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Poems

"Quién hace tánta bulla, y ni deja" Read Poem

"Who makes so much noise, and doesn't even stop"
I
Who makes so much noise, and doesn't even let
test the remaining islands.

A little more consideration
how soon will it be late
and it will settle better
the guano, the simple treasure calabrina
that unintentionally provides,
in the insular heart,
brackish gannet, to each hyaloid
grouped.

A little more consideration
and the liquid mulch, six o'clock in the afternoon
OF THE MOST SUPERB FLATS
And the peninsula stops
from behind, muzzled, undaunted
on the deadly line of balance.

I
Quién hace tánta bulla, y ni deja
testar las islas que van quedando.

Un poco más de consideración
en cuanto será tarde, temprano
y se aquilatará mejor
el guano, la simple calabrina tesórea
que brinda sin querer,
en el insular corazón,
salobre alcatraz, a cada hialóidea
grupada.

Un poco más de consideración,
y el mantillo líquido, seís de la tarde
DE LOS MAS SOBERBIOS BEMOLES
Y la península párase
por la espalda, abozaleada, impertérrita
en la línea mortal del equilibrio.

"Tiempo, tiempo" Read Poem

"Time time"
Noon stagnant between relents.

Boring bomb from the small barracks
time time time time.

Was was.

Roosters sing digging in vain.

Mouth of the clear day that conjugates
was was was was.

Tomorrow tomorrow.

Rest still hot to be.

Think about the present save me for
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.

Name Name.

What is called how much it hurts us?

It's called the same thing that suffers
name name name name.

Mediodía estancado entre relentes.

Bomba aburrida del cuartel achica
tiempo tiempo tiempo tiempo.

Era Era.

Gallos cancionan escarbando en vano.

Boca del claro día que conjuga
era era era era.

Mañana Mañana.

El reposo caliente aun de ser.

Piensa el presente guárdame para
mañana mañana mañana mañana.

Nombre Nombre.

¿Qué se llama cuanto heriza nos?

Se llama Lomismo que padece
nombre nombre nombre nombre.

Black Messengers (Translation of Los Heraldos Negros) Read Poem

There are in life such hard blows .

.

.

I don't know!
Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them
the undertow of all our sufferings
is embedded in our souls .

.

.

I don't know!
There are few; but are .

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opening dark furrows
in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,
They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas
or the dark heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.

Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door
And the man .

.

.

poor .

.

.

poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are such hard blows in life.

I don't know.

Black Stone On Top Of A White Stone Read Poem

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.

I shall die in Paris— it does not bother me—
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.

It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil.

Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.

César Vallejo is dead.

They struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a stick and hard also
With the end of a rope.

Witnesses are: the Thursdays,
The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads…
translated by Thomas Merton

Bordas De Hielo Read Poem

Ice Edges
I come to see you pass by every day,
enchanted little steamer always far away.

.

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Your eyes are two blonde captains;
your lip is a very brief handkerchief
red that waves in a goodbye of blood!
I come to see you pass; until one day,
intoxicated with time and cruelty,
enchanted little steamer always far away,
The evening star will depart!
The rigging; winds that betray winds
of a woman who happened!
Your cold captains will give order;
and the one who will have left will be me.

.

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Vengo a verte pasar todos los días,
vaporcito encantado siempre lejos.

.

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Tus ojos son dos rubios capitanes;
tu labio es un brevísimo pañuelo
rojo que ondea en un adiós de sangre!
Vengo a verte pasar; hasta que un día,
embriagada de tiempo y de crueldad,
vaporcito encantado siempre lejos,
la estrella de la tarde partirá!
Las jarcias; vientos que traicionan; vientos
de mujer que pasó!
Tus fríos capitanes darán orden;
y quien habrá partido seré yo.

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Deshojación Sagrada Read Poem

Sacred Defoliation
Moon! Crown of an immense head,
that you are defoliating in golden shadows!
Red crown of a thinking Jesus
tragically sweet of emeralds!
Moon! crazy celestial heart
why do you row like this, inside the glass
full of blue wine, to the west,
which defeated and sore stern?

Moon! And by dint of flying in vain,
you holocaust in scattered opals:
maybe you are my gypsy heart
that wanders in the blue crying verses!.

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Luna! Corona de una testa inmensa,
que te vas deshojando en sombras gualdas!
Roja corona de un Jesús que piensa
trágicamente dulce de esmeraldas!
Luna! Alocado corazón celeste
¿por qué bogas así, dentro de copa
llena de vino azul, hacia el oeste,
cual derrotada y dolorida popa?

Luna! Y a fuerza de volar en vano,
te holocaustas en ópalos dispersos:
tú eres talvez mi corazón gitano
que vaga en el azul llorando versos!.

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Dregs Read Poem

This afternoon it is raining, as never before; and I
have no desire to live, my heart.

This afternoon is sweet.

Why should it not be?

Dressed in grace and pain; dressed like a woman.

This afternoon in Lima it is raining.

And I recall
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice over her poppy,
stronger than her "Don't be this way!"
My violent black flowers; and the barbaric
and terrible stoning; and the glacial distance.

And the silence of her dignity
with burning holy oils will put all end to it.

So this afternoon, as never before, I am
with this owl, with this heart.

Other women go by; and seeing me so sad,
they take on a bit of you
in the abrupt wrinkle of my deep remorse.

This afternoon it is raining, raining hard.

And I
have no desire to live, my heart!

Epístola A Los Transeúntes Read Poem

Epistle to Passersby
I RESUME my bunny day
my elephant night at rest.

And, to myself, I say:
This is my raw immensity, in buckets
This is my pleasant weight,
that will look for me below for bird
This is my arm
who on his own refused to be a wing,
These are my holy scriptures,
these my alarmed champions.

A gloomy island will light up my continental horizon,
While the Capitol rests on my intimate collapse
and the assembly on lances closes my parade.

But when I die
of life and not of time,
When my two suitcases arrive,
This must be my stomach where my lamp fit in pieces,
This is the head that atoned for the torments of the circle in my steps,
These are the worms that the heart counted by units,
This must be my supportive body
by which the individual soul watches; this must be
my navel where I killed my born lice,
this is my thing, my tremendous thing.

Meanwhile, convulsively, harshly
my brakes recover,
suffering as I suffer from the direct language of the lion;
and, since I have existed between two brick powers,
I myself convalesce, smiling with my lips.

REANUDO mi día de conejo
mi noche de elefante en descanso.

Y, entre mi, digo:
ésta es mi inmensidad en bruto, a cántaros
éste es mi grato peso,
que me buscará abajo para pájaro
éste es mi brazo
que por su cuenta rehusó ser ala,
éstas son mis sagradas escrituras,
éstos mis alarmados campeñones.

Lúgubre isla me alumbrará continental,
mientras el capitolio se apoye en mi íntimo derrumbe
y la asamblea en lanzas clausure mi desfile.

Pero cuando yo muera
de vida y no de tiempo,
cuando lleguen a dos mis dos maletas,
éste ha de ser mi estómago en que cupo mi lámpara en pedazos,
ésta aquella cabeza que expió los tormentos del círculo en mis pasos,
éstos esos gusanos que el corazón contó por unidades,
éste ha de ser mi cuerpo solidario
por el que vela el alma individual; éste ha de ser
mi hombligo en que maté mis piojos natos,
ésta mi cosa cosa, mi cosa tremebunda.

En tanto, convulsiva, ásperamente
convalece mi freno,
sufriendo como sufro del lenguaje directo del león;
y, puesto que he existido entre dos potestades de ladrillo,
convalesco yo mismo, sonriendo de mis labios.

España, Aparta De Mí Este Cáliz Read Poem

Spain, remove this chalice from me
Children of the world,
if Spain falls -I mean, it's a saying-
if it falls
from the sky below his forearm that they grab,
in halter, two terrestrial plates;
children, how old she is with the concave temples!
How early in the sun what I was telling you!
How soon in your chest the old noise!
how old your 2 in the notebook!
Children of the world, it is
mother Spain with her belly on her back;
there is our teacher with her splints,
there is mother and teacher,
cross and wood, because it gave you the height,
vertigo and division and addition, children;
is with her, procedural parents!
If it falls - I mean, it's a saying - if it falls
Spain, from the ground down,
children, how can you stop growing!
How will the year punish the month!
How are the teeth going to stay in ten?

in palote the diphthong, the medal in tears!
How will the lamb continue
tied by the leg to the great inkwell!
How are you going to go down the stairs of the alphabet
to the letter in which the penalty was born!
Children,
sons of warriors, meanwhile,
lower your voice, that Spain is right now distributing
the energy between the animal kingdom,
little flowers, comets and men.

Lower your voice, it's
with his rigor, which is great, without knowing
what to do, and it is in your hand
the skull talking and talking and talking,
the skull, the one with the braid,
the skull, that of life!
Lower your voice, I tell you;
lower your voice, the singing of syllables, the crying
of matter and the minor rumor of the pyramids, and still
the one with the temples that walk with two stones!
Lower your breath, and if
the forearm goes down,
if the splints sound, if it is the night,
If the sky fits in two terrestrial limbos,
if there is noise in the sound of the doors,
if I'm late,
if you don't see anyone, if they scare you
the blunt pencils, yes the mother
Spain falls -I say, it is a saying-
Come out, children of the world; go find it!.

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Niños del mundo,
si cae España -digo, es un decir-
si cae
del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen,
en cabestro, dos láminas terrestres;
niños, ¡qué edad la de las sienes cóncavas!
¡qué temprano en el sol lo que os decía!
¡qué pronto en vuestro pecho el ruido anciano!
¡qué viejo vuestro 2 en el cuaderno!
¡Niños del mundo, está
la madre España con su vientre a cuestas;
está nuestra maestra con sus férulas,
está madre y maestra,
cruz y madera, porque os dio la altura,
vértigo y división y suma, niños;
está con ella, padres procesales!
Si cae -digo, es un decir- si cae
España, de la tierra para abajo,
niños, ¡cómo vais a cesar de crecer!
¡cómo va a castigar el año al mes!
¡cómo van a quedarse en diez los dientes,
en palote el diptongo, la medalla en llanto!
¡Cómo va el corderillo a continuar
atado por la pata al gran tintero!
¡Cómo vais a bajar las gradas del alfabeto
hasta la letra en que nació la pena!
Niños,
hijos de los guerreros, entre tanto,
bajad la voz, que España está ahora mismo repartiendo
la energía entre el reino animal,
las florecillas, los cometas y los hombres.

