Poem
Antonio Gamoneda
THIS is the age of iron in the throat
THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart
while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and
you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth
fall black syllables.
You make your way toward the invisible
and know that what does not exist is real.
Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams
(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),
they feed your rage and piety.
Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails
and shadows of memories.
You think of disappearance. You caress
the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.
Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now
nothing can be understood. And even so,
you love as much as you have lost.
© Translation: 2010, Robin Myers
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
Publisher: First published on PIW, , 2010
DIT IS de tijd van het ijzer in de keel
DIT IS de tijd van het ijzer in de keel. Reeds.Je woont in jezelf maar je kent je niet; je leeft in een verlaten gewelf waarin je je eigen hart hoort
terwijl vet en vergeten zich door je aders verspreiden en
je verkalkt in de pijn en uit je mond
vallen zwarte lettergrepen.
Je loopt naar het onzichtbare
en je weet dat reëel is wat niet bestaat.
Je herinnert je vaag je beweegredenen en je dromen
(nog bezwaar je de geur van de zelfmoordenaars),
woede en erbarmen voeden je.
Van jou blijft weinig over: duizeling, vingernagels
en schaduwen van herinneringen.
Je denkt de verdwijning. Je streelt
de cerebrale duisternis, je daalt af naar de lever die verschroeid is door de droefheid.
Zo is de tijd van het ijzer in de keel. Reeds
is alles onverklaarbaar. Toch
bemin je nog alles wat je verloor.
© Vertaling: 2010, Bart Vonck
ÉSTA es la edad del hierro en la garganta. Ya.
Te habitas a ti mismo pero te desconoces; vives en una bóveda abandonada en la que escuchas tu propio corazón
mientras la grasa y el olvido se extienden por tus venas y
te calcificas en el dolor y de tu boca
caen sílabas negras.
Vas hacia lo invisible
y sabes que es real lo que no existe.
Retienes vagamente tus causas y tus sueños
(aún conservas el olor de los suicidas),
te alimentan la ira y la piedad.
Queda poco de ti: vértigo, uñas
y sombras de recuerdos.
Piensas la desaparición. Acaricias
la tiniebla cerebral, bajas al hígado calcinado por la tristeza.
Así es la edad del hierro en la garganta. Ya
todo es incompresible. Sin embargo,
amas aún cuanto has perdido.
Te habitas a ti mismo pero te desconoces; vives en una bóveda abandonada en la que escuchas tu propio corazón
mientras la grasa y el olvido se extienden por tus venas y
te calcificas en el dolor y de tu boca
caen sílabas negras.
Vas hacia lo invisible
y sabes que es real lo que no existe.
Retienes vagamente tus causas y tus sueños
(aún conservas el olor de los suicidas),
te alimentan la ira y la piedad.
Queda poco de ti: vértigo, uñas
y sombras de recuerdos.
Piensas la desaparición. Acaricias
la tiniebla cerebral, bajas al hígado calcinado por la tristeza.
Así es la edad del hierro en la garganta. Ya
todo es incompresible. Sin embargo,
amas aún cuanto has perdido.
© 2009, Antonio Gamoneda
From: Brandend Verlies
Publisher: Uitgeverij P, Leuven
From: Brandend Verlies
Publisher: Uitgeverij P, Leuven
Poems
Poems of Antonio Gamoneda
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THIS is the age of iron in the throat
THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart
while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and
you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth
fall black syllables.
You make your way toward the invisible
and know that what does not exist is real.
Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams
(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),
they feed your rage and piety.
Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails
and shadows of memories.
You think of disappearance. You caress
the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.
Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now
nothing can be understood. And even so,
you love as much as you have lost.
© 2010, Robin Myers
From: Brandend Verlies
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Leuven
From: Brandend Verlies
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW, Leuven
THIS is the age of iron in the throat
THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart
while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and
you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth
fall black syllables.
You make your way toward the invisible
and know that what does not exist is real.
Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams
(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),
they feed your rage and piety.
Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails
and shadows of memories.
You think of disappearance. You caress
the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.
Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now
nothing can be understood. And even so,
you love as much as you have lost.
© 2010, Robin Myers
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
Publisher: 2010, First published on PIW,
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