four / cuatro

four

for Antonio Eligio Fernández (Tonel) and Debora Vanessa Kam

the night that is seen,
has nothing whatever to do with the night
Jaime Sáenz

*

star badly wounded
                  from just one glance
whirling iris
numbers inside out
                  recycle blue
the postmodern night
with tin entrails
                 a mess of wiring
i see through my wounds
closing opening
               like ciphers
the whole star sees how i glance at you
the lonesome shadow comes
                         to sip her crystal

i’ve made it with your best grapes
my ripened spirits
                  it is fermented from thirst
i serve it in the word glass
dissolved in sleet
still preserving the deer traces
and it scorches her lips
with the prayer to lazarus unanswered
double agent
            i’ll radio my report
everything goes down the dawn drain
then comes back at the last minute
                                  the light overflow
i won’t leave out the details

since just one night explains the world
the language the numbers
forced to fit in the sky
loose threads harmonize
with your conversations rough from silence
stairsteps useless
for falling
they even make the shadow dizzy
the strophe creaks
                  reminds us of being
something more than organized matter
the big house nerves laid bare
crossed by the night
                    no hurricane rhythm

still it defends us against that northless wind
whetting its switchblades on the doorsill
dying to cut
this fraction of corner to the marrow
before you the shadow repelled by emptiness
this nothingness burns
                      like light sweat
in eyes crossed out
the bit of salt i am shakes free of you
the candle i’ve used
to illume the spirits dies down
ninety-nine cents of luster
yemayá blue
           ochún yellow

a whole week above each book
blackens the ceiling
flame still burns kisses
cracked by its smooth lucidity
with every inch of my skin i hear
how light scratches at the night filaments
sound confirms
my clumsy nakedness dressing you
back to the stars
                 the night unstamped
riddled with those vague carnations
still smelling of light
your obsession with the darkness
is only the open’s obsession with me

ars poeticas gone wrong
with nothing but stones i sift through waves
in the stagnant glow
there are waters deeper than the faith
and the mud of reason
the night is a more merciful lucidity
with arms unspread
a sailor’s knot
tied with sheaves of blinded bolt flashes
the calculated shadow
                     wrinkles the paper
there’s no more hint of you
and the snow’s curbed anxiety
hinders breath

even from the lowest branches sky drizzles
residue of an evaporating image
tedium newly polished
                     with dregs of lightning
clouds to pour
your sadness in my muscles
                          your fracture in my soul
the night and i
cannot manage without this reflection to ignite us
how to do so if not to call off the traces
that embroider it all
                     with an abstract sense
the night and you cannot manage to overflow
bareboned in light

on my symbolic balcony
i scribble the shadow
                     a dream
i was stripped of by the neighbors
a blank page to sully me
a brand-new light shrouded by being
some thirsty deer i work to scratch out
the other’s blueprint where i am erased
insomnias pile up
everything smells of mignonette
                               cadence in each knot
unforeseeable sense
but then the wind ruffles
what is concealed by the light

even the most sensual stones are
stores of wakefulness
and the naked shadows illuminate
i wonder the night roused
starless no neighbors bickering
the tempest in a teapot of words
will it die down with me?
just a meager sheet of paper echoing
alongside a dreamed-of bone?
will the sonnet melt in your coal?
you don’t know that life
has passed by forgetting me once more
unfaithful cleric
                 i follow just one rhythm

something darkens it with a heart
lying in wait among gardens still unwoven
something renders it blue
with the idea that gives roses their scent
an iris challenging the aurora borealis
an autumn thrown in our face by the wind
the irregular rhythm
finally restoring harmony
behind my back
i have stolen your counted syllables
we all go slowly like zebras
on our way to the immaculate nativity
and the incurable night
suddenly gets riled up by the numbers

who will gather with me the harmony in the dust?
dialogic darkness
deaf to the light’s rant and rave
it’s not worth discussing
the shadow is always right
once more i measure the emptiness cut on your body
to see if i am mistaken
                       there’s no way
the night is three odd numbers
the rhythm missing you
the mindful pulse
                 the sharpest insomnia
nobody has been able to break the shadow
bring her to her knees before just one light

—

cuatro

para Antonio Eligio Fernández (Tonel) y Debora Vanessa Kam

la noche que se mira,
no tiene nada que ver con la noche
Jaime Sáenz

*

la estrella mal herida
                      de una sola mirada
iris vertiginoso
números al revés
                azul de reciclaje
la noche posmoderna
con vísceras de estaño
                      un loco cablerío
veo por mis heridas
que se cierran y abren
                      como cifras
la estrella toda ve cómo te miro
la sombra acude sola
                    a beber su cristal

lo preparé con tus mejores uvas
mis ánimos maduros
                  y fermentó de sed
se lo sirvo en la palabra copa
disuelto en aguanieve
que aún conserva la huella de los ciervos
y se abrasa los labios
con la oración a lázaro incumplida
doble espía
           voy a radiar lo informe
todo lo que se va por el caño del alba
regresa en el desborde
                      impuntual de la luz
no omitiré detalles

porque una sola noche explica el mundo
el lenguaje los números
que se deben encajar en el cielo
hilachas que armonizan
con tu conversación áspera de silencio
peldaños de una escalera que no
sirve para caer
y que da vértigo a la misma sombra
la estrofa cruje
                nos recuerda ser
algo más que materia organizada
el caserón en nervio
que atravesó la noche
                     sin ritmo del ciclón

mas nos defiende contra ese viento sin norte
que amuela sus navajas en el quicio
y muere por tajar
la fracción de esquina hasta la médula
ante ti el vacío que repela la sombra
esa nada que arda
                 como sudor de luz
en los ojos tachados
la poca sal que soy y de ti se sacude
la vela con que vengo
alumbrando los ánimos se apaga
noventa y nueve céntimos de lumbre
azul de yamayá
              amarillo de ochún