¡Bajad la voz, que esta
con su rigor, que es grande, sin saber
qué hacer, y está en su mano
la calavera hablando y habla y habla,
la calavera, aquélla de la trenza,
la calavera , aquélla de la vida!
¡Bajad la voz, os digo;
bajad la voz, el canto de las sílabas, el llanto
de la materia y el rumor menor de las pirámides, y aún
el de las sienes que andan con dos piedras!
¡Bajad el aliento, y si
el antebrazo baja,
si las férulas suenan, si es la noche,
si el cielo cabe en dos limbos terrestres,
si hay ruido en el sonido de las puertas,
si tardo,
si no veis a nadie, si os asustan
los lápices sin punta, si la madre
España cae -digo, es un decir-
salid, niños del mundo; id a buscarla!.

.

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Himno A Los Voluntarios De La República Read Poem

Hymn To The Volunteers Of The Republic
Volunteer from Spain, militiaman
of trustworthy bones, when your heart goes to die,
when he goes to kill with his agony
worldwide, I really don't know
what to do, where to put myself; I run, I write, I clap,
I cry, glimpse, destroy, turn off, I say
to my chest that it ends, to that good, that it comes,
and I want to disgrace myself;
uncover my impersonal forehead until I touch
the vessel of blood, I stop,
stop my size those famous architect falls
with which the animal that honors me is honored;
my instincts flow to their ropes,
joy smokes before my grave
and, again, without knowing what to do, with nothing, leave me,
from my blank stone, leave me,
only,
quadruman, closer, much further,
not fitting in my hands your long ecstatic time,
I break with your double-edged speed
my smallness in the dress of greatness!
A daytime, clear, watchful, fertile day
Oh biennium, that of the gloomy begging semesters,
for which the gunpowder was biting its elbows!
oh hard pain and harder flints!
Oh brakes jammed by the people!
One day the people lit their captive match, prayed out of anger
and sovereignly full, circular,
he closed his birthday with elective hands;
they dragged padlock and despots
and in the padlock, its dead bacteria.

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battles?

Nope! Passions.

And passions preceded
of pain with bars of hope,
Of sorrows of peoples with hopes of men!
Death and passion for peace, the popular ones!
Warlike death and passion among olive trees, let's understand each other!
Such in your breath the winds change from atmospheric needles
and lock the tombs in your chest,
your frontal rising to the first power of martyrdom.

The world exclaims: "Spanish things!" And it's true.

Let's consider,
during a scale, at close range,
to Calderon, asleep on the tail of a dead amphibian
or to Cervantes, saying: "My kingdom is of this world, but
also from the other": point and edge in two roles!
Let us contemplate Goya, on his knees and praying before a mirror,
to Coll, the paladin in whose Cartesian assault
the flat step had a cloudy sweat
or to Quevedo, that instant grandfather of the dynamiters
or to Cajal, devoured by his little infinity, or still
to Teresa, a woman who dies because she doesn't die
or Lina Odena, in conflict on more than one point with Teresa.

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(Every great act or voice comes from the people
and goes towards him, from the front or transmitted
by incessant wisps, by pink smoke
of bitter passwords without fortune)
Thus your creature, militiaman, thus your bloodless creature,
shaken by a still stone,
he sacrifices himself, departs,
decays upwards and by its incombustible flame rises,
rise to the weak,
distributing Spains to the bulls,
bulls to pigeons.

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Proletarian who dies of universe, in what frenetic harmony
your greatness, your misery, your impelling vortex will end,
your methodical violence, your theoretical and practical chaos, your win
Dantesque, very Spanish, to love, even treacherously,
to your enemy!
Deliverer bound in shackles,
without whose effort until today the extension would continue without handles,
the nails would wander headless,
old, slow, colorado, day,
our beloved helmets, unburied!
Fallen peasant with your green foliage for man,
with the social inflection of your little finger,
with your ox that stays, with your physics,
also with your word tied to a stick
and your rented sky
and with the clay inserted in your tiredness
and the one that was on your nail, walking!
builders
farmers, civilians and warriors,
of active, tingling eternity: it was written
that you would make the light, surrounding
with death your eyes;
that, to the cruel fall of your mouths,
abundance will come in seven trays, everything
in the world it will be of sudden gold
and the gold,
fabulous beggars of your own secretion of blood,
and the gold itself will then be gold!
All men will love
and they will eat holding the ends of your sad handkerchiefs
and drink in the name
of your unfortunate throats!
They will rest walking at the foot of this race,
they will sob thinking of your orbits, fortunate
they will be and to the sound
of your atrocious return, flowered, innate,
Tomorrow they will adjust their chores, their dreamed and sung figures!
The same shoes will fit the one who ascends
no pathways to your body
and the one who descends to the form of his soul!
Intertwining, the mute will speak, the crippled will walk!
They will see, already back, the blind
and throbbing will hear the deaf!
The ignorant will know, the wise will ignore!
The kisses you could not give will be given!
Only death will die! The ant
will bring bits of bread to the chained elephant
to its brutal delicacy; they will return
aborted children to be born perfect, space
and all men will work,
shall beget all men,
all men will understand!
Worker, savior, our redeemer,
forgive us, brother, our debts!
As a drum says when rolling, in its adages:
how ever so ephemeral, your back!
how always so changing, your profile!
Italian volunteer, among whose battle animals
an Abyssinian lion goes limping!
Soviet volunteer, marching at the head of your universal chest!
Volunteers from the south, from the north, from the east
and you, the Westerner, closing the dirge of dawn!
Known soldier, whose name
parades in the sound of a hug!
Combatant that the earth raised, arming you
of dust,
putting on positive magnets,
your personal beliefs prevail,
different in character, intimate your ferule,
immediate complexion,
walking your language on your shoulders
and the soul crowned with pebbles!
Wrapped volunteer from your cold zone,
warm or torrid,
heroes around,
victim in column of victors:
in Spain, in Madrid, they are calling
to kill, volunteers of life!
Because in Spain they kill, others kill
to the child, to his toy that stands up,
to the splendid mother Rosenda,
to old Adam who spoke loudly with his horse
and the dog that slept on the stairs.

They kill the book, they throw away its auxiliary verbs,
to your helpless front page!
They kill the exact case of the statue,
to the sage, to his staff, to his colleague,
to the barber next door -cut me possibly,
but a good man and then an unlucky one;
to the beggar who sang opposite yesterday,
to the nurse who spent today crying,
the priest on his back with the tenacious height of his knees.

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Volunteers,
for life, for the good, kill
to death, kill the bad guys!
Do it for the freedom of all,
of the exploited, of the exploiter,
for the painless peace - I suspect it
when I sleep at the foot of my forehead
and more when I circle giving voices-
and do it, I'm saying,
for the illiterate to whom I write,
for the barefoot genie and his lamb,
for fallen comrades,
its ashes embraced the corpse of a path!
so that you,
volunteers from Spain and the world, would you come,
I dreamed that I was good, and it was to see
your blood, volunteers.

.

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This is a long time ago, a lot of longing,
many camels of praying age.

Good burning marches on your side today,
the immanent eyelash reptiles follow you with affection
and, two steps, one,
the direction of the water that runs to see its limit before it burns.

Voluntario de España, miliciano
de huesos fidedignos, cuando marcha a morir tu corazón,
cuando marcha a matar con su agonía
mundial, no sé verdaderamente
qué hacer, dónde ponerme; corro, escribo, aplaudo,
lloro, atisbo, destrozo, apagan, digo
a mi pecho que acabe, al que bien, que venga,
y quiero desgraciarme;
descúbrome la frente impersonal hasta tocar
el vaso de la sangre, me detengo,
detienen mi tamaño esas famosas caídas de arquitecto
con las que se honra el animal que me honra;
refluyen mis instintos a sus sogas,
humea ante mi tumba la alegría
y, otra vez, sin saber qué hacer, sin nada, déjame,
desde mi piedra en blanco, déjame,
solo,
cuadrumano, más acá, mucho más lejos,
al no caber entre mis manos tu largo rato extático,
quiebro con tu rapidez de doble filo
mi pequeñez en traje de grandeza!
Un día diurno, claro, atento, fértil
¡oh bienio, el de los lóbregos semestres suplicantes,
por el que iba la pólvora mordiéndose los codos!
¡oh dura pena y más duros pedernales!
!oh frenos los tascados por el pueblo!
Un día prendió el pueblo su fósforo cautivo, oró de cólera
y soberanamente pleno, circular,
cerró su natalicio con manos electivas;
arrastraban candado ya los déspotas
y en el candado, sus bacterias muertas.

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¿Batallas?

¡No! Pasiones.

Y pasiones precedidas
de dolores con rejas de esperanzas,
de dolores de pueblos con esperanzas de hombres!
¡Muerte y pasión de paz, las populares!
¡Muerte y pasión guerreras entre olivos, entendámosnos!
Tal en tu aliento cambian de agujas atmosféricas los vientos
y de llave las tumbas en tu pecho,
tu frontal elevándose a primera potencia de martirio.

El mundo exclama: "¡Cosas de españoles!" Y es verdad.

Consideremos,
durante una balanza, a quema ropa,
a Calderon, dormido sobre la cola de un anfibio muerto
o a Cervantes, diciendo: "Mi reino es de este mundo, pero
también del otro": ¡punta y filo en dos papeles!
Contemplemos a Goya, de hinojos y rezando ante un espejo,
a Coll, el paladín en cuyo asalto cartesiano
tuvo un sudor de nube el paso llano
o a Quevedo, ese abuelo instantáneo de los dinamiteros
o a Cajal, devorado por su pequeño infinito, o todavía
a Teresa, mujer que muere porque no muere
o a Lina Odena, en pugna en más de un punto con Teresa.

.

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(Todo acto o voz genial viene del pueblo
y va hacia él, de frente o transmitidos
por incesantes briznas, por el humo rosado
de amargas contraseñas sin fortuna)
Así tu criatura, miliciano, así tu exangüe criatura,
agitada por una piedra inmóvil,
se sacrifica, apártase,
decae para arriba y por su llama incombustible sube,
sube hasta los débiles,
distribuyendo españas a los toros,
toros a las palomas.

