Poems of Nilton Santiago
POEM 1
A MONDAY LIKE ANY OTHER, IN THE UNIVERSITAT STATION, AFTER THE LAST SPRING EQUINOX
Wake up,
the trees still drag birds on their long nightly walks
and you have to run to the shower to wind up a new day.
You go out into the streets searching for a café latte,
the smile of the girl at the bar reminds you
that angels can’t be trusted
because they’re heaven’s bureaucrats.
You pay, by mistake, with a foreign coin.
You carry them because they’re postcards from countries that don’t exist anymore.
You apologize and leave the bar with a fistful of birds in your throat.
It’s raining, but you don’t want to open your umbrella
because you know it rains because God is taking a shower
according to what a very drunk girl in a bar once told you.
When you enter the station,
you realize that some people’s wings are colliding with others,
though you don’t have wings
but a café latte that’s burning your lips.
Three minutes and thirty seconds until the next train
and in the freeway metro throwaway paper you read
that “Making firing workers easier creates more jobs”
according to some political humorist.
Now it’s thirty seconds, now the train is approaching,
as the past approaches to whisper in your ear
that tears have no memory.
When you get on, you see three musicians speaking a dialect you don’t understand.
You imagine then that they, like you, are fish
and that they, like fish, leave their scales scattered in the air
while playing their accordions
(that are really enormous seashells).
Suddenly you discover that a part of you
never got on the train
and that the one who remained behind continues to be frightened
in the pages of the burning book you carry under your arm.
You arrive at work,
turn on the computer and open your umbrella
because a cloud pursues you like an omen
that you will spend years paying out your heart in installments.
You look out the window,
two seagulls share a slice of pizza that a boy has dropped
(who is you in a country that doesn’t exist anymore).
Seconds later, the seagulls take flight
in opposite directions.
You smile,
because you know very well
that no bird lives secluded in the solitude of another bird.
These are Monday’s paradoxes,
how to be the two who are only possible when they separate.
UN LUNES CUALQUIERA EN LA ESTACIÓN DE UNIVERSITAT, TRAS EL ÚLTIMO EQUINOCCIO DE PRIMAVERA
Despiertas,
losárbolesaunarrastranpájaros en sus largascaminatasnocturnas
ytútienesquecorrer a la duchaparadarlecuerda a un nuevodía.
Sales a la calle y vas a buscarun café latte,
lasonrisa de la dependientaterecuerda
que los ángeles no son de fiar
porque son los burócratas del cielo.
Pagas, por error, con unamonedaextranjera.
Las llevasencimaporque son comopostales de paísesqueya no existen.
Tedisculpas y sales del bar con unpuñado de pájaros en la garganta.
Llueve, pero no quieresabrir el paraguas
porquesabesquecuandollueveesporque Dios se ducha
segúnunaveztedijounatipamuyborracha en un bar.
Cuandoentras a la estación,
te das cuenta de quelas alas de la gentechocanunas contra otras,
perotú no tienes alas
sino un café latte que se incendiasobretuslabios.
Tresminutos y treintasegundospara el siguientetren
y en la prensagratuita del metro lees
que “Facilitar el despidocrearámástrabajo”
según un políticohumorista.
Ahora son treintasegundos, ahora el metro se aproxima,
como se aproxima el pasadoparadecirte al oído
quelaslágrimas no tienenmemoria.
Al subir, ves a tresmúsicosquehablan en undialectoque no entiendes.
Teimaginasentoncesque, comotú, son peces
yque, como tales, dejan sus escamasesparcidaspor el aire
mientrastocan sus acordeones
(que en realidad son grandescaracolas de mar).
De pronto descubresqueuna parte de ti
nuncasubió al tren
yque la que se ha quedadocontigopermaneceasustada
entrelaspáginas del libro en llamas quellevasbajo el brazo.
Llegas al trabajo,
enciendes el ordenador y abres el paraguas
porquetepersigueunanubecomo un presagio
dequepasarásañospagandotucorazón a plazos.
Mirashacia la ventana,
dosgaviotascomparten un trozo de pizza que se le ha caído a un niño
(queerestú en un paísqueya no existe).
Segundosdespués, lasgaviotasalzan el vuelo
endireccionesopuestas.
Sonríes,
porquesabesbien
queningúnpájaro vive recluido en la soledad de otropájaro.
Así son lasparadojas de los lunes,
comoser dos queúnicamente son posiblescuando se alejan.
POEM 2
THE PARTICLE OF GOD
A physicist who wasn’t at all mad has said that, if it wasn’t for some Higgs field,
we would all be as light as the thoughts of angels
and we would certainly move the way the light does at dawn.
I, who don’t have a clue, believe that if it wasn’t for the Big Bang,
Shelley would never have written Adonais in the northern spring of 1821,
and we’d never have seen the lukewarm thighs of Marilyn Monroe
under her white dress on Lexington Avenue.
None of this has anything to do with poetry, okay,
but neither does the left hand of God left have anything to do with churches.
“The Vatican in Rome holds an African archbishop
known for his power as healer prisoner” I read in the press and it cracks me up,
neither does this have anything to do with the twelve-year-old British girl, Hannah Clark,
who can now use her heart again after 10 years.
Miracles of science and the Big Bang in the shipyards of Orion
where the saints on the roofs of the cathedrals resemble cave paintings;
miracles that are not really miracles,
truths that are half-truths
such as the one claiming that Noah’s ark didn’t carry peacocks, porcupines or bankers.
Wow, God believes he exists and capitalism has failed.
LA PARTÍCULA DE DIOS
Un físico, que no estaba nada loco, ha dichoquesi no fueraporuntal campo de Higgs
todosseríamoslivianoscomo el pensamiento de los ángeles
y, ciertamente, nosmoveríamoscomo se mueve la luzcuandoamanece
yo, que no tengoni idea, piensoquesi no fuerapor el Big Bang
Shelley no hubieraescritonunca el Adonaïs en la primavera boreal de 1821,
o no hubiésemosvistojamás los tibiosmuslos de Marilyn Monroe
bajoesevestidoblanco en Lexington Avenue.
Nada de estotienequever con la poesía, vale,
perotampoco nada tienequever la manoizquierda de Dios con lasiglesias
“El Vaticanoretiene en Roma a unarzobispoafricano
conocidopor sus poderescomocurandero”leo en la prensa y me parto de risa,
tampocoestoguardarelación con que Hannah Clark, unaniñabritánica de 12 años,
hayavuelto a usarsucorazóndespués de 10 años,
milagros de la ciencia y del Big Bang en los astilleros de Orión
donde los santos son comopinturasrupestres en el techo de lascatedrales,
milagrosque no son milagros
verdadesque son medias verdades,
comoque en el arca de Noé no habíapavosreales, puercoespinesnibanqueros.
Vaya, Dios creequeexiste y el capitalismo ha fracasado.
POEM 3
ALEPPO, DIARY OF A TEAR
And later they will tell us that this wasn’t lived.
Walking each day dragging a suitcase full of absences,
sleeping while drifting,
like a cricket who ends up hearing Chopin for the first time.
Or maybe life isn’t any more than going out into the street,
aimlessly,
stopping to talk with a stray dog who doesn’t want to talk.
And suddenly everything happens so quickly,
as if we were a herd of greyhounds or of whys or etceteras.
You’ve hardly finished taking off the legacies of your dreams
and now you have to light the first star by closing your eyes,
leaving a tear out in the open
so that the same stray dog can take it to safety
in that village of salt where we abandoned our childhood.
And that’s when time limps between moments
or better that the moments abandon their haste to open newspaper
and discover that our body belongs to bacteria
more than to ourselves.
So this was about survival,
not knowing who we are, without whys,
to touch with our fingers the tracks of a frightened crow
in our heart.
But it’s useless.
In Aleppo they have shattered a cemetery of broken embraces,
and now there is no one behind the mirrors
and God has denied that He can be everywhere.
Then you realize that you don’t recognize yourself either,
and that now there’s no light in the pockets of the eels
or in that coin with which your mother bought you
in a little knick knack market.
In a few minutes
we’ll all forget that a new bomb has just fallen in Aleppo
and we’ll be witness to a miracle:
your body is now the light around you
and you are no longer the stray dog that lives in your mother’s shadow,
talking to himself.
Perhaps because in interior monologues
the one who speaks is the others that we are.
ALEPO, DIARIO DE LA LÁGRIMA
Y luegonosdiránqueesto era el habervivido.
Caminarcadadíaarrastrandounamaletallena de ausencias
dormir a la deriva,
como lo haría un grilloqueacaba de oírporprimeravez a Chopin.
O quizás la vida no sea másquesalir a la calle,
sinrumbo,
detenerse a hablar con un perrovagabundoque no quierehablar con nosotros.
Y de pronto todopasa tan deprisa,
comosifuésemosunamanada de galgos o de porqués o de etcéteras.
Apenas has terminado de quitartelaslegañas del sueño
yyatienesqueencender la primeraestrella al cerrar los ojos,
dejar a la intemperieunalágrima
paraque el mismoperrovagabundo la lleve a salvo
hastaesaaldea de saldondeabandonamosnuestraniñez.
Y esentoncescuando el tiempocojea entre los instantes
omásbien son los instantesqueabandonan sus prisasparaabrir el periódico
ydescubrirquenuestrocuerpopertenecemás a lasbacterias
que a nosotrosmismos.
Entonces era estosobrevivir,
nosaberquiénessomos sin porqués,
tocarse con los dedoslashuellas de un cuervoasustado
ennuestrocorazón.
Pero de nada sirve.
En Alepohanhechopedazos un cementerio de abrazosrotos,
yya no hay nadiedetrás de los espejos
porque Dios ha desmentidoqueesté en todaspartes.
Entonceste das cuentaquetútampocotereconoces,
yqueya no hay luz en los bolsillos de lasanguilas
ni en aquellamoneda con la quetumadretecompró
en un mercadillo de baratijas.
En unosminutos
todosolvidaderosqueacaba de caerunanuevabomba en Alepo
yseremostestigos del milagro:
tucuerpoesahora la luzqueterodea,
yya has dejado de ser el perrovagabundoquehabita la sombra de tumadre,
hablandoconsigomismo.
Quizásporque en los monólogosinteriores
elquehabla son los otrosquesomos.
POEM 4
THE HERMENEUTICS OF A SNAIL
I bet a sunflower seed
that nobody knew that sheep don’t drink running water
or that, on average, a person has more than 1460 dreams each year
for sure, some owls seduce trees to get a smile out of the dead that dangle there
or, simply, to gulp down the tears Baruch Spinoza shed
when he found out that all his philosophising on “the infinite divine substance”
(which for him was reality or God) was a load of tosh.
It’s true, life seems all too much like a Brecht production
and we snag our fingers in loneliness
even if we’re pretending to be zen-like monks or basil-smoking screwballs
tell me, you, who is getting cold in my heart
and who refuses to leave the house without a high voltage kiss extinguisher
(an extinguisher might be as innocent as a wooden knife that goes back to the forest to attack the sawmills).
Following the same logic, I now think that the ocean you have under your bed
has all the manners of a cat, meaning that whenever it feels like it,
it spits out bottles containing love messages as though they were a fur ball.
It would be a crime to say that for some pre-Socratic philosophers
girls of twenty-something are full of good intentions
or that philosophical butterflies are the solution to forgetting Wagner.
Certainly, like those men, there are also astronauts who don’t know how to ride a bike and who easily confuse falling in love with wanting to eat one of the dimples in your cheek
but what the hell, all of our first girlfriends left us with our hearts smashed to smithereens
and in my country we thought the armed conflicts wouldn’t get out of hand.
You know well enough that you don’t have to kidnap the consciousness of an office worker to realize that the world has got a screw loose:
it is sociologically acceptable to loot a bank or to trick a cherub into letting you into heaven in exchange for bird food,
but report a politician who has won the lottery 20 times in a year
and you’ll probably have to pack up your tears and flush them down the toilet.
Even so, don’t play the bemused card,
write with a feather plucked from your back.
Go out into the street without opening your wings
and you’ll see that you are not quite what you thought.
LA HERMENÉUTICA DEL CARACOL
Me juego una semilla de girasol
a que nadie sabía que las ovejas no beben agua en movimiento
o que, de promedio, una persona tiene más de 1460 sueños al año
eso sí, sabemos que algunos búhos seducen a los árboles
para llevarse de paseo la sonrisa de los suicidas
o, simplemente, para beber las lágrimas que Baruch Spinoza abandonó
cuando se enteró de que sus filosofadas sobre la “sustancia divina infinita”
(que para él era la realidad o Dios) eran un cuento chino.
Es cierto, la vida se parece demasiado a un montaje de Brecht
y muchas veces la soledad nos pilla los dedos
aunque vayamos de monjes zen o de fumadores de albahaca
dímelo tú, que pasas frío en mi corazón
y te niegas a salir de casa sin un extintor para besos de alto voltaje.
(Un extintor puede que sea tan inocente como un cuchillo de madera
que regresa al bosque para atentar contra los aserraderos).
Siguiendo esta misma lógica, ahora pienso que el océano que tienes bajo tu cama
tiene los modales de un gato, es decir, cuando le da la gana
escupe botellas con mensajes de amor como si fueran una bola de pelo.
Sería un crimen decir que para algunos filósofos presocráticos
las veinteañeras están llenas de buenas intenciones
o que las mariposas filosóficas son la solución para olvidar a Wagner,
es verdad, como ellos, también hay astrónomos que no saben llevar una bicicleta
y confunden fácilmente estar enamorados
con tener ganas de comerse uno de los hoyuelos de tus mejillas
pero qué demonios, a todos nuestra primera novia nos dejó el corazón hecho añicos
y todos en mi país creímos que la lucha armada no se nos iría de las manos.
Bien sabes que no hace falta secuestrar la conciencia de un oficinista
para darte cuenta de que a este mundo le falta un tornillo:
es sociológicamente admisible saquear un banco o engañar a un querubín
con comida para aves a cambio de entrar al cielo,
pero si denuncias a un político que ha ganado la lotería 20 veces en un año
probablemente tendrás que empacar tus lágrimas y tirarlas por el retrete
no obstante no os hagáis los despistados,
escribid con una pluma de vuestra espalda,
salid a la calle sin abrirlas alas
y veréis que tampoco vosotros sois los que creíais.
POEM 5
KLARA, AN AU PAIR FROM KARLSTAD ASKED ME TO WRITE A POEM FOR HER TO FORGET HER ONCE AND FOR ALL
Bruno called me to say that he’s read that some Amazonian otters
can change the course of rivers with the power of their minds,
that’s phonier than a 3 euro bill
but it reminds me all the same
that an ant can survive up to two weeks under water,
so I still hold onto some hope for myself.
I tell him that here it’s practically chucking down frogs,
there’s no city that puts up with this hellish rain,
see that even the beached whales complain between the trees
hidden at the supermarket on the corner at home.
We’ve just met, Klara,
but you tell me that the trees don’t mind the rain
and to let you sleep.
It suddenly comes to mind
that the quickest animal in the sexual act is a chimpanzee (3 seconds),
followed by a mouse (5 seconds) and perhaps you, who has barely had one drink and can be heard snoring in my bed.
We came here this morning to write the poem you asked me for
and it’s at this precise moment when the sea is unloading your smile into the sky
before the alarm clock has woken you up for the last time,
before you leave flying out the window,
(although we both know that a pair of dragonflies
will do the same job between our sheets).
I’m the end of your box of chocolates, your last pair of clean panties
or, which is the same,
the darkness of the fish when they cry and are hungry enough to eat a horse.
You tell me you’ve never ridden a horse
but you know their tears
are the source of any of the self-respecting rivers in your town, Karlstad,
where the snowmen go shopping everyday
to buy a new carrot nose
and to take advantage of the supermarket heating.
I’ll soon stop being someone who seems young and I’m still putting my foot in it up to my knee,
although let’s not kid ourselves:
your heart, like mine, is closed for construction
and rolls like a penny or a miracle
that’s just landed in the hands of a poor beggar,
which I think is me.
Redhaired love isn’t made for us, Bruno,
those kept far from the hand of God,
as neither love is made for love:
in that case, long live the stars for my clumsiness in taking off your bra,
long live all that remains from my heart in your cat hands although it serves for nothing…it’s for “bursting out laughing”
alas, we’ve drifted to directing the traffic of the stars on all sides
between that look of yours and the moonlight on your salmon-coloured back,
in a blink of the eye
(while you ask me if I knew that in Finland Donald Duck comics were banned because he didn’t wear trousers).
After the laughing I can’t stop thinking that there,
near where all the tears lose their luggage,
where the clouds clean their glasses because the rain clogs up their vision,
there, where everything finishes,
there are no trees crying on their knees in front of a bird in a supermarket.
God isn’t there (or anything that resembles him),
the two of us are here, Klara, or whatever your name is,
so frigging apart,
despite sharing the same bed tonight.
Yes, ok dear Bruno,
once again you are right:
- for a penguin, birds have no talent for swimming and
- love is for us what arithmetic is for philosophers:
(or ¾ of the same),
just one big misunderstanding.
KLARA, UNA AU PAIR DE KARLSTAD, ME HA PEDIDO QUE LE ESCRIBA UN POEMA PARA OLVIDARLA DE UNA VEZ POR TODAS
Bruno me ha llamadoparacontarmeque ha leído
quealgunas nutrias del Amazonas
puedencambiar el curso de los ríos con el poder de sus mentes,
estoesmásfalsoque un billete de 3 euros
peroigualmente me recuerdaqueunahormiga
puedesobrevivir hasta dos semanasbajo el agua,
asíqueaúnguardoalgunasesperanzasparamí.
Yo le cuentoqueaquíestán a punto de lloverranas,
no hay ciudad queaguanteestalluvia de los mil demonios,
fijaosque se quejan hasta lasballenasvaradas entre los árboles
que se esconden en el supermercado de la esquina de casa.
Nosacabamos de conocer, Klara,
pero me dices que a los árboles no les importa la lluvia
yquetedejedormir.
De pronto se me viene a la cabezaque el animal
másrápido en el acto sexual es el chimpancé (3 segundos),
lesigue el ratón (5 segundos) y quizástú, queapenaste has tomadounacopa
yyateescuchabaroncar en mi cama.
Hemosvenidoestamañanaaescribir el poemaque me has pedido
yes en estemismomomentocuando el mar desempacatusonrisasobre el cielo
antes de que el relojdespertadortehayadespertadoporúltimavez
antes de salirvolandopor la ventana
(aunque ambos sabemosque un par de libélulas
haránsumismotrabajo entre nuestrassábanas).
Soy el final de tucaja de bombones, tusúltimasbragaslimpias
o, lo quees lo mismo,
laoscuridad de los pecescuandolloran y pasanunased de caballos.
Me dices quenunca has montado a uncaballo
peroquesabesque sus lágrimas
son el principio de cualquierríoque se precie en tu pueblo, Karlstad,
donde los muñecos de nieve van de compras a diario
paracomprarseunanuevanariz de zanahoria
yparaaprovechar la calefacción de los supermercados.
Pronto dejaré de serunoqueparecejoven y sigometiendo la pata hasta la rodilla
aunque no nosengañemos:
tucorazón, como el mío, estácerradoporobras
yruedacomounamoneda o un milagro
que se le acaba de caer a un pobremendigo
quecreoque soy yo.
No estáhecho el amor de laspelirrojasparanosotros, Bruno,
losalejados de lasmanos del señor,
comotampocoestáhecho el amorpara el amor:
salvenpueslasestrellasmistorpezasparaquitarte el sujetador,
salventodo lo quequeda de mi corazón entre tusmanos de gata
aunqueya de nada servirá… esparapartirse de risa
pero de tirios y troyanoshemospasado a dirigir el tráfico de lasestrellas
entretumirada y la luz de la lunallenasobretuespaldaasalmonada,
en un santiamén
(mientras me preguntassisabíaque en Finlandia
seprohibieron los cómics del pato Donald porque no llevabapantalones).
Después de lasrisas no puedodejar de pensarqueallí,
cerca de dondelaslágrimaspierdensuequipaje,
dondelasnubeslimpian sus gafasporque la lluviaempañasumirada,
allí, dondetodotermina,
no hay árbolesllorando de rodillas ante un pájaro en un supermercado
noestá Dios (ni nada que se le parezca)
estamosnosotros dos, Klara o comotellames,
jodidamenteseparados
apesar de compartirestanoche la mismacama.
Y sí, vale querido amigo Bruno,
unavezmástienestoda la razón:
a) para un pingüinolasaves no tienentalentoparanadar y
b) elamoresparanosotros lo que la aritméticapara los filósofos:
(o ¾ de lo mismo)
tan solo un gran malentendido.
Nilton Santiago was born in Lima though has lived in Barcelona for many years. He has published five poetry collections:El libro de los espejos [The Book of Mirrors] (II CopéPrize of the XI Poetry Biennial, Lima 2003), La oscuridad de los gatos era nuestraoscuridad [The cats’ darkness was our darkness] (which received the International Young Poetry Prize from the José Hierro Poetry Center Foundation, Madrid 2012), El equipaje del ángel [The Angel's Luggage] (XXVII Tiflos Poetry Prize, Visor Libros 2014), Las musas se hanido de copas [The muses have gone for a drink], (which was awarded the prestigious Poetry Prize Casa de América de Poesía Americana, Visor Libros 2015) and, recently, Historia universal del etcétera [A Universal History of etcetera]awarded with the Vicente Huidobro International Poetry Prize, (Valparaíso Editores 2019).
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