Poem
Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (#1)
The gaze adjusts itself tothe walls, the political commentators
in the newspapers
portrayed in dresses
with cats
and lovers
and the three-day stubble
intact
the tv news is a man
he says: everything is rags
he measures steps with herbs
lines with lines
water with lilies
we are called nothing
maybe we are called scream
or shot
we work on slogans
some people
think irony is the only thing power understands
others
want to know what exactly is meant by power
others again
sit still and fiddle with an old spoon
they later use to open cans of paint
the tv news is a man
he says: flood
he says: white knives don’t exist
he says: the arrests are nothing but propaganda
nothing happened
the day, on the other hand, was warm
bright, the parks were open
the population grilled salmon
kids climbed trees
our future: children who climb trees
power is invisible
a skinny middle-aged man says
power isn’t worth a scream
says another, oblivion
sleeps in the mouth of man
oblivion sits hunched over a small map
the city looks like plastic bags
cardboard and newspapers
two hundred thousand women remove their makeup
and get ready for their men
of glass in a bed
of glass
no one screams
the transport industry celebrates agreements
and shows the first steam aeroplanes
famous captains and pilots
from an era no one remembers
until now
Christ is a little chain
youth is Delphic
those who aren’t killed are shot
like cats
indifferent
and persistent
the white knives start to shine at midnight
corpses drift ashore
everything is rags
we are called nothing
we try to eat
sleep
under the moon
under the tv sets
© Translation: 2012, David McDuff
DET ER HER VI ER FØDT (#1)
DET ER HER VI ER FØDT (#1)
Blikket retter seg ettermurene, de politiske kommentatorene
i avisene
er avbildet i kjoler
med katter
og elskere
og tredagersskjegget
intakt
dagsrevyen er en mann
han sier: alt er filler
han måler skritt med urter
strek med strek
vann med liljer
vi heter ingenting
vi heter kanskje skrik
eller skutt
vi pønsker ut slagord
noen
mener ironi er alt makten skjønner
andre
vil vite hva som nøyaktig menes med makten
andre igjen
sitter stille og fikler med en gammel skje
de senere bruker til å åpne malingspann
dagsrevyen er en mann
han sier: flod
han sier: hvite kniver finnes ikke
han sier: arrestasjonene er ikke annet enn propaganda
ingenting skjedde
dagen var derimot varm
lys, parkene var åpne
befolkningen grillet laks
og ungene klatret i trærne
vår fremtid: barn som klatrer i trær
makten er usynlig
sier en tynn halvgammel mann
makten er ikke verdt et skrik
sier en annen, glemselen
sover i munnen på mennesket
glemselen sitter krumbøyd over et lite kart
byen ligner plastposer
papp og aviser
to hundre tusen kvinner fjerner sminken
og gjør seg klar for sine menn
av glass, i en seng
av glass
ingen skriker
transportnæringen feirer avtaler
og viser frem de første dampflyene
berømte kapteiner og piloter
fra en tid ingen husker
før nå
kristus er et lite kjede
ungdommen er delfisk
de som ikke blir drept blir skutt
som katter
likegyldige
og utholdende
de hvite knivene begynner å skinne ved midnatt
lik driver i land
alt er filler
vi heter ingenting
vi prøver å spise
sove
under månen
under tv-apparatene
© 2009, Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
From: Varmestafetten
Publisher: Gyldendal, Oslo
From: Varmestafetten
Publisher: Gyldendal, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
Close
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (#1)
The gaze adjusts itself tothe walls, the political commentators
in the newspapers
portrayed in dresses
with cats
and lovers
and the three-day stubble
intact
the tv news is a man
he says: everything is rags
he measures steps with herbs
lines with lines
water with lilies
we are called nothing
maybe we are called scream
or shot
we work on slogans
some people
think irony is the only thing power understands
others
want to know what exactly is meant by power
others again
sit still and fiddle with an old spoon
they later use to open cans of paint
the tv news is a man
he says: flood
he says: white knives don’t exist
he says: the arrests are nothing but propaganda
nothing happened
the day, on the other hand, was warm
bright, the parks were open
the population grilled salmon
kids climbed trees
our future: children who climb trees
power is invisible
a skinny middle-aged man says
power isn’t worth a scream
says another, oblivion
sleeps in the mouth of man
oblivion sits hunched over a small map
the city looks like plastic bags
cardboard and newspapers
two hundred thousand women remove their makeup
and get ready for their men
of glass in a bed
of glass
no one screams
the transport industry celebrates agreements
and shows the first steam aeroplanes
famous captains and pilots
from an era no one remembers
until now
Christ is a little chain
youth is Delphic
those who aren’t killed are shot
like cats
indifferent
and persistent
the white knives start to shine at midnight
corpses drift ashore
everything is rags
we are called nothing
we try to eat
sleep
under the moon
under the tv sets
© 2012, David McDuff
From: Varmestafetten
From: Varmestafetten
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (#1)
The gaze adjusts itself tothe walls, the political commentators
in the newspapers
portrayed in dresses
with cats
and lovers
and the three-day stubble
intact
the tv news is a man
he says: everything is rags
he measures steps with herbs
lines with lines
water with lilies
we are called nothing
maybe we are called scream
or shot
we work on slogans
some people
think irony is the only thing power understands
others
want to know what exactly is meant by power
others again
sit still and fiddle with an old spoon
they later use to open cans of paint
the tv news is a man
he says: flood
he says: white knives don’t exist
he says: the arrests are nothing but propaganda
nothing happened
the day, on the other hand, was warm
bright, the parks were open
the population grilled salmon
kids climbed trees
our future: children who climb trees
power is invisible
a skinny middle-aged man says
power isn’t worth a scream
says another, oblivion
sleeps in the mouth of man
oblivion sits hunched over a small map
the city looks like plastic bags
cardboard and newspapers
two hundred thousand women remove their makeup
and get ready for their men
of glass in a bed
of glass
no one screams
the transport industry celebrates agreements
and shows the first steam aeroplanes
famous captains and pilots
from an era no one remembers
until now
Christ is a little chain
youth is Delphic
those who aren’t killed are shot
like cats
indifferent
and persistent
the white knives start to shine at midnight
corpses drift ashore
everything is rags
we are called nothing
we try to eat
sleep
under the moon
under the tv sets
© 2012, David McDuff
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