for where I’m least expected

  I turn up with my stuff

  to gather the first wine

  in the sombreros of autumn.

  If they close the door, I’ll go in;

  if they greet me, I’ll be off.

  I’m not one of those sailors

  who flounder about on the ice.

  I’m adaptable as the wind is,

  with the yellowest leaves,

  with the fallen histories

  in the eyes of statues,

  and if I come to rest anywhere,

  it’s in the nub of the fire,

  the throbbing crackling part

  that flies off to nowhere.

  Along the margins

  you’ll have come across your name;

  I don’t apologize,

  it had to do with nothing

  except almost everything,

  for you do and you don’t exist—

  that happens to everybody—

  nobody realizes,

  and when they add up the figures,

  we’re not rich at all—

  now we’re the new poor.

  He speaks of his enemies and divides up his possessions

  I’ve been ripped apart

  by a set of spitting rodents

  who seemed too much for me.

  In the sea I would often eat

  dark sea cucumbers,

  strange kinds of amber,

  and storm lost cities

  in my shirt and my armor

  in ways that would kill you—

  you would die of laughter.

  So I leave to all who snarled at me

  my traveler’s eyelashes,

  my passion for salt,

  the slant of my smile—

  let them take it all away

  discreetly, if that’s possible;

  since they weren’t able to kill me

  I can hardly stop them

  from dressing in my clothes

  or appearing on Sundays

  convincingly disguised.

  I left no one in peace

  so they’ll grant me no peace.

  That’s clear, but it doesn’t matter—

  they’ll be publishing my socks.

  He turns to other matters

  I’ve left my worldly goods

  to my party and my people—

  we’re talking here of other things,

  things both obscure and clear

  which all add up to one thing.

  It’s the same with the grapes

  and their two powerful children,

  white wine, red wine.

  All life is red and white,

  all clarity is cloudy.

  It’s not all earth and adobe—

  I inherited shadows and dreams.

  He replies to some well-meaning people

  Once they asked me

  why my writing was so obscure.

  They might ask the night that,

  or minerals, or roots.

  I didn’t know what to answer,

  then, some time after,

  two crazy men attacked me,

  saying I was simple—

  the answer’s in running water

  and I went off, running and singing.

  He parcels out his sufferings

  Has anyone been granted

  as much joy as I have

  (it flows through my veins)

  and this fruitful unfruitful mixture

  that is my nature?

  I’ve been a great flowing river

  with hard ringing stones,

  with clear night-noises,

  with dark day-songs.

  To whom can I leave so much,

  so much and so little,

  joy beyond its objects,

  a lone horse by the sea,

  a loom weaving the wind?

  And hands on his joys

  My own sorrows I leave to

  all those who made me suffer

  but by now I’ve forgotten them

  and I don’t know where I lost them—

  if they turn up in the forest

  they’re like tangleweed.

  They grow from the ground up

  and end where you end,

  at your head, at the air—

  to keep them from growing,

  spring has to be changed.

  He comes out against hate

  I’ve come within range of hate.

  Terrifying, its tremors,

  its dizzying obsessions.

  Hate’s like a swordfish

  invisible in the water,

  knifing suddenly into sight

  with blood on its blade—

  clear water misleads you.

  Why, why do we hate so much

  those who hate us?

  There they are underwater,

  hunters lying in wait,

  swords and oilcans ready,

  spiderwebs and mousetraps.

  It has nothing to do with being Christian,

  or with prayer or with tailoring;

  it’s just that hate is a loser.

  Scales fell from eyes

  in the poison market;

  meanwhile the sun comes out

  and I start to work

  and to buy bread and wine.

  But deals with it in his will

  To hate I’ll leave

  my own horseshoes,

  my sailor’s shirt,

  my traveler’s shoes,

  my carpenter’s heart,

  all things I did well,

  and which helped me to suffer,

  the strong clear things I had,

  permanent and passing,

  so that it dawns on the world

  that those who have trees and water

  can carve ships, set sail,

  can go away and come back,

  suffer and love,

  have fears, do work,

  be and go on being,

  be fruitful and die,

  be simple and complex,

  not have ears,

  turn misery to account,

  wait for a flower’s coming—

  in a word, live;

  although there are always some shitheads

  who will not accept our lives.

  At last he turns in ecstasy to his love

  Matilde Urrutia, I’m leaving you here

  all I had, all I didn’t have,

  all I am, all I am not.