una semana entera sobre todos los libros
tiznando el cielo raso
llama que seguirá quemando besos
cuerteados por su tersa lucidez
con toda mi piel oigo
cómo rasga la luz las fibras de la noche
sonido que confirma
mi torpe desnudez y que te viste
de espalda a las estrellas
                          noche sin estampar
cundida por esos claveles vagos
que aún huelen a luz
tu obsesión con lo oscuro
es solo la obsesión de lo abierto conmigo

malas artes poéticas
a pedrada limpia entresaco ondas
al fulgor estancado
hay aguas más profundas que la fe
y el fango de cordura
la noche es lucidez mas compasiva
sin los brazos en cruz
un nudo marinero
hecho con el haz de rayos cegados
la sombra calculada
                   arrugando el papel
ya no hay trazas de ti
y el ansia de la nieve contenida
impide respirar

hasta de las ramas más bajas gotea el cielo
residuo de imagen que se evapora
tedio recién pulido
                   con borras de relámpago
nubes por escanciar
la tristeza en los músculos
                           tu fractura en el alma
ni la noche ni yo
podemos sin esta reflexión que nos enciende
cómo hacerlo sin anular las huellas
que lo han bordado todo
                       con un sentir abstracto
ni la noche ni tú consiguen derramarse
descarnados en luz

en mi balcón simbólico
garabateo la sombra
                   un sueño
del que me han despojado los vecinos
una página en blanco que me ensucia
una luz sin usar envuelta por el ser
unos ciervos sedientos que me afano en rayar
este plano del otro donde soy omitido
se acumulan insomnios
todo huele a reseda
                   cadencia en cada nudo
sentido imprevisible
mas entonces el viento desordena
lo que esconde la luz

hasta las piedras más sensuales son
desvelo acumulado
y las sombras desnudas nos alumbran
me pregunto noche despabilada
sin luceros ni bronca de vecinos
la tormenta en el vaso de palabras
¿amainará conmigo?
¿solo un magro papel que reverbera
junto al hueso soñado?
¿se fundirá el soneto en tu carbón?
no sabes que la vida
ha pasado otra vez sin recordarme
clérigo infiel
              yo solo sigo un ritmo

algo lo opaca con el corazón
que acecha entre jardines por tejer
algo lo deja azul
con la idea que hace oler a las rojas
un lirio que desafía la aurora boreal
un otoño que el viento nos está echando en cara
el ritmo irregular
que al cabo restablece la armonía
a escondidas de mí
he robado tus sílabas contadas
todos vamos sin prisa como cebras
camino del pesebre immaculado
y la noche incurable
de pronto se encabrita con los números

¿quien recoge conmigo la armonía en el polvo?
oscuridad dialógica que no escucha a la luz despotricar
no se discuta más
la sombra siempre tiene la razón
vuelvo a medir el tajo del vacío en tu cuerpo
a ver si me equivoco
                    de ninguna manera
la noche son tres números impares
el ritmo que te extraña
el pulso atento
               el insomnio más afilado
nadie ha podido doblegar la sombra
ponerla de rodillas ante una sola luz

—

from midnight minutes–published by Action Books

Buy the book here

—

Víctor Rodríguez Núñez (Havana, 1955) is a poet, journalist,
essayist, translator, and university professor. He is one of
Cuba’s most outstanding and celebrated contemporary writers,
with over eighty collections of his poetry published throughout
the world. He has been the recipient of major awards in the
Spanish-speaking region, including, in 2015, the coveted Loewe Prize
and most recently the Manuel Alcántara Prize, in 2021. His selected
poems have been translated into Arabic, Chinese, English, Dutch,
French, German, Italian, Macedonian, Portuguese, Serbian, Swedish,
Turkish, and Vietnamese, and he has read his poetry in more than fifty
countries. During the eighties he was the editor of the influential
Cuban cultural journal, El Caimán Barbudo, where he published numerous
articles on poetry and film. He has brought out a book of interviews with
some of the most renowned poets in the Spanish language and has compiled
three anthologies of poetry from his generation in Cuba. He has edited
critical editions of or written literary criticism on influential Latin
American poets like Julián del Casal, Dulce María Loynaz, José Coronel
Urtecho, Emilio Ballagas, Cintio Vitier, and Francisco Urondo, among others.
He has translated both from English into Spanish (Mark Strand, C.D. Wright,
John Kinsella) and from Spanish into English ( Juan Gelman, Antonio Gamoneda,
José Emilio Pacheco). He divides his time between Gambier, Ohio, where he is
Professor of Spanish at Kenyon College, and Havana, Cuba. More information can
be found here: http://www.victorrodrigueznunez.com

Katherine M. Hedeen is a prize-winning translator of poetry and an essayist.
A specialist in Latin American poetry, she has translated some of the most
respected voices from the region into English. Her latest book-length publications
include prepoems in postspanish by Jorgenrique Adoum, Book of the Cold by Antonio
Gamoneda, Every Beat Is Secret by Fina García Marruz, Almost Obscene by Raúl Gómez
Jattin, and The Roof of the Whale Poems by Juan Calzadilla. She is the coeditor,
with Welsh poet Zoë Skoulding, of the groundbreaking transatlantic translation
anthology, Poetry’s Geographies. Her work has been a finalist for both the Best
Translated Book Award and the National Translation Award. She is a recipient of
two NEA Translation Grants in the US and a PEN Translates award in the UK. She is
Managing Editor of Action Books. She resides in Ohio, where she is Professor of
Spanish at Kenyon College, and Havana, Cuba. More information at:
http://www.katherinemhedeen.com