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Proletario que mueres de universo, ¡en qué frenética armonía
acabará tu grandeza, tu miseria, tu vorágine impelente,
tu violencia metódica, tu caos teórico y práctico, tu gana
dantesca, españolísima, de amar, aunque sea a traición,
a tu enemigo!
¡Liberador ceñido de grilletes,
sin cuyo esfuerzo hasta hoy continuaría sin asas la extensión,
vagarían acéfalos los clavos,
antiguo, lento, colorado, el día,
nuestros amados cascos, insepultos!
¡Campesino caído con tu verde follaje por el hombre,
con la inflexión social de tu meñique,
con tu buey que se queda, con tu física,
también con tu palabra atada a un palo
y tu cielo arrendado
y con la arcilla inserta en tu cansancio
y la que estaba en tu uña, caminando!
¡Constructores
agrícolas, civiles y guerreros,
de la activa, hormigueante eternidad: estaba escrito
que vosotros haríais la luz, entornando
con la muerte vuestros ojos;
que, a la caída cruel de vuestras bocas,
vendrá en siete bandejas la abundancia, todo
en el mundo será de oro súbito
y el oro,
fabulosos mendigos de vuestra propia secreción de sangre,
y el oro mismo será entonces de oro!
¡Se amarán todos los hombres
y comerán tomados de las puntas de vuestros pañuelos tristes
y beberan en nombre
de vuestras gargantas infaustas!
Descansarán andando al pie de esta carrera,
sollozarán pensando en vuestras órbitas, venturosos
serán y al son
de vuestro atroz retorno, florecido, innato,
ajustarán mañana sus quehaceres, sus figuras soñadas y cantadas!
¡Unos mismos zapatos irán bien al que asciende
sin vías a su cuerpo
y al que baja hasta la forma de su alma!
¡Entrelazándose hablarán los mudos, los tullidos andarán!
¡Verán, ya de regreso, los ciegos
y palpitando escucharán los sordos!
¡Sabrán los ignorantes, ignorarán los sabios!
¡Serán dados los besos que no pudisteis dar!
¡Sólo la muerte morirá! ¡La hormiga
traerá pedacitos de pan al elefante encadenado
a su brutal delicadeza; volverán
los niños abortados a nacer perfectos, espaciales
y trabajarán todos los hombres,
engendrarán todos los hombres,
comprenderán todos los hombres!
¡Obrero, salvador, redentor nuestro,
perdónanos, hermano, nuestras deudas!
Como dice un tambor al redoblar, en sus adagios:
qué jamás tan efímero, tu espalda!
qué siempre tan cambiante, tu perfil!
¡Voluntario italiano, entre cuyos animales de batalla
un león abisinio va cojeando!
¡Voluntario soviético, marchando a la cabeza de tu pecho universal!
¡Voluntarios del sur, del norte, del oriente
y tú, el occidental, cerrando el canto fúnebre del alba!
¡Soldado conocido, cuyo nombre
desfila en el sonido de un abrazo!
¡Combatiente que la tierra criara, armándote
de polvo,
calzándote de imanes positivos,
vigentes tus creencias personales,
distinto de carácter, íntima tu férula,
el cutis inmediato,
andándote tu idioma por los hombros
y el alma coronada de guijarros!
¡Voluntario fajado de tu zona fría,
templada o tórrida,
héroes a la redonda,
víctima en columna de vencedores:
en España, en Madrid, están llamando
a matar, voluntarios de la vida!
¡Porque en España matan, otros matan
al niño, a su juguete que se pára,
a la madre Rosenda esplendorosa,
al viejo Adán que hablaba en alta voz con su caballo
y al perro que dormía en la escalera.

Matan al libro, tiran a sus verbos auxiliares,
a su indefensa página primera!
Matan el caso exacto de la estatua,
al sabio, a su bastón, a su colega,
al barbero de al lado -me cortó posiblemente,
pero buen hombre y, luego, infortunado;
al mendigo que ayer cantaba enfrente,
a la enfermera que hoy pasó llorando,
al sacerdote a cuestas con la altura tenaz de sus rodillas.

.

.

¡Voluntarios,
por la vida, por los buenos, matad
a la muerte, matad a los malos!
¡Hacedlo por la libertad de todos,
del explotado, del explotador,
por la paz indolora -la sospecho
cuando duermo al pie de mi frente
y más cuando circulo dando voces-
y hacedlo, voy diciendo,
por el analfabeto a quien escribo,
por el genio descalzo y su cordero,
por los camaradas caídos,
sus cenizas abrazadas al cadáver de un camino!
Para que vosotros,
voluntarios de España y del mundo, vinierais,
soñé que era yo bueno, y era para ver
vuestra sangre, voluntarios.

.

.

De esto hace mucho pecho, muchas ansias,
muchos camellos en edad de orar.

Marcha hoy de vuestra parte el bien ardiendo,
os siguen con cariño los reptiles de pestaña inmanente
y, a dos pasos, a uno,
la dirección del agua que corre a ver su límite antes que arda.

La Rueda Del Hambriento Read Poem

The Wheel of the Hungry
Through my own teeth I come out smoking,
shouting, bidding,
pulling down my pants.

.

.

Empty my stomach, empty my jejunum,
misery pulls me through my own teeth,
caught with a stick by the cuff of the shirt.

A stone to sit on
won't there be now for me?

Even that stone on which the woman who has given birth stumbles,
the mother of the lamb, the cause, the root,
won't that be for me now?

Even that other
that has passed stooping for my soul!
even
the calcarid or the bad (humble ocean)
or the one that no longer serves nor to be thrown against the man
give it to me now for me!
Even the one they find crossed and alone in an insult,
give it to me now for me!
Even the crooked and crowned, in which it resonates
only once the walk of the right consciences,
or, at least, that other one, which thrown in a worthy curve,
will fall by itself
in profession of true entrails,
give it to me now for me!
A piece of bread, will there not be for me either?

I no longer have to be what I always have to be,
but give me
a stone to sit on,
but give me
please, a piece of bread to sit on,
but give me
in Spanish
something, in short, to drink, to eat, to live, to rest
And then I'll go.

.

.

Found a strange shape, it's very broken
and dirty my shirt
and I no longer have anything, this is horrendous.

POR entre mis propios dientes salgo humeando,
dando voces, pujando,
bajándome los pantalones.

.

.

Váca mi estómago, váca mi yeyuno,
la miseria me saca por entre mis propios dientes,
cogido con un palito por el puño de la camisa.

Una piedra en que sentarme
¿no habrá ahora para mi?

Aún aquella piedra en que tropieza la mujer que ha dado a luz,
la madre del cordero, la causa, la raiz,
¿ésa no habrá ahora para mi?

¡Siquiera aquella otra,
que ha pasado agachándose por mi alma!
Siquiera
la calcárida o la mala (humilde océano)
o la que ya no sirve ni para ser tirada contra el hombre
ésa dádmela ahora para mí!
Siquiera la que hallaren atravesada y sola en un insulto,
ésa dádmela ahora para mí!
Siquiera la torcida y coronada, en que resuena
solamente una vez el andar de las rectas conciencias,
o, al menos, esa otra, que arrojada en digna curva,
va a caer por sí misma,
en profesión de entraña verdadera,
¡ésa dádmela ahora para mí!
Un pedazo de pan, tampoco habrá para mí?

Ya no más he de ser lo que siempre he de ser,
pero dadme
una piedra en que sentarme,
pero dadme,
por favor, un pedazo de pan en que sentarme,
pero dadme
en español
algo, en fin, de beber, de comer, de vivir, de reposarse
y después me iré.

.

.

Halló una extraña forma, está muy rota
y sucia mi camisa
y ya no tengo nada, esto es horrendo.

Los Dados Eternos Read Poem

The Eternal Dice
For Manuel Gonzales Prada, this
brave and select emotion, one of the
who, with more enthusiasm, has applauded me
given the great teacher.

My God, I am crying the being that I live;
I regret having taken your bread;
but this poor pensive mud
It is not fermented scab on your side:
You don't have Marias that are leaving!
My God, if you had been a man,
today you knew how to be God;
but you, who were always well,
you feel nothing of your creation.

And the man does suffer you: the God is he!
Today that in my witchy eyes there are candles,
as in a condemned,
My God, you will light all your candles,
And we'll play with the old dice.

Maybe oh player! when giving luck
of the whole universe,
the dark circles of Death will appear,
like two funeral aces of mud.

My God, and this deaf, dark night,
you will no longer be able to play, because the Earth
It is a gnawed dice and already round
by dint of rolling to adventure,
that can only stop in a hole,
in the hole of immense burial.

Para Manuel Gonzales Prada, esta
emoción bravía y selecta, una de las
que, con más entusiasmo, me ha aplau-
dido el gran maestro.

Dios mío, estoy llorando el sér que vivo;
me pesa haber tomádote tu pan;
pero este pobre barro pensativo
no es costra fermentada en tu costado:
¡tú no tienes Marías que se van!
Dios mío, si tú hubieras sido hombre,
hoy supieras ser Dios;
pero tú, que estuviste siempre bien,
no sientes nada de tu creación.

¡Y el hombre sí te sufre: el Dios es él!
Hoy que en mis ojos brujos hay candelas,
como en un condenado,
Dios mío, prenderás todas tus velas,
y jugaremos con el viejo dado.

Tal vez ¡oh jugador! al dar la suerte
del universo todo,
surgirán las ojeras de la Muerte,
como dos ases fúnebres de lodo.

Dios míos, y esta noche sorda, obscura,
ya no podrás jugar, porque la Tierra
es un dado roído y ya redondo
a fuerza de rodar a la aventura,
que no puede parar sino en un hueco,
en el hueco de inmensa sepultura.

Los Heraldos Negros Read Poem

The Black Heralds
There are such strong blows in life.

.

.

I don't know!
Blows as from the hatred of God; as if before them;
the hangover of everything suffered will sink in the soul
I don't know!
They are few; But they are .

.

.

open dark ditches
in the fiercest face and in the strongest loin,
Perhaps they will be the foals of barbarian Attilas;
or the black heralds that Death sends us
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
Of some lovable than Blasphemous Destiny,
Those bloody bumps are the crackles
of some bread that burns on the oven door
And the man….

poor…poor!
turn your eyes,
as when over the shoulder
calls us a clap;
go crazy eyes,
and everything lived
it pools, like a puddle of guilt,
in the look
There are blows in life, so strong.

.

.

I don't know!
Hay golpes en la vida tan fuertes .

.

.

¡Yo no se!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos;
la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma
¡Yo no se!
Son pocos; pero son .

.

.

abren zanjas oscuras
en el rostro mas fiero y en el lomo mas fuerte,
Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte
Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,
de alguna adorable que el Destino Blasfema,
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema
Y el hombre….

pobre…¡pobre!
Vuelve los ojos,
como cuando por sobre el hombro
nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos,
y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa,
en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes .

.

.

¡Yo no se!

LXI Read Poem

Tonight I get down from my horse,
before the door of the house, where
I said farewell with the cock's crowing.

It is shut and no one responds.

The stone bench on which mama gave birth
to my older brother, so he could saddle
backs I had ridden bare,
through lanes, past hedges, a village boy;
the bench on which I left my heartsick childhood
yellowing in the sun .

.

.

And this mourning
that frames the portal?

God in alien peace,
the beast sneezes, as if calling too;
noses about, prodding the cobbles.

Then doubts,
whinnies,
his ears all ears.

Papa must be up praying, and perhaps
he will think I am late.

My sisters, humming their simple,
bubblish illusions,
preparing for the approaching holy day,
and now it's almost here.

I wait, I wait, my heart
an egg at its moment, that gets blocked.

Large family that we left
not long ago, no one awake now, and not even a candle
placed on the altar so that we might return.

I call again, and nothing.

We fall silent and begin to sob, and the animal
whinnies, keeps on whinnying.

They're all sleeping forever,
and so nicely, that at last
my horse dead-tired starts nodding
in his turn, and half-asleep, with each pardon, says
it's all right, everything is quite all right.

Paris, October 1936 Read Poem

From all of this I am the only one who leaves.

From this bench I go away, from my pants,
from my great situation, from my actions,
from my number split side to side,
from all of this I am the only one who leaves.

From the Champs Elysées or as the strange
alley of the Moon makes a turn,
my death goes away, my cradle leaves,
and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,
my human resemblance turns around
and dispatches its shadows one by one.

And I move away from everything, since everything
remains to create my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud
and even the bend in the elbow
of my own buttoned shirt.

Piedra Negra Sobre Piedra Blanca Read Poem

Black Stone On White Stone
I will die in Paris with a downpour
a day of which I already have the memory.

I'll die in Paris -and I don't run-
maybe a Thursday, as it is today, in autumn.

It will be Thursday, because today, Thursday, what a proso
these verses, the humerus I have put
to the bad and, never like today, I have returned,
with all my way, to see me alone.

César Vallejo has died, they beat him
all without him doing anything to them;
they hit him hard with a stick and hard
also with a rope; are witnesses
on Thursdays and the humerus bones,
loneliness, rain, roads.

.

.

Me moriré en París con aguacero,
un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo.

Me moriré en París -y no me corro-
tal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de otoño.

Jueves será, porque hoy, jueves, que proso
estos versos, los húmeros me he puesto
a la mala y, jamás como hoy, me he vuelto,
con todo mi camino, a verme solo.

César Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban
todos sin que él les haga nada;
le daban duro con un palo y duro
también con una soga; son testigos
los días jueves y los huesos húmeros,
la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos.

.

.

Poem To Be Read And Sung Read Poem

I know there is a person
Who looks for me day and night inside her hand,
and coming upon me, every minute, in her shoes.

Doesn't she know that the night is buried
with spurs behind the kitchen?

I know there is someone composed of my pieces,
whom I complete when my waist goes
galloping in her precise little stone.

Doesn't she know that money once out for her likeness
never returns to her trunk?

I know the day,
but the sun has escaped from me;
I know the universal act she performed in her bed
with some other woman's  bravery and  warm water,
whose shallow recurrence is a mine.

Is it possible this being is so small
even her own feet walk on her that way?

A cat is the border between us two,
right there beside her bowl of water.

I see her on the corners, her dress - once
an inquiring  palm tree - opens and closes.

.

.

What can she do but change her style weeping?

But she does look and look for me.

This is a real story!
translated by Robert Bly

To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam Read Poem

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.

I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama
caressed us: "But, sons…"
Now I go hide
as before, from all evening
lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.

Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.

Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.

I remember we made ourselves cry,
brother, from so much laughing.

Miguel, you went into hiding
one night in August, toward dawn,
but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.

And the twin heart of those dead evenings
grew annoyed at not finding you.

And now
a shadow falls on my soul.

Listen, brother, don't be late
coming out.

All right?

Mama might worry.

translated by James Wright

Trilce Read Poem

trilce
There is a place that I know
in this world, no less,
where we will never get
Where, even without our foot
came to give for an instant
It will be, in truth, like not being there.

Is that a site that is seen
every time in this life,
walking, walking one in a row.

More here than myself and
my pair of yolks, I have interviewed him
always far from destinations.

you can go on foot now
or to pure feeling in hair,
that not even the stamps arrive to him.

The tea colored horizon
is dying to colonize him
for his great Anywhere.

But the place that I know,
in this world, no less,
hombreado goes with the reverses.

-Close that door.

is ajar in the entrails
of that mirror.

-Is?

- Nope; his sister.

-It cannot be closed.

I don't know
can never get to that place
-Do the latches go on branch.

This is the place that I know.

In Spanish
There is a place that I know to me
in this world, nothing less,
where never we will arrive.

Where, still without our feet
it got to give for a moment
it will be, in truth, like not being.

A site is that that is seen
in each short while in this life,
walking, walking of one in row.

More here of the same me and of
my pair of yolks, I have interviewed it
always far from the destinations.

Already you can go on foot
or to pure feeling in hair,
that at him they do not arrive nor seals.

The horizon color tea
one dies to colonize him
for its great Anywhere.

But the place that I know to me,
in this world, nothing less,
manned it goes with the backs.

- You close that door that
it is half-opened in the entrails
of that mirror.

- Este?

- Nope; its sister.

- it is not possible to be closed.

Not
she can never arrive at that site
- do go in branch the latches.

So it is the place that I know to me.

Hay un lugar que yo me sé
en este mundo, nada menos,
adonde nunca llegaremos.

Donde, aún sin nuestro pie
llegase a dar por un instante
será, en verdad, como no estarse.

Es ese un sitio que se ve
a cada rato en esta vida,
andando, andando de uno en fila.

Más acá de mí mismo y de
mi par de yemas, lo he entrevisto
siempre lejos de los destinos.

Ya podéis iros a pie
o a puro sentimiento en pelo,
que a él no arriban ni los sellos.

El horizonte color té
se muere por colonizarle
para su gran Cualquieraparte.

Mas el lugar que yo me sé,
en este mundo, nada menos,
hombreado va con los reversos.

-Cerrad aquella puerta que
está entreabierta en las entrañas
de ese espejo.

-¿Esta?

- No; su hermana.

-No se puede cerrar.

No se
puede llegar nunca a aquel sitio
-do van en rama los pestillos.

Tal es el lugar que yo me sé.

In English
There is a place that I know to me
in this world, nothing less,
where never we will arrive.

Where, still without our foot
it got to give for a moment
it will be, in truth, like not being.

A site is that that is seen
in each short while in this life,
walking, walking of one in row.

More here of same me and of
my pair of yolks, I have interviewed it
always far from the destinies.

Already you can iros on foot
or to pure feeling in hair,
that at him they do not arrive nor seals.

The horizon color tea
one dies to colonize to him
for its great Cualquieraparte.

But the place that I know to me,
in this world, nothing less,
hombreado it goes with the reversos.

- You close that door that
it is half-opened in the entrails
of that mirror.

- This?

- No; its sister.

- it is not possible to be closed.

Not
she can never arrive at that site
- do goes in branch the latches.

So it is the place that I know to me.

Under The Poplars Read Poem

Like priestly imprisoned poets,
the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.

On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem
chew arias of grass at sunset.

The ancient shepherd, who shivers
at the last martyrdoms of light,
in his Easter eyes has caught
a purebred flock of stars.

Formed in orphanhood, he goes down
with rumors of burial to the praying field,
and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

It survives, the blue warped
In iron, and on it, pupils shrouded,
A dog etches its pastoral howl.

Weary Rings Read Poem

There are desires to return, to love, to not disappear,
and there are desires to die, fought by two
opposing waters that have never isthmused.

There are desires for a great kiss that would shroud Life,
one that ends in the Africa of a fiery agony,
a suicide!
There are desires to.

.

.

have no desires, Lord;
I point my deicidal finger at you:
there are desires to not have had a heart.

Spring returns, returns and will depart.

And God,
bent in time, repeats himself, and passes, passes
with the spinal column of the Universe on his back.

When my temples beat their lugubrious drum,
when the dream engraved on a dagger aches me,
there are desires to be left standing in this verse!

XIII Read Poem

I think about your sex.

My heart simplified, I think about your sex,
before the ripe daughterloin of day.

I touch the bud of joy, it is in season.

And an ancient sentiment dies
degenerated into brains.

I think about your sex, furrow more prolific
and harmonious than the belly of the Shadow,
though Death conceives and bears
from God himself.

Oh Conscience,
I am thinking, yes, about the free beast
who takes pleasure where he wants, where he can.

Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights.

Oh mute thunder.

Rednuhtetum!

Black Stone on a White Stone Read Poem

I will die in Paris with a rainstorm,
on a day I already remember,
I will die in Paris—and I don't shy away—
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is, in autumn.

It will be Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I prose
these lines, I've put on my humeri in a bad mood,
and, today like never before, I've turned back,
with all of my road, to see myself alone.

César Vallejo has died; they kept hitting him,
everyone, even though he does nothing to them,
they gave it to him hard with a club and hard

also with a rope; witnesses are
the Thursday days and the humerus bones,
the solitude, the rain, the roads.

.

.

Miguel Read Poem

I'm sitting here on the old patio
beside your absence.

It is a black well.

We'd be playing, now.

.

.

I can hear Mama yell
"Boys! Calmdown!" We'd laugh, and off I'd go
to hide where you'd never look.

.

.

under the stairs,
in the hall, the attic.

.

.

Then you'd do the same.

Miguel, we were too good at that game.

Everything would always end in tears.

No one was laughing on that August night
you went to hide away again, so late
it was almost dawn.

But now your brother's through
with this hunting and hunting and never finding you.

The shadows crowd him.

Miguel, will you hurry
and show yourself?

Mama will only worry.

Under the Poplars Read Poem

Like priestly imprisoned poets,

the poplars of blood have fallen asleep.

On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem
chew arias of grass at sunset.

The ancient shepherd, who shivers
at the last martyrdoms of light,
in his Easter eyes has caught
a purebred flock of stars.

Formed in orphanhood, he goes down
with rumors of burial to the praying field,
and the sheep bells are seasoned with shadow.

It survives, the blue warped
in iron, and on it, pupils shrouded,
a dog etches its pastoral howl.