Textos traducidos de Jorge Ernesto Olivera

VI
montevideo’s nights

and the night is an old and wormeaten draggin trailer
to the west of montevideo’s bay
where a skinny man sales chickens
and gives the death for a coin;
is curdled of lichens
losts dawns,
penkniphes that drop off into overcoats pockets
secluded graffitis in the holes of the tress

Mojave Desert’s Poems

X
strange planes

the planes fly over my city,
the metal planes fly over my city,
the metal and plastic planes fly over my city,
the planes have toy motors, metal and plastic wheels,
nervously fly over my city,
the planes (they did it) have toy simulated motors among several skirmishes,
novel and metal, plastic wheels, nickel screens, atomic bombs, free shops, snack bars, pools, reagen’s factory,
fly over my city

they came in their planes and they dropped the toy bomb, they say, more than a million are dead,
of fever,
suden heat,
they say that is history now
yo necesito las bombas
yo necesito los marines
yo necesito un preservativo para el sida
more than a million
more than a million

Mojave Desert’s Poems

VI
the love and the revolutionary tales

the time of love is ending as a chapped leaf
and the battle histories that inhabit of heroes the revolution
are founded in tales books
of unrivalled magic
I repeat:

that love stories end when you don’t think about it
as the battles
the victories
and the glory

Mojave Desert’s Poems

XIII
distant photographs

the day has gone in a useless wat,
as the previous days,
-maybe wainting god’s inspiration-

the day has gone without knowing africa,
its large plains as reddish bedspreas that lost
in the infinity,
its blue mountains as horizon’s mirrors,
and the dances,
and the howled sound of the masais
and the indic winds
and the native female’s breast that scare occidental’s tourists,
and the bellies of starving childs,
they have gone
the possibilites of visiting
the dark hearth of the world


Mojave Desert’s Poems

2

my parents,
near 1930,
they falled in love
at dusk
they call by their names,
my mother repeats her dreams,
aloud,
primitive,
she sows the dreams,

spounting stars of the night sky that circulate as artificial satellites;

my fagher walks looking the herb,
hidding forms of loneliness,
fifty five years later
of th heaven, the land, the herb, the field.

the grimace of destinies that are crossed

it breaks in prevestd periods,
unknown for the man

my father

who waits other aprils and the time of other poets
those famous,
those regulars,
those who never weren’t

rereads Scott’s, Duma’s, Dostoievski’s novels;
the silence is
an autumn leaf that slowy falls;

everybody suffer from a memory illness,
as sisif’s rock in the mountains.

the artificial satellits plough the sky of the nigth,
aslept, the distance of the time, the mand and the moon,
secret yards, country houses
ending bonfires,
cared embers with enthusiasm and dedication,

[Cape Cañaveral will be only a brighty cristal in distance loniless]
the hand will be a body object as any other
the specialists will say,
unknowind the curative power
that stands oust as itself,
I know that it is not true,
I know secret old hand in the matters that
my extremity has done
I have seen them caressing histories,
Even older, the time of space-man.

artificial satellites are shy shapes that represent the destiny

my mother dreamed with Laika, space heroin,
my mother knew misteries of the sky of the night
my father nodded in silence,
we saw the night and the fire together.

[a broken mirror is as the sun that smashes into pieces disolving in the air,
as a chapped leaf
choppness of the time]

The Lips os the Dusk

Sirens
3.
I have seen them naking the dawn
moving away among masses of dolphins
scrapping the water as titanium planes
slicing through the sky as ships seen in the horizon

I have seen them taking for a walk your sight in the trees of the decanting
controlling the waves as whips of feathers
flattening paths of surf after wakes of a steamship


your name has not the sense of
standing angels to ghe left of He
your name has not the name of who
he came over the water
your name doesn’t shake cloudy hearts in
the desert of the sky

I have seen them with hers bonfire hair
shaking the greens of the river as the sea,
lightning the evening in green sunbeam, rush farewell,
dazing the night with her song
unbereabley rel,
going for a walk her shadow in the
dawn of the breakwater.



Mompracem