  My love is a child crying,

  reluctant to leave your arms,

  I leave it to you forever—

  you are my chosen one.

  You are my chosen one,

  more tempered by winds

  than thin trees in the south,

  a hazel in August;

  for me you are as delicious

  as a great bakery.

  You have an earth heart

  but your hands are from heaven.

  You are red and spicy,

  you are white and salty

  like pickled onions,

  you are a laughing piano

  with every human note;

  and music runs over me

  from your eyelashes and your hair.

  I wallow in your gold shadow,

  I’m enchanted by your ears

  as though I had seen them before

  in underwater coral.

  In the sea for your nails’ sake,

  I took on terrifying fish.

  Your eyes widen from south to south,

  your smile goes east and west;

  your feet can hardly be seen,

  and the sun takes pleasure

  in dawning in your hair.

  Your face and your body come from

  hard places, as I do,

  from rain-washed rituals,

  ancient lands and martyrs.

  The Bío-Bío still sings

  in our bloodstained clay,

  but you brought from the forest

  every secret scent,

  and the way your profile has of shining

  like a lost arrow,

  an old warrior’s medal.

  You overcame me

  with love and origins,

  because your mouth brought back

  ancient beginnings,

  forest meetings from another time,

  dark ancestral drums.

  I suddenly heard myself summoned—

  it was far away, vague.

  I moved close to ancient foliage.

  I touched my blood in your mouth,

  dear love, my Araucana.

  What can I leave you, Matilde,

  when you have at your touch

  that aura of burning leaves,

  that fragrance of strawberries,

  and between your sea-breasts

  the half-light of Cauquenes,

  and the laurel-smell of Chile?

  It is high autumn at sea,

  full of mists and hidden places;

  the land stretches and breathes,

  leaves fall by the month.

  And you, bent over my work,

  with both passion and patience,

  deciphering the green prints,

  the spiderwebs, the insects

  of my fateful handwriting.

  Lioness on your little feet,

  what would I do without

  the neat ways of your hands?

  Where would I be wandering

  with no heart, with no end?

  On what faraway buses,

  flushed with fire or snow?

  I owe you marine autumn

  with dankness at its roots

  and fog like a grape

  and the graceful sun of the country;

  and the silent space

  in which sorrows lose themselves

  and only the bright crown

  of joy comes to the surface.

  I owe you it all,

  my unchained dove,

  my crested quail,

  my mountain finch,

  my peasant from Coihueco.

  Sometime when we’ve stopped being,

  stopped coming and going,

  under seven blankets of dust

  and the dry feet of death,

  we’ll be close again, love,

  curious and puzzled.

  Our different feathers,

  our bumbling eyes,

  our feet which didn’t meet

  and our printed kisses,

  all will be back together,

  but what good will it do us,

  the closeness of a grave?

  Let life not separate us;

  and who cares about death?

  Last remarks

  So I’m saying goodbye, gentlemen,

  after so many farewells;

  and since I’m leaving nothing,

  I want everyone to have something;

  the stormiest thing I had,

  the craziest and most seething

  comes back to earth, comes back to life.

  The petals of well-wishing

  fell like bells

  in the green mouth of the wind.

  But I’ve had in abundance

  the bounty of friends and strangers.

  I’ve found generosity

  wherever my ways took me

  and I found it everywhere

  like a shared-out heart.

  Nor did medicinal frontiers

  ever upset my exile—

  they shared bread with me,

  danger, shelter, wine.

  The world threw open its orchards

  and I went in, like Jack to his house,

  between two rows of tenderness.

  I have as many friends in the South

  as I have in the North,

  the sun could never set

  on my friends in the East—

  and how many in the West?

  I can’t count the wheat.

  I can’t number or count

  my friends among the Oyarzunes.

  In America, shaken by

  so much night-fear,

  there’s not a moon doesn’t know me,

  no roads that don’t expect me,

  in the poor clay villages

  or the concrete cities

  there’s some remote Arce

  whom I don’t know yet

  except we were born brothers.

  Everywhere I gathered

  the honey that bears devour,

  the secret stirrings of spring,

  the treasure of the elephants,

  and that I leave to my own ones,

  the clear stream of my family.

  The people defined me

  and I never stopped being one of them.

  I held in the palm of my hand

  the world with its archipelagoes

  and since I can’t be denied,

  I never denied my heart,

  or oysters, or stars.

  The poet ends his book by talking about his transformations and confirms his faith in poetry

  From having been born so often

  I have salty experience

  like creatures of the sea

  with a passion for stars

  and an earthy destination.

  And so I move without knowing

  to which world I’ll be returning

  or if I’ll go on living.

  While things are settling down,

  here I’ve left my testament,

  my shifting extravagaria,

  so whoever goes on reading it

  will never take in anything

  except the constant moving

  of a clear and bewildered man,

  a man rainy and happy,

  lively and autumn-minded.

  And now I’m going behind

  this page, but not disappearing.

  I’ll dive into clear air

  like a swimmer in the sky,

  and then get back to growing

  till one day I’m so small

  that the wind will take me away

  and I won’t know my own name

  and I won’t be there when I wake.

  Then I will sing in the silence.

  ALASTAIR REID

  FROM

  Navegaciones y regresos

  (1957–59)

  FROM

  Navigations and Returns

  (1957–59)

  ODA AL ELEFANTE

  Espesa bestia pura,

  San Elefante,

  animal santo

  del bosque sempiterno,

  todo materia fuerte,

  fina

  y equilibrada,

  cuero

  de

  talabartería planetaria,

  marfil

  compacto, satinado,

  sereno

  como

  la carne de la luna,

  ojos mínimos

  para mirar, no para ser mirados,

  y trompa

  tocadora,

  corneta

  del contacto,

  manguera

  del

  animal

  gozoso

  en

  su

  frescura,

  máquina movediza,

  teléfono del bosque,

  y así

  pasa tranquilo

  y bamboleante

  con su vieja envoltura,

  con su ropaje

  de árbol arrugado,

  su pantalón

  caído

  y su colita.

  No nos equivoquemos.

  La dulce y grande bestia de la selva

  no es el clown,

  sino el padre,

  el padre en la luz verde,

  es el antiguo

  y puro

  progenitor terrestre.

  Total fecundación,

  tantálica

  codicia,

  fornicación

  y piel

  mayoritaria,

  costumbres

  en la lluvia

  rodearon

  el reino

  de los elefantes,

  y fue

  con sal

  y sangre

  la genérica guerra

  en el silencio.

  Las escamosas formas,

  el lagarto león,

  el pez montaña,

  el milodonto cíclope,

  cayeron,

  decayeron,

  fueron fermento verde en el pantano,

  tesoro

  de las tórridas moscas,

  de escarabajos crueles.

  Emergió el elefante

  del miedo destronado.

  Fue casi vegetal, oscura torre

  del firmamento verde,

  y de hojas dulces, miel

  y agua de roca

  se alimentó su estirpe.

  Iba pues por la selva

  el elefante con su paz profunda.

  Iba condecorado

  por

  las órdenes más claras

  del rocío,

  sensible

  a la

  humedad

  de su universo,

  enorme, triste y tierno

  hasta que lo encontraron

  y lo hicieron

  bestia de circo envuelta

  por el olor humano,

  sin aire para su intranquila trompa,

  sin tierra para sus terrestres patas.

  Lo vi entrar aquel día,

  y lo recuerdo como a un moribundo,

  lo vi entrar al Kraal, al perseguido.

  Fue en Ceylán, en la selva.

  Los tambores,

  el fuego,

  habían desviado

  su ruta de rocío,

  y allí fue rodeado.

  Entre el aullido y el silencio entró

  como un inmenso rey. No comprendía.

  Su reino era una cárcel, sin embargo

  era el sol como siempre, palpitaba

  la luz libre, seguía verde el mundo,

  con lentitud tocó la empalizada,

  no las lanzas, y a mí,

  a mí entre todos,

  no sé, tal vez no pudo ser, no ha sido,

  pero a mí me miró

  con sus ojos secretos

  y aún me duelen

  los ojos

  de aquel encarcelado,

  de aquel inmenso rey preso en su selva.

  Por eso hoy rememoro tu mirada,

  elefante perdido

  entre las duras lanzas

  y las hojas

  y en tu honor, bestia pura,

  levanto los collares

  de mi oda

  para que te pasees

  por el mundo

  con mi infiel poesía

  que entonces no podía defenderte,

  pero que ahora

  junta

  en el recuerdo

  la empalizada en donde aprisionaron

  el honor animal de tu estatura

  y aquellos dulces ojos de elefante

  que allí perdieron todo lo que habían amado.

  ODE TO THE ELEPHANT

  Thick, pristine beast,

  Saint Elephant,

  sacred animal

  of perennial forests,

  sheer strength,

  fine

  and balanced

  leather

 

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