Showing posts with label Juan Manuel Roca. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Juan Manuel Roca. Show all posts
Sunday, December 8, 2024
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Juan Manuel Roca / Two Poems
TWO POEMS
Translated by Nicolás Suescún
Biography of Nobody
Nobody’s glory is remarkable: he had no ancestors under the sun, under the rain, he has no roots in the East or in the West. He is son of Nobody, grandson of Nobody, father of Nobody, small consul of oblivion.
Do you see an empty spot in the family photo, a hole, a space between the respectable relations? It is Nobody, without traces and without descent. The glory of Nobody is remarkable before the first morning of history, forerunner of men who today are grass, of fathers of other fathers that are candles with no wick.
Let us celebrate Nobody who allows us to presume we are Somebody.
Time
Has devoured my face
As Saturn his sons.
Maybe my deafness was a gift,
The way to damp down
The nocturnal scream from the shootings,
The fierce song of madness.
I come with news of the shadows,
The dream of reason
That gallops its turbulent horses
In my bedroom.
As Saturn his sons.
Maybe my deafness was a gift,
The way to damp down
The nocturnal scream from the shootings,
The fierce song of madness.
I come with news of the shadows,
The dream of reason
That gallops its turbulent horses
In my bedroom.
Juan Manuel Roca was born in Medellín in 1946. Poet, narrator, essayist and Colombian journalist. Published books: Memoria del agua, 1973; Luna de ciegos, 1975, Premio Nacional de Poesía Eduardo Cote Lamus; Los ladrones nocturnos 1977; Señal de cuervos, 1979, National Poetry Prize Universidad de Antioquia; Fabulario real, 1980; País secreto, 1987; Ciudadano de la noche, 1989; Pavana con el diablo, 1990; Memoria de encuentros, 1995. Recently he was awarded with The National Poetry Prize from The Ministry of Culture of Colombia, for the work: Las hipótesis de nadie. During 10 years he directed the Magazin Dominical a weekly publication that comes out weekly with the newspaper El Espectador.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Juan Manuel Roca / A Letter Heading for Wales
Juan Manuel Roca
UNA CARTA RUMBO A GALES
Me pregunta usted dulce señora
Qué veo en estos días a este lado del mar.
Me habitan las calles de este país
Para usted desconocido,
Estas calles donde pasear es hacer un
Largo viaje por la llaga,
Donde ir a limpia luz
Es llenarse los ojos de vendas y murmullos.
Qué veo en estos días a este lado del mar.
Me habitan las calles de este país
Para usted desconocido,
Estas calles donde pasear es hacer un
Largo viaje por la llaga,
Donde ir a limpia luz
Es llenarse los ojos de vendas y murmullos.
Me pregunta
Qué siento en estos días a este lado del mar.
Un alfileteo en el cuerpo,
La luz de un frenocomio
Que llega serena a entibiar
Las más profundas heridas
Nacidas de un poblado de días incoloros.
¿Y el sol?
El sol, un viejo drogo que ha lamido esas heridas.
Porque sabe usted, dulce señora,
Es este país una confusión de calles y de heridas.
La entero a usted:
Aquí hay palmeras cantoras
Pero también hay hombres torturados.
Aquí hay cielos absolutamente desnudos
Y mujeres encorvadas al pedal de la singer
Que hubieran podido llegar en su loco pedaleo
Hasta Java y Burdeos,
Hasta el Nepal y su pueblito de Gales,
Donde supongo que bebía sombras su querido Dylan Thomas.
Las mujeres de este país son capaces
De coserle un botón al viento,
De vestirlo de organista.
Aquí crecen la rabia y las orquídeas por parejo,
No sospecha usted lo que es un país
Como un viejo animal conservado
En los más variados alcoholes,
No sospecha usted lo que es vivir
Entre lunas de ayer, muertos y despojos.
Qué siento en estos días a este lado del mar.
Un alfileteo en el cuerpo,
La luz de un frenocomio
Que llega serena a entibiar
Las más profundas heridas
Nacidas de un poblado de días incoloros.
¿Y el sol?
El sol, un viejo drogo que ha lamido esas heridas.
Porque sabe usted, dulce señora,
Es este país una confusión de calles y de heridas.
La entero a usted:
Aquí hay palmeras cantoras
Pero también hay hombres torturados.
Aquí hay cielos absolutamente desnudos
Y mujeres encorvadas al pedal de la singer
Que hubieran podido llegar en su loco pedaleo
Hasta Java y Burdeos,
Hasta el Nepal y su pueblito de Gales,
Donde supongo que bebía sombras su querido Dylan Thomas.
Las mujeres de este país son capaces
De coserle un botón al viento,
De vestirlo de organista.
Aquí crecen la rabia y las orquídeas por parejo,
No sospecha usted lo que es un país
Como un viejo animal conservado
En los más variados alcoholes,
No sospecha usted lo que es vivir
Entre lunas de ayer, muertos y despojos.
A LETTER HEADING FOR WALES
Translated by Raúl Jaime Gaviria
You ask me sweet lady
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.
You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.
And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.
I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer’s treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.
Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don’t even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don’t even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.
You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.
And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.
I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer’s treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.
Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don’t even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don’t even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Juan Manuel Roca / Days As Needles
Juan Manuel Roca
DÍAS COMO AGUJAS
Estoy tan solo, amor, que a mi cuarto
Sólo sube, peldaño tras peldaño,
La vieja escalera que traquea.
Sólo sube, peldaño tras peldaño,
La vieja escalera que traquea.
DAYS AS NEEDLES
Translated by Raúl Jaime Gaviria
I’m so lonely, love, that to my room
Only the old creaking stairs
Head up, step after step.
Only the old creaking stairs
Head up, step after step.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Juan Manuel Roca / Epigram of Power
EPIGRAM OF POWER
 |
| Photo by Chema Madoz |
Juan Manuel Roca
EPIGRAMA DEL PODER
EPIGRAMA DEL PODER
Con coronas de nieve bajo el sol
Cruzan los reyes.
Cruzan los reyes.
EPIGRAM OF POWER
Translated by Raúl Jaime Gaviria
With crowns of snow under the sun
The Kings go across.
The Kings go across.
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