Track of the Drop - Rafael Jesús González

[Larry Robinson]

Track of the Drop

                        to Pablo Neruda

                            I

I remember you in Holland
where the roses lack color
and the soul you gave the machine
does not know the people.
Yours is the vice of loving
and on your tongue even the thistle
----knows how to give honey —
there is blood like that of Federico
----that knows how to hurt.
But here the pupils are of glass
and despair is a drop of water
that runs through the canals golden,
not with lemons but dead leaves.

                            II

It has been nine years that in Holland,
I wrote you a poem —
    full of water, dry leaves
    and a vision of lemons.

It was November —
                                now it is October —
on the tenth I count my thirty-eighth
and you have died.

I think you poppies and geraniums —
the skin of Spain and bloodied Chile —
hunger, thirst,
                        grapes and stars.
There are inventories in my bones
and nettles in the furrows of my fingers.

Poet — I lack lilies of consolation.
    Poet — Chile pains me
                like a sting in the brain.
    Poet — I am numb;
the only thing I feel is that you are dead.


                        - Rafael Jesús González

(It was on September 11, 1973 that the U. S. C.I.A.-instigated military coup in Chile overthrew the legally elected and popular government of Salvador Allende initiating an era of brutal dictatorship and bloodshed.  President Allende was murdered as was the poet-composer Víctor Jara among thousands of others. The aging poet Pablo Neruda was held under house arrest where he died soon after.)


Rastro de la gota

                                        a Pablo Neruda

                        I

Te recuerdo en Holanda
donde las rosas carecen de olor
y el alma que le diste a la máquina
no conoce a la gente.
Tu vicio es vicio de amar
y en tu lengua hasta el cardo
    sabe dar miel —
hay sangre como la de Federico
    que sabe doler.
Pero aquí las pupilas son de vidrio
y la desesperación es una gota de agua
que se escurre por los canales dorados,
no de limones sino de hojas muertas.

                                II

Hace nueve años que en Holanda
te compuse un verso —
    lleno de agua, hojas secas
    y visión de limones.

Era noviembre —
    es ahora octubre —
el diez cuento mis treinta y ocho
y te has muerto.

Te pienso amapolas y geranios —
el cuero de España y Chile ensangrentado —
hambre, sed,
                        uvas y luceros.
Hay inventarios en mis huesos
y ortigas en los surcos de mis dedos.

Poeta — me faltan azucenas de consuelo.
    Poeta — me duele Chile
                como una punzada en el cerebro.
    Poeta — estoy entumido;
lo único que siento es que has muerto.



                            - Rafael Jesús González 
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.sonic.net/pipermail/poetrylovers/attachments/20230912/e00e19fd/attachment.htm>