Poem
Harkaitz Cano
PEOPLE I TELEPHONE
There are people you once adored andthat you now call only on their birthday.
People you call to fume about work and ask for favors.
A fool from the department who calls you
to measure your failure: ‘not I, but he... never’
There are people you call only when your wife has left you
(and who call you only when their husband has left them).
There are people you wouldn’t call so much if they were closer.
There are people you call to demand an explanation,
who call you to scold.
There are people who call once every four years
who warm your spirit and make you feel
they are with you, cheek to cheek, soul to soul.
There are calls that are desert mirages,
failed advertising: would you be interested in, you’ve won a.
There are people – ‘I’ll call you right back’ –
who always have someone more important on the other line,
and then they don’t call back.
There are people you call so you won’t have to buy them a whiskey
and then the call costs more than the drink.
There are people you can’t call, because they’re mad at you,
or they’re in jail, or they’ve forgotten you, or they’re dead; it’s a drag.
There are people who all too clearly pick their nose
while they talk to you.
There are people who never answer the phone
but who are always there counting the rings in a dark room,
or who, champagne in hand,
swallow a grape with each ring.
There are people who never call you
because they know someone else might answer.
There are people who call you to get together,
and people whose way of getting together
is talking on the phone.
There are those who call you every month on the thirteenth,
with a trace of esoteric melancholy perhaps.
Those you call to confirm what you already know.
Those you call to contradict you.
Those you start to call but never remember
the last digit of their number.
And then there are those like you,
people I call only rarely:
to call a truce perhaps, or break one,
or when it’s snowing outside
just to say, ‘now what?’
or ‘is it snowing there too?’
and you say, ‘yes, it is’.
© Translation: 2015, Kristin Addis
MENSEN DIE IK OPBEL
Er zijn mensen van wie je ooit veel hielden nu alleen op hun verjaardag belt.
Mensen die je belt om je werkfrustraties te luchten of om een dienst te vragen.
Een sukkel van de faculteit die jou opbelt
om jouw mislukking te meten: ‘ik niet, maar hij... nooit.’
Er zijn er die je enkel belt wanneer je vrouw je heeft verlaten
(en die jou enkel bellen wanneer hun man ze heeft verlaten).
Er zijn mensen die je niet zou bellen als ze dichter bij jou waren.
Er zijn mensen die je belt om om uitleg te vragen,
mensen die je bellen om je een uitbrander te geven.
Er zijn mensen die, hoewel ze slechts eens om de vier jaar bellen,
je geest verwarmen en je laten voelen
dat ze aan jouw kant staan, wang tegen wang en ziel tegen ziel.
Er zijn telefoontjes als luchtspiegelingen in de woestijn,
verkooppraatjes - ‘zou u geïnteresseerd zijn in, u hebt… gewonnen.’
Er zijn mensen, ‘ik bel je dadelijk,’
die altijd iemand belangrijker hebben aan de andere lijn,
en dan nadien niet terugbellen.
Er zijn mensen die je opbelt om hen geen whisky te hoeven betalen
en uiteindelijk kost de oproep meer dan het drankje.
Er zijn mensen die je niet kunt bellen omdat ze kwaad op je zijn,
of in de gevangenis, of je vergeten zijn, of dood: het is me wat.
Er zijn mensen die al te opvallend in hun neus peuteren
terwijl ze met je aan het praten zijn.
Er zijn mensen die nooit de telefoon opnemen
maar altijd tellen hoe vaak die overgaat in een duistere kamer,
en anderen, een glas champagne in de hand,
die bij elk gerinkel een druivenpit inslikken.
Er zijn mensen die je niet opbellen,
omdat ze weten dat misschien iemand anders zal opnemen;
er zijn mensen die bellen om met je af te spreken
en er zijn er voor wie spreken over de telefoon
de manier van afspreken is.
Er zijn er die je altijd de dertiende van de maand bellen,
een uiting van esoterische melancholie waarschijnlijk.
Mensen die je opbelt om te bevestigen wat je al weet.
Mensen die je opbelt om je tegen te spreken.
Of mensen wiens nummer je begint in te tikken
maar waarvan je het laatste cijfer bent vergeten.
En dan zijn er mensen zoals jij,
die ik slechts heel zelden opbel:
om een staakt-het-vuren af te kondigen bijvoorbeeld, of te verbreken,
of om wanneer het buiten sneeuwt
te zeggen: ‘en wat nu?’
of ‘sneeuwt het daar ook?’
en jij: ‘ja, hier ook.’
© Vertaling: 2015, Luk Van Mensel
TELEFONOZ DEITZEN DIODAN JENDEA
Badago garai batean asko maitatu eta orainurtebetetze egunean soilik deitzen diozun jendea.
Lan kontuak haizatu eta mesede eske deitzen diozuna.
Fakultateko inozoren bat, zure frakasoaren tenperatura berritzeko
hots egiten dizuna: “ni ez, baina bera… inoiz ez”.
Badago emazteak utzi zaituenean soilik deitzen diozun jendea
(senarrak utzi duenean soilik deitzen dizuna, bestalde).
Badago gertuago balego hainbeste deituko ez zeniokeenik.
Badago kontu hartzeko deitzen diozun jendea,
kargu hartzeko hots egiten dizuna.
Badago lau urtean behin deitu arren, masailez masail
eta arimaz arima izpiritua epeldu eta zurekin dagoela
sentiarazten dizun jendea.
Badaude basamortuko ispilukeria diren deiak,
komertzial zapuztuak; le interesaría si, le ha tocado un.
Badago jendea, “deituko diat nik berehala”.
beti norbait garrantzitsuagoa duena beste adarrean,
–eta gero ez du deitzen–.
Badago jendea, hari whisky bat ez ordaintzeagatik deitu
eta azkenean deia tragoa bera baino garestiago ordainarazten dizuna.
Badago deitu ezin diozun jendea, haserre dagoelako zurekin,
edo kartzelan, edo zutaz ahaztuta, edo hilik; faena bat.
Badago zurekin hitz egiten duen bitartean
sudurzuloa haztatzen duela gehiegi nabaritzen zaionik.
Badago jendea sekula telefonorik hartu ez
baina beti hor dagoena txirrin-hotsak zenbatzen gela ilunean,
–edo, xanpaina kopa eskuan,
mahats ale bana irensten txirrin-hots bakoitzeko–.
Badago jendea ez dizuna deitzen,
badakielako beste norbaitek hartuko duela agian;
badago jendea geratzeko deitzen dizuna
eta badago bere geratzeko modua
telefonoz mintzatzea bera dena.
Badago hilaren hamahiruan deitzen dizuna beti,
malenkonia esoteriko apur batez, beharbada.
Dakizuna berresteko deitzen diozuna.
Kontra egin diezazun deitzen diozuna.
Edo markatzen hasi eta bere telefonoaren azken zenbakia
jada inoiz gogoan ez duzuna.
Eta gero dago, zu bezala,
oso bakanetan deitzen diodan jendea:
adibidez su-eten bat eman, edo apurtu,
edota elurra ari duenean kanpoan,
esateko: “eta orain zer?”,
edo, “elurra ari din hