Poems

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Translation by Anthony Seidman

By Way of a Prologue

My wife says that a poem

possesses poetry when it makes her weep.

Others say when the hair

on their arms stands on edge.

A friend insists it’s when he gets the urge

to light up a cigarette.

I am a poet and I ought to know

when a poem possesses poetry,

but I haven’t the foggiest how to explain,

and when I attempt to do so, I end up writing

and complicating poetry much more,

as the only manner to explain

poetry is by serving oneself another poem.

It’s that deep down, poems

are questions, and the best ones are those

that seem like answers, although when

you look closer, you discover it’s nothing but

another question concealed.

And I, who have been at it for twenty years,

know zilch about the matter,

and when family and friends,

and, especially, students who attend my workshops

reproach me, alleging that I must know,

and should stop acting like some fake,

and should—presto!—reveal what poetry is,

I look for one of those poems, and I read it to them,

and they’re dumbstruck yet satisfied.

What need is there to know which drug

and from where it comes if it makes you feel so good, so alive?,

a dealer asked me on a streetcorner years ago.

I know there are poets who can justify

just why they sit down every day to write poems

and it’s fine that they do so, but it’s something I don’t share,

because I don’t believe anyone has a clue

of what one is doing, and I know that for many

poetry is a like a dog

one can put a leash on and take for a walk,

or call with a whistle or gesture,

but in my experience poetry is a cat

who appears when it gets the whim,

and who disappears for months or weeks,

and we become nostalgic, and miss it

while staring out the window,

hoping that one fine day

it will return, leap into our laps,

and that while we pet it,

the poem will start purring.

Forty

My father blew out the candles

on his sponge cake

and remarked how when one reaches forty

one starts to suffer

from heart attacks,

strokes, tumors

that sprout beside

other illnesses.

It seemed absurd and unjust

that my father could die

and it proved impossible

to imagine a tomorrow

in which he wouldn’t appear;

just how could the sun dare

to rear its head

if father weren’t present,

and what would happen to me,

to my siblings,

to my mother,

and what would happen to his books

and his papers?

My mother didn’t worry

and would say that what

my father was doing

was tricking Saint Peter,

and it seemed she

hit the mark

because my father

glided through his forties

with his head held high

just like a model

strutting the catwalk

without even suffering the flu

nor a headache,

and he outlived his fifties,

even a large chunk of his seventies.

Now that I have reached

my forties

I strut the same in these poems,

and I know that if my father

were here beside me

he would understand,

light up a cigarette

and turn the page to

read the next poem.

Two

Two lights on in the wee hours:

mine, because I’m reading,

and the other one in a distant building;

perhaps some insomniac,

perhaps someone scared of turning off the light

from fear of darkness,

or someone else who’s reading from the dread

of staying alone with himself.

Tattoo

 I lack a tattoo.

I’m past forty,

and I have no tats.

I don’t want to die without tattoos.

Whenever I walk

down the streets

I see tribal tattoos,

skulls on shoulders,

I see animal tattoos

so horrible

that the urge to get tats

peters out,

and just imagine

getting some ink

and regretting it the next week,

lamenting the fact,

or upon tattooing

the name of your sweetheart,

she leaves you the following week

for another dude or chick,

and then trying

to erase it with lasers,

with creams,

with surgical procedures,

to no result,

and I’ve seen folk with bodies

covered by tattoos,

strolling the shores,

and I would like to ask them

if their first visit

to the tattoo parlor

was so botched

that they spent

their lives getting tats

in search of

satisfaction,

the nonplus ultra,

thetattoo supreme,

and that tattoo

could be

a stupendous verse,

but a Spanish woman

tattooed one by Neruda

when that Chilean

was in fashion,

but now that he’s passé

and everybody loathes him,

nobody has seen her

in short sleeves again,

and I find it pleasing

that women tattoo verses

so that upon stripping

we have reading material,

and what a surprise it would be

coming across some of my verses

on one of those bodies,

and the worst poets

are those who tattoo their own verses,

and I have rings under my eyes

just thinking about which tattoo

I would get,

and the tattoo artist

repeats how I shouldn’t

obsess over the matter,

just do it, and with time

you’ll get accustomed

in the same way

that you’re accustomed

to your beard or birthmarks

and I peer into the mirror

and I see my chaste flesh

sans tattoos

and I glimpse

all the probabilities

of tattoos

covering each millimeter

of my epidermis

as if I were

Ray Bradbury’s

Illustrated Man,

until I switch off the light

and my reflection,

my body,

and myself

disappear.

Sunflowers

I bought you some sunflowers; I placed them in a vase

atop the night table and they preened majestically. 

I know how much they please you, so I wasn’t surprised

that upon your arrival, you took them, picked up the scissors

and cut the stems so they crackled radiantly

like those painted by the Dutch Genius while residing in Arles.

When you left, they began to wither.

I left them in the vase because tossing them filled me with terror,

but last night I arrived at the apartment to find

an overturned vase and the sunflowers you pampered

on the floor, dried and lugubrious, in death throes, thus,

I tossed them, but it didn’t suffice, and I decided to dump the trash

and outside the moon reared its yellow head above

the condominiums to watch me, or rather to

spy on that dismembered and dispersed man who

bore a trash bag across the parking lot.

My Shadow Left for Some Cigarettes

A few days ago, I misplaced my shadow.

I looked for it on the floor, the stairs,

in the bathroom, under the rug.

I looked for it in the closet, in the drawers.

How is it possible that it strayed

if I’m accustomed to keeping itclose?

Perhaps someone unsuspected has taken it,

and will now drag it down the sidewalk.

Could he have stepped on it? Could he have wounded it?

Could he have been insulted by the T-shirt

I discarded at the hotel in Rosario?

Dear shadow, return to my side.

I swear to dress myself with better taste.

Finer suits.  Finer shoes.

Foto de Yunus Emrah Yıldız en Unsplash

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Posted: June 2, 2025 at 6:51 pm