Poem
Mario Rivero
The moon and New York
We met every dayin the same place
we shared poems, cigarettes
and sometimes an adventure novel.
We threw small stones
from the bridge where the workers
from the glass factory took their lunch.
I told her that the earth was round
my aunt a witch and the moon a piece of copper.
That one day I would go to New York,
the city where outlandish things happen all the time
where vagabond cats
sleep under the automobiles
where there are a million beggars
a million lights
a million diamonds . . .
New York where it takes ants
centuries to climb the Empire State building
and where the blacks stroll around Harlem
wearing gaudy clothes
selling shoe polish in summer
I would go from restaurant to restaurant
until I found a small sign:
“Boy wanted to wash dishes.
No college degree required.”
Sometimes I would eat a sandwich
I would pick apples in California
I would think about her riding on the el
and I would buy her a dress like a neon light . . .
she was about to kiss me
when the factory whistle blew.
© Translation: 2004, Nicolás Suescún
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
La luna y Nueva York
La luna y Nueva York
Nos encontrábamos todos los díasen el mismo sitio
compartíamos versos, cigarrillos
y a veces una novela de aventuras.
Lanzábamos piedrecillas
desde el puente donde almorzaban
los obreros de la fábrica de vidrio.
Le decía que la tierra es redonda
mi tía bruja y la luna un pedazo de cobre.
Que un día iría a Nueva York
la ciudad abundante en cosas estrambóticas
donde los gatos vagabundos
duermen bajo los automóviles
donde hay un millón de mendigos
un millón de luces
un millón de diamantes . . .
Nueva York donde las hormigas
demoran siglos trepando al Empire State
y los negros se pasean por Harlem
vestidos con colores chillones
que destilan betún en el verano.
Iría por los restaurantes
hasta encontrar un cartelito:
“Se necesita muchacho para lavar los platos.
No se requiere título universitario”.
A veces comería un sandwich
recogería manzanas en California
pensaría en ella cuando montara en el elevado
y le compraría un traje parecido al neón . . .
me iba a besar
cuando sonó el pito de la fábrica.
© 1963, Mario Rivero
From: Poemas urbanos
Publisher: Antares-Tercer Mundo, Bogotá
From: Poemas urbanos
Publisher: Antares-Tercer Mundo, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Mario Rivero
Close
The moon and New York
We met every dayin the same place
we shared poems, cigarettes
and sometimes an adventure novel.
We threw small stones
from the bridge where the workers
from the glass factory took their lunch.
I told her that the earth was round
my aunt a witch and the moon a piece of copper.
That one day I would go to New York,
the city where outlandish things happen all the time
where vagabond cats
sleep under the automobiles
where there are a million beggars
a million lights
a million diamonds . . .
New York where it takes ants
centuries to climb the Empire State building
and where the blacks stroll around Harlem
wearing gaudy clothes
selling shoe polish in summer
I would go from restaurant to restaurant
until I found a small sign:
“Boy wanted to wash dishes.
No college degree required.”
Sometimes I would eat a sandwich
I would pick apples in California
I would think about her riding on the el
and I would buy her a dress like a neon light . . .
she was about to kiss me
when the factory whistle blew.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
From: Poemas urbanos
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
From: Poemas urbanos
The moon and New York
We met every dayin the same place
we shared poems, cigarettes
and sometimes an adventure novel.
We threw small stones
from the bridge where the workers
from the glass factory took their lunch.
I told her that the earth was round
my aunt a witch and the moon a piece of copper.
That one day I would go to New York,
the city where outlandish things happen all the time
where vagabond cats
sleep under the automobiles
where there are a million beggars
a million lights
a million diamonds . . .
New York where it takes ants
centuries to climb the Empire State building
and where the blacks stroll around Harlem
wearing gaudy clothes
selling shoe polish in summer
I would go from restaurant to restaurant
until I found a small sign:
“Boy wanted to wash dishes.
No college degree required.”
Sometimes I would eat a sandwich
I would pick apples in California
I would think about her riding on the el
and I would buy her a dress like a neon light . . .
she was about to kiss me
when the factory whistle blew.
© 2004, Nicolás Suescún
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
Translated with the collaboration of Wendy Davies
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