Categoría: Inglés

You move in me like a wave

«Te mueves en mí como una marea que nos corrige». Poema perteneciente al libro Escala, antología poética de Ernesto Pérez Zúñiga, del poemario Lance 

Traducido al inglés por Ami Olen 

Publicado en World Literature Today

You move in me like a wave

You move in me like a wave swayed toward the star that corrects us
That corrects the shadow and fills it with light
It’s a full moon and a while ago it was Schubert’s music
that wraps you around my neck like a stole-score
In eyes I have Beethoven looking for you
in the ears of the avenues
Schumann in each toe
trying to walk on your music
Notes fall from the sky over the water
like the droplets of a vanishing word
The music of so much love in names

Living is an act of witnessing

I believe in other dimensions
I’ve seen them in tin cans
I’ve seen them in dark matter
I’ve seen them in the illusion of windows
when they reflect my face without you

Looking is an act of witnessing
And closing your eyes is the act of seeing

Sleeping is finding yourself in sea swells
and the transparent stillness of dreams

as if a feather

Dying is a town square
I sing and dance in the town square
The moon falls under our feet in the dance
We dance on the round mirror of death
We dance scratching the shining surface of not being

You move in me like a wave moves in you
Love is a Möbius strip
It pulls you back, returning like a boomerang

Te mueves en mi como una marea

Te mueves en mí como una marea que alienta hacia el astro que nos ​​​corrige
Que corrige la sombra y la llena de luz
Es luna llena y hace un rato fue la música de Schubert
quien te envuelve en mi cuello como una bufanda-partitura
En los ojos tengo a Beethoven buscándote
dentro del oído de las avenidas
Schumann en cada dedo de los pies
tratando de caminar sobre tu música
Las notas caen del cielo sobre el agua
como gotas de una palabra deshecha
La música de tanto amar que hay en los nombres

Vivir es un acto de presencia

Yo creo en otras dimensiones
Las he visto en las latas de conservas
Las he visto en la materia oscura
Las he visto en el espejismo de las ventanas
cuando reflejan mi rostro sin ti

Mirar es un acto de presencia
Y cerrar los ojos el acto de ver

Dormir es encontrarte en marejadas
y en la quietud transparente de los sueños

como si una pluma
del agua

Morir es una plaza mayor
Canto y bailo en la plaza mayor
Cae la luna bajo nuestros pies en el baile
Bailamos sobre el espejo redondo de la muerte
Bailamos rayando la pulida superficie del no ser

Te mueves en mí como una marea se mueve en ti
El amor es una cinta de Moebius
Te trae haciendo surf en bumerán


Ver Publicación original

Field at night

«Campo de noche». Poema perteneciente al libro Escala, antología poética de Ernesto Pérez Zúñiga, del poemario Siete caminos para Beatriz 

Traducido al inglés por Ami Olen 

Publicado en World Literature Today

Field at Night

On a night without you I descend into hell
streetlamps become enemies
Solitary I walk the salt mines
my footprints are salt
measuring fate salt
like the fires of Sodom
and in the middle of the burning street
in the market where the whole world’s for sale
tiny amulets with your name
seashells with your sound
mirror necklaces
from when you were close

And I invoke the power in its hiding place

A night without you becomes hell
sleeping thorns that awaken
and crowns of pain in my kingdom

I send the Black Host to find you:

They’ve seen the castle’s secrets
In the moon they found the scales
of a slippery crocodile
In the forest they found the hats
they later lost in battle
But they have not seen Beatrice
They have not seen Beatrice
They have not seen you no matter how they forced their gaze upward
and to the corners of the wilderness
and the shopwindows partitioning mountain caves

They have not seen you at night, in the night, or in lightless sites

And so I call on the most ancient sleeping powers
In stones
In grasses
In fox eyes
Sage turtle shell and dragon dens
The wolves’ hunted shelters

I invoke sound-asleep ancient powers,
on a night without you


Campo de noche

Una noche sin ti bajo al infierno
se vuelven enemigas las farolas
camino las salinas solitario
y las huellas son sal
mide el destino sal
como fueron los fuegos de Sodoma
y en plena calle en llamas
en el mercado donde se está vendiendo el mundo
pequeños amuletos con tu nombre
caracolas que tienen tu sonido
collares con espejos
de cuando estabas cerca

Y conjuro al poder en su escondite

Una noche sin ti hace un infierno
hace espinos dormidos que despiertan
y coronas de daño por mi reino

La Negra Hueste mando a rastrearte:

Han visto los secretos del castillo
Hallaron en la luna las escamas
de un cocodrilo escurridizo
Han hallado en el bosque los sombreros
que perdieron después de la batalla
Pero no han visto a Beatriz
No han visto a Beatriz
No te han visto por mucho que esforzaron la mirada en el aire
y en los rincones de las selvas
y en los escaparates que tabican las grutas de montaña

No te han visto de noche ni en la noche ni en los confines de sin luz

Por eso yo conjuro a los poderes más viejos y dormidos
En la piedra
En la hierba
En los ojos del zorro
Docto caparazón de la tortuga y madrigueras de dragón
Perseguidos refugios de los lobos

Voy conjurando viejos poderes muy dormidos
una noche sin ti

Ver Publicación original

Dos manzanas

Relato perteneciente al libro Las botas de siete lenguas y otras maneras de morir.

Traducido al inglés Jonathan Blitzer

Fiction by Ernesto Pérez Zúñiga
Translated from Spanish by Jonathan Blitzer


You have to see him there on the streets of an old neighborhood in Madrid; you have to look for him, young and tanned, with an open white shirt, specked with some paltry design, a style out of fashion, and with his blue jeans, as he hurries along. You have to see him knowing that his name is Abdul Azad, that he is from Tangiers, and that his name, at this very moment, is rattling around in the head of someone else, who, two blocks from there, has laid a trap for him while Abdul walks along between hope and fear among the blurring colors that mottle the parked cars and filthy storefronts.

And try to imagine what we will never know for sure: what old grudge (since it did not stem from us) and what precise urgency are at the root of everything that is going to happen today, Sunday, within the next ten minutes, in apartment 3L, in the alleyway off 11 Ángel Street, where Rashid is holding a pistol in his right hand.

The only details we have at our disposal are these: 1. That Abdul Azad, nineteen years old, and Rashid Azad, twenty-eight, are brothers. 2. That the minutes pass leaving beads of sweat on their brows, which some time ago in a market in Tangiers were furrowed in tense disagreement. 3. That Abdul rounds the first block while Rashid carefully slides the magazine into the butt of the gun, his hands trembling. 4. That Abdul and Rashid are both thinking about the fate of Abdul. 5. That Rashid releases the safety on the pistol, which he places on the table, as Abdul makes his way past the final corner of the second block. 6. That ten minutes have passed.

With this information it will be much easier to be witnesses to the following events. We will see, with the blue clarity of an April Sunday, Abdul standing before the intercom of a closed doorway with a wooden door, its varnish scarred and pockmarked. And we’ll see that Abdul presses the metal button to ring apartment 3L, which prompts a buzz, followed by a pause, and then a voice.

Rashid tells him to come up, and the door opens. Abdul’s body feels the humidity of the hallway; his spirit, the shadow.

There is nothing to hear but a block of silence, penetrated by the faint clatter of Abdul’s steps as he climbs the wooden stairs to the first floor. The building does not have an elevator; what it does have, though, is a tremulous yellowish light, which it gives off once you press the switch on the landing. Abdul does.

There are still two floors to go. As if it were some faraway music, the foreign odor of a stew, which someone has seasoned with pork fat and soup bones, wafts over to him. We recognize the scent, the stew is familiar to us. While we busy ourselves thinking about where it is coming from, whetting our appetites, Abdul is arriving at the door of apartment 3L.

He looks at the painted door, brown and chipped; he fixes his gaze on the pagan symbol of Christ nailed to the center of a crucifix and set on a plaque on the doorframe where two names appear, those of the presumably deceased Don Antonio Jiménez Cuevas and his wife Doña Antonia.

But he’s more worried about finding out what’s happening on the other side of the door, inside a space that he does not know and which will shortly assume volume and shape before his eyes. He is trying to imagine (in vain) what fate lies in wait for him in one of the rooms once he takes a seat to speak with his brother.

Seguir leyendo