۝ Exclamation ۝

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Exclamation

Stillness
……………not on the branch
in the air
……………Not in the air
in the moment
……………………..hummingbird


— Octavio Paz
translated by Eliot Weinberger

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۝۝۝۝ Octavio Paz ۝۝۝۝

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Motion
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If you are the amber mare
………..I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
………..I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
………..I am the spike burning in your mind
If you are the morning tide
………..I am the first bird's cry
If you are the basket of oranges
………..I am the knife of the sun
If you are the stone altar
………..I am the sacrilegious hand
If you are the sleeping land
………..I am the green cane
If you are the wind's leap
………..I am the buried fire
If you are the water's mouth
………..I am the mouth of moss
If you are the forest of the clouds
.……….I am the axe that parts it
If you are the profaned city
………..I am the rain of consecration
If you are the yellow mountain
………..I am the red arms of lichen
If you are the rising sun
………..I am the road of blood

Translated by Eliot Weinberger

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Exclaimation

Stillness
……………not on the branch
in the air
……………Not in the airin the moment
……………………..hummingbird

Translated by Eliot Weinberger

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Between Going And Staying
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Translator Unknown

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Touch

My hands

open the curtains of your being

clothe you in a further nudity

uncover the bodies of your body

My hands

invent another body for your body


Translator Unknown

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Bolaño * Breton * Neruda * Paz

SELF PORTRAIT AT TWENTY YEARS
By Roberto Bolaño
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

I set off, I took up the march and never knew
where it might take me. I went full of fear,
my stomach dropped, my head was buzzing:
I think it was the icy wind of the dead.
I don't know. I set off, I thought it was a shame
to leave so soon, but at the same time
I heard that mysterious and convincing call.
You either listen or you don't, and I listened
and almost burst out crying: a terrible sound,
born on the air and in the sea.
A sword and shield. And then,
despite the fear, I set off, I put my cheek
against death's cheek.
And it was impossible to close my eyes and miss seeing
that strange spectacle, slow and strange,
though fixed in such a swift reality:
thousands of guys like me, baby-faced
or bearded, but Latin American, all of us,
brushing cheeks with death.


I read about him on the web. He often refers to Octavio Paz , André Breton , and Pablo Neruda . Here's great I found where Roberto Bolaño takes a second to load sometimes because google is translating it into English...