Pura López Colomé

My voice slowly found the weave of its own fabric. Stopped.

Believed it could stretch no farther, then did just that.

And discovered in this way a source never before spoken of,

a place it unknowingly belonged to,

to which it would later return, opening doors,

priming the inner ear.

A shell from untiring sea-swells meeting every desire,

entering the body in a red intensity.

 

 

Then your voice, a blizzard from the highest branches of wintering woodland,

from orchards in the tundra,

holm oak, cedar and tamarind,

pulsing through the wakeful

as they walk,

savouring

the melodic aridity

of thunder.

Translation: Lorna Shaughnessy

To be able to speak

 

without punctuation

 

jubilant infinite moment

moment jubilant infinite

infinite moment jubilant

gibberish

and as if that weren't enough

to burn and sing

a solipsist

heard

by no one

beyond

the weird world's

distant core

 

To be able to speak

 

without contrivance,

filigrees,

underlinings or cursives

 

supreme instant

of unbounded

pleasure

at the center of an immensity

without any outside pressure

knowing that the vital forces

peel away from muscle easily

and drift off

and you drown

and it doesn't matter

since you're protected

enraptured

 

To be able to speak

 

to speak it

to speak it to you

one

to oneself

consubstantial

 

To be able to speak

 

splendid the afternoon

clouds

freshly rinsed stirred tended

between blue

and goodnight

coming to a decent end

along a road taken

innumerable times

as if it were the first

or the only

as this firmament is single and singular

as this earth has been traversed

all the way around

on we go singing

the same song always

over and over

as if it were the first

the only

 

To be able to speak

 

an afternoon of a life

in which

absorbed in the music

you all are swallowed

devoured

gulped down

because each note

is a mirror

marvelously singular

sacredly

concave and convex

and fortunately

imperceptible

 

To be able to speak

 

an afternoon of a life,

in which I drive

this my funicular

from chance

to destiny

where I meet you

and drink you in

who are drunk on yourselves

singing all three of us

the three of us singing

 

To be able to speak

 

the tones on one side

orchestrated arranged

by pine-trees oaks

in a fortissimo contrasting

with the glittering coloratura

of jacarandas jacarandas jacarandas

 

and on the other side

among theaters and lyrics

poincianas trumpet-vines bougainvilleas

early or late mayflowers

and through the windshield

the rear glass

and the side windows

the spongy alveoli

of full treetops

the folds of our personally abstract space

rendered as oaks cedars and more-than-aromatic firs

 

from the depths

of the reflecting glass

emerges

the low note

finely

parsed

by a broken voice

from which colored feathers rise

in the rush of a lyricism

which defines me

to a T,

head to foot

spirit and form

of sound

 

to be able to speak

 

by speaking, so to speak

 

to speak

Translation: Forrest Gander