidos,
millones de botellas de plástico deformes.
Después los vecinos hablaron de las granjas moribundas,
sus pérdidas te tocan
donde el arrepentimiento pellizca la carne
con dedos huesudos.
Esta mañana abrís la canilla
del lavatorio y nada
sale de la llave
más que el siseo del arrepentimiento reseco.
Mientras tanto, un programa espacial
multimillonario anuncia
que descubrieron agua en Marte
en cantidades pequeñas pero prometedoras.
NOT EVEN THE CHEETAH
This race to say it all before the finish line
heats up and I worry there’s
no more time for words, the poem
you hear before I open my mouth.
Half tortoise but not half hare, maybe
cheetah: the fastest animal.
At times I outrace myself and at others
notice everything in my path.
I must choose between two cadences,
two directions, an option
that wedges itself between my left cheek
and shoulder
like a violin that asks to be played
by the virtuoso who hides
her panic attacks
beneath her pillow at night.
Not a matter of dueling personalities,
hesitation or days when
everything breaks,
mine is a curious arc.
I want to say it all before my journey
fizzles and breathes its last.
But if I can’t, no one will be the wiser,
not even the cheetah.
NI SIQUIERA EL GUEPARDO
Esta carrera por decirlo todo antes de llegar a la meta
se caldea y me preocupa que no haya
más tiempo para palabras, el poema
que escuchan antes de que abra la boca.
Mitad tortuga pero no mitad liebre, guepardo
tal vez: el animal más veloz.
Algunas veces me supero a mí misma y otras.
me fijo en todo lo que hay en el camino.
Tengo que elegir entre dos cadencias,
dos direcciones, una opción
que se me mete entre la mejilla izquierda
y el hombro
como un violín que pide ser tocado
por la virtuosa que a la noche
esconde sus ataques de pánico
abajo de la almohada.
No es una cuestión de personalidades en duelo,
dudas o días en los que
se rompe todo,
el mío es un arco curioso.
Quiero decirlo todo antes de que mi viaje
chisporrotee y exhale por última vez.
Pero si no puedo, ninguno va a ser el más sabio,
ni siquiera el guepardo.
All poems from the book Vertigo of Risk (Casa Urraca Press, February 2023)
Margaret Randall’s converation with Douglas Cole
What inspired you to start writing poetry?
I grew up perplexed by poetry, which was badly taught in the public schools I attended. But in my early twenties (1956) I went to a party and heard “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg read aloud from beginning to end. The experience captivated me, and I knew I wanted to create that sort of experience for myself and others. From that moment on, I wrote poetry: derivative and juvenile at first and gradually finding my own voice.
Which poets have influenced you? And what did you learn about the process and the forms of poetry from the poets you love?
I have had many influences. Ginsberg, as I say above, and then William Carlos Williams, Robert Creeley, and Jerome Rothenberg. And when I went to live in Latin America some of the great poets writing in Spanish: Cesar Vallejo, Vicente Huidobro, Roque Dalton, Ernesto Cardenal, Violeta Parra, Juan Gelman, Raul Zurita. It wasn’t until I returned to the US in 1984 that I began discovering some of the great female poets: Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, Joy Harjo. I should also say that I am influenced by things other than poetry: the high desert landscape of the US American Southwest, world events, my own fears, and desires.
About forms, I learned that for me, at least, an open form works best. I have written sonnets and in other formal configurations, but they have always seemed forced to me. I learned about the “variable foot” from Williams, reading my incipient poems to him at his home in Rutherford, New Jersey in the years just before his death. Reading my work aloud to myself and paying attention to how my breath carries them, is always important. As for process, I learned early on that discipline and consistency is the practice that works for me. I may be inspired to write about something, but my most successful poems are honed through long revision. I have also learned fearlessness from the poets whom I most admire: that no subject is off limits, and that we must make ourselves uncomfortable as we write about what matters.
What would you say is the poet’s place in the world today?
I believe that poets have always had an important place in the world, and today is no exception. We listen to the voices of memory, see what others often cannot, and recreate the emotions of our time in ways that command attention and evoke sensibility. I don’t believe in categorizing poetry as “political”; poems, like other literary genres, are about what moves the poet and, if they work, will move readers as well.
MARGARET RANDALL is a poet, essayist, oral historian, translator, memoirist, and photographer who has published over 150 books of poetry and prose, including Exporting Revolution: Cuba’s Global Solidarity; Haydée Santamaría, Cuban Revolutionary: She Led by Transgression; and Che on My Mind, all published by Duke University Press. She was awarded the Poet of Two Hemispheres Prize by Poesía en Paralelo Cero in Quito, Ecuador, and Cuba’s Haydée Santamaría medal, and the University of New Mexico gave her an honorary doctorate of letters, all in 2019. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Blue Citadel is a column by Douglas Cole (Washington, USA). Novelist, poet, professor and translator.
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