Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Samuel Jaramillo

WE NEED TO OPEN A SPACE FOR THE NIGHT

and its vegetable breathing.
Nonetheless, what concerns me is desire.
A woman’s body burns slowly
in the horizontal twilight
where dark grass
grows boldly.
The trembling
of the branches in the trees
is not only because of the wind
of this equatorial night
that sands things down
until nothing but the bones are left:
it speaks that, against all discretion
I wanted to kiss her once again
in the garden of the Moon.
I’m going. But now I know
that behind me
I leave a door ajar.
Like a red-hot coal,
desire slumbers.
It purrs with its retractile claws
in the estival night.

HAY QUE ABRIRLE UN LUGAR A LA NOCHE

HAY QUE ABRIRLE UN LUGAR A LA NOCHE

y a su respiración vegetal.
Igual, lo que me corresponde es el deseo.
Un cuerpo de mujer arde lentamente
en la penumbra horizontal
donde una hierba oscura
crece con denuedo.
El estremecimiento
de las ramas de los árboles
no responde solamente al viento
de esta noche ecuatorial
que lija las cosas
hasta dejar de ellas tan solo el hueso:
habla de que, contra toda prudencia,
quise besarla una vez más
en el jardín lunar.
Me voy. Pero ahora sé
que a mi espalda
dejo una puerta entornada.
Como una brasa,
el deseo dormita.
Ronronea con sus uñas retráctiles
en la noche estival.
Close

WE NEED TO OPEN A SPACE FOR THE NIGHT

and its vegetable breathing.
Nonetheless, what concerns me is desire.
A woman’s body burns slowly
in the horizontal twilight
where dark grass
grows boldly.
The trembling
of the branches in the trees
is not only because of the wind
of this equatorial night
that sands things down
until nothing but the bones are left:
it speaks that, against all discretion
I wanted to kiss her once again
in the garden of the Moon.
I’m going. But now I know
that behind me
I leave a door ajar.
Like a red-hot coal,
desire slumbers.
It purrs with its retractile claws
in the estival night.

WE NEED TO OPEN A SPACE FOR THE NIGHT

and its vegetable breathing.
Nonetheless, what concerns me is desire.
A woman’s body burns slowly
in the horizontal twilight
where dark grass
grows boldly.
The trembling
of the branches in the trees
is not only because of the wind
of this equatorial night
that sands things down
until nothing but the bones are left:
it speaks that, against all discretion
I wanted to kiss her once again
in the garden of the Moon.
I’m going. But now I know
that behind me
I leave a door ajar.
Like a red-hot coal,
desire slumbers.
It purrs with its retractile claws
in the estival night.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère