Poem
Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (MEXICANA)
I too remember the spring, I too wasa strong brave girl with fingernail-claws, who wrapped
gifts, who thirsted and wrapped gifts
and went up to young men with hurt in their soul
Pierre
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with the kisses and I
in brocade dress and pearls
how can I forget
such months, I was unkempt
I was dirty, I washed my hair
only now and then, but that was due
to so many things, oh
so many things,
one forgets
in such pillared halls as mine
in spring months that forever
have turned their backs
Pierre standing before an altarpiece
in the spring he wrote letters
to women he had children by
to women who now and then arrived by train
in hats and bustles
and Pierre said: it’s not my child
it’s not my child, it’s not my child
Pierre with the trilogy, Pierre with the guitar strings
with the guitar that makes a pact
that wants to embrace everything
and his songs
have room
for everything
the road
the road is the opposite of the secret chamber, Pierre says
and makes love to me in 1919, he loves me, in spring
he fetches me, robs me and makes love to me
1919 Gopher Road, Route 40, Tularosa alley
Main Street, Grand Street
4th Street, oh, the streets of Rome, he sang and said
I could choose between Loire-Atlantique
and Arizona, Nevada, Santa Cruz
between park and sky on a bench
between the Inquisition Palace and the twin lake
but I became more silent, I don’t know
what came over me
a kind of shadow
I was an exceptionally beautiful daughter
but delirious, paranoid and nervous
for we were in a borderline state, reality surrounded
made me distrustful,
suspicious, everything seemed to be sticky
changing, on bad days
nothing could be trusted
I heard voices
and the only real things were
myself
my daughter, Pierre
and a growing fear
the growing terror of the daughter
Pierre sang
a song called Death's Waiting Room
for us
page after page, digression after digression
character after character, while he lost himself
deeper and deeper
in the labyrinth of an invisible desert
surrounded me, all of us
Pierre sang: between power and powerlessness
between richness
and the hideous life
among rats and cardboard shacks that they call houses
I was the same, all spring
but I changed my name, to Mae
hung up his shirts to be bleached
and he sang
we drove out of town
in the early afternoon, my lover Pierre
me and some other girls from gods know where
it was a time for arrows, bridges, successors
I also remember that spring
how windy it was
how the cobble came loose
how the billiard balls in the candle house clicked
Pierre said: I hide myself in songs and I said
I hide myself in songs
Pierre said: there is something between us
and I said
the same, but inside me
when he looked at me and smelled of leather
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with his guitar hanging
on the Day of the Dead
Pierre said
look out, and I looked out
on the Day of the Dead I saw ravens, young cobras
a little white church and the pastor
kneeling
and I remembered
myself, a raven-black spring with fingernail-claws
a young girl and Pierre when he came home
I boiled rice and hung up shirts, flatbread
Pierre said: I hide myself
in songs, in death’s waiting room and I said
that there was something between us
but inside me
there was a smell and I remembered
myself too
I was rather strong,
brave
© Translation: 2012, David McDuff
DET ER HER VI ER FØDT (MEXICANA)
DET ER HER VI ER FØDT (MEXICANA)
Jeg også husker våren, jeg også varen sterk tapper jente med negleklør, som pakket inn
gaver, som tørstet og pakket inn gaver
og gikk frem til unge menn med ondt i sjelen
Pierre
Pierre med trilogien
Pierre med kyssene og meg
i brokadekjole og perler
hvordan kan jeg glemme
slike måneder, jeg var raggete
jeg var skitten, jeg vasket håret
bare av og til, men det skyldtes
å så mange ting, å
så mange ting
man glemmer
i slike søylehaller som mine
i vårmåneder som for alltid
har snudd ryggen til
Pierre stående foran en altertavle
om våren skrev han brev
til kvinner han hadde barn med
til kvinner som av og til kom med toget
i hatter og bylter
og Pierre sa: det er ikke mitt barn
det er ikke mitt barn, det er ikke mitt barn
Pierre med trilogien, Pierre med gitarstrengene
med gitaren som gjør en pakt
som vil favne om alt
og sangene hans
har plass
til alt
veien
veien er lønnkammerets motsats, sier Pierre
og elsker meg i 1919, han elsker meg, våren
han henter meg, røver meg og elsker meg
1919 Gopher Road, Route 40, Tularosa alley
Main Street, Grand Street
4th Street, oh, the streets of Rome, sang han og sa
jeg hadde valget mellom Loire-Atlantique
og Arizona, Nevada, Santa Cruz
mellom park og himmel på en benk
mellom inkvisisjonspalasset og tvillingsinnsjøen
men jeg ble tausere, jeg vet ikke
hva som kom over meg
en slags skygge
jeg var en usedvanlig vakker datter
men delirisk, paranoid og nervøs
for vi befant oss i en grensetilstand, virkeligheten omringet
gjorde meg mistroisk,
mistenksom, alt syntes å være seigt
omskiftelig, på dårlige dager
var ingenting til å stole på
jeg hørte stemmer
og det eneste var virkelig
meg selv
datteren, Pierre
og en voksende redsel
den voksende skrekken for datteren
Pierre sang
en sang som het Dødens Venteværelse
for oss
side etter side, digresjon etter disgresjon
karakter etter karakter, mens han mistet seg selv
dypere og dypere
i en usynlig ørkens labyrint
omringet meg, oss alle
Pierre sang: mellom makt og avmakt
mellom rikdom
og det heslige livet
blant rotter og pappskur som kalles hus
jeg var den samme, hele våren
men jeg skiftet navn, til Mae
hang opp skjortene hans til bleking
og han sang
vi kjørte ut av byen
litt ut på ettermiddagen, min elsker Pierre
og jeg og noen andre jentunger fra gudene vet
det var tider for piler, broer, etterfølgere
jeg husker også den våren
hvordan det blåste
hvordan brosteinen løsnet
hvordan biljardkulene i lyshuset klikket
Pierre sa: jeg skjuler meg i sanger og jeg sa
jeg skjuler meg i sanger
Pierre sa: det er noe mellom oss
og jeg sa
det samme, men inni meg
når han så på meg og luktet lær
Pierre med trilogien
Pierre med gitaren hengende
på de dødes dag
sa Pierre
se ut, og jeg så ut
på de dødes dag så jeg ravner, kobraunger
en hvit liten kirke og pastoren
som knelte
og jeg husket
meg selv, en ravnsvart vår med negleklør
en jentunge og Pierre når han kom hjem
jeg kokte ris og hang opp skjorter, lefser
Pierre sa: jeg skjuler meg
i sanger, i dødens venteværelse og jeg sa
at det var noe mellom oss
men inni meg
luktet det og jeg husket
også meg selv
jeg var temmelig sterk,
tapper
© 2011, Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
From: Til Cecilie. Festskrift til Cecilie Løveid på 60-årsdagen
Publisher: Kolon Forlag, Oslo
This poem was published in a anthology for Cecilie Løveid\'s 60th birthday.
From: Til Cecilie. Festskrift til Cecilie Løveid på 60-årsdagen
Publisher: Kolon Forlag, Oslo
Poems
Poems of Pedro Carmona-Alvarez
Close
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (MEXICANA)
I too remember the spring, I too wasa strong brave girl with fingernail-claws, who wrapped
gifts, who thirsted and wrapped gifts
and went up to young men with hurt in their soul
Pierre
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with the kisses and I
in brocade dress and pearls
how can I forget
such months, I was unkempt
I was dirty, I washed my hair
only now and then, but that was due
to so many things, oh
so many things,
one forgets
in such pillared halls as mine
in spring months that forever
have turned their backs
Pierre standing before an altarpiece
in the spring he wrote letters
to women he had children by
to women who now and then arrived by train
in hats and bustles
and Pierre said: it’s not my child
it’s not my child, it’s not my child
Pierre with the trilogy, Pierre with the guitar strings
with the guitar that makes a pact
that wants to embrace everything
and his songs
have room
for everything
the road
the road is the opposite of the secret chamber, Pierre says
and makes love to me in 1919, he loves me, in spring
he fetches me, robs me and makes love to me
1919 Gopher Road, Route 40, Tularosa alley
Main Street, Grand Street
4th Street, oh, the streets of Rome, he sang and said
I could choose between Loire-Atlantique
and Arizona, Nevada, Santa Cruz
between park and sky on a bench
between the Inquisition Palace and the twin lake
but I became more silent, I don’t know
what came over me
a kind of shadow
I was an exceptionally beautiful daughter
but delirious, paranoid and nervous
for we were in a borderline state, reality surrounded
made me distrustful,
suspicious, everything seemed to be sticky
changing, on bad days
nothing could be trusted
I heard voices
and the only real things were
myself
my daughter, Pierre
and a growing fear
the growing terror of the daughter
Pierre sang
a song called Death's Waiting Room
for us
page after page, digression after digression
character after character, while he lost himself
deeper and deeper
in the labyrinth of an invisible desert
surrounded me, all of us
Pierre sang: between power and powerlessness
between richness
and the hideous life
among rats and cardboard shacks that they call houses
I was the same, all spring
but I changed my name, to Mae
hung up his shirts to be bleached
and he sang
we drove out of town
in the early afternoon, my lover Pierre
me and some other girls from gods know where
it was a time for arrows, bridges, successors
I also remember that spring
how windy it was
how the cobble came loose
how the billiard balls in the candle house clicked
Pierre said: I hide myself in songs and I said
I hide myself in songs
Pierre said: there is something between us
and I said
the same, but inside me
when he looked at me and smelled of leather
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with his guitar hanging
on the Day of the Dead
Pierre said
look out, and I looked out
on the Day of the Dead I saw ravens, young cobras
a little white church and the pastor
kneeling
and I remembered
myself, a raven-black spring with fingernail-claws
a young girl and Pierre when he came home
I boiled rice and hung up shirts, flatbread
Pierre said: I hide myself
in songs, in death’s waiting room and I said
that there was something between us
but inside me
there was a smell and I remembered
myself too
I was rather strong,
brave
© 2012, David McDuff
From: Til Cecilie. Festskrift til Cecilie Løveid på 60-årsdagen
This poem was published in a anthology for Cecilie Løveid\'s 60th birthday.
From: Til Cecilie. Festskrift til Cecilie Løveid på 60-årsdagen
THIS IS WHERE WE ARE BORN (MEXICANA)
I too remember the spring, I too wasa strong brave girl with fingernail-claws, who wrapped
gifts, who thirsted and wrapped gifts
and went up to young men with hurt in their soul
Pierre
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with the kisses and I
in brocade dress and pearls
how can I forget
such months, I was unkempt
I was dirty, I washed my hair
only now and then, but that was due
to so many things, oh
so many things,
one forgets
in such pillared halls as mine
in spring months that forever
have turned their backs
Pierre standing before an altarpiece
in the spring he wrote letters
to women he had children by
to women who now and then arrived by train
in hats and bustles
and Pierre said: it’s not my child
it’s not my child, it’s not my child
Pierre with the trilogy, Pierre with the guitar strings
with the guitar that makes a pact
that wants to embrace everything
and his songs
have room
for everything
the road
the road is the opposite of the secret chamber, Pierre says
and makes love to me in 1919, he loves me, in spring
he fetches me, robs me and makes love to me
1919 Gopher Road, Route 40, Tularosa alley
Main Street, Grand Street
4th Street, oh, the streets of Rome, he sang and said
I could choose between Loire-Atlantique
and Arizona, Nevada, Santa Cruz
between park and sky on a bench
between the Inquisition Palace and the twin lake
but I became more silent, I don’t know
what came over me
a kind of shadow
I was an exceptionally beautiful daughter
but delirious, paranoid and nervous
for we were in a borderline state, reality surrounded
made me distrustful,
suspicious, everything seemed to be sticky
changing, on bad days
nothing could be trusted
I heard voices
and the only real things were
myself
my daughter, Pierre
and a growing fear
the growing terror of the daughter
Pierre sang
a song called Death's Waiting Room
for us
page after page, digression after digression
character after character, while he lost himself
deeper and deeper
in the labyrinth of an invisible desert
surrounded me, all of us
Pierre sang: between power and powerlessness
between richness
and the hideous life
among rats and cardboard shacks that they call houses
I was the same, all spring
but I changed my name, to Mae
hung up his shirts to be bleached
and he sang
we drove out of town
in the early afternoon, my lover Pierre
me and some other girls from gods know where
it was a time for arrows, bridges, successors
I also remember that spring
how windy it was
how the cobble came loose
how the billiard balls in the candle house clicked
Pierre said: I hide myself in songs and I said
I hide myself in songs
Pierre said: there is something between us
and I said
the same, but inside me
when he looked at me and smelled of leather
Pierre with the trilogy
Pierre with his guitar hanging
on the Day of the Dead
Pierre said
look out, and I looked out
on the Day of the Dead I saw ravens, young cobras
a little white church and the pastor
kneeling
and I remembered
myself, a raven-black spring with fingernail-claws
a young girl and Pierre when he came home
I boiled rice and hung up shirts, flatbread
Pierre said: I hide myself
in songs, in death’s waiting room and I said
that there was something between us
but inside me
there was a smell and I remembered
myself too
I was rather strong,
brave
© 2012, David McDuff
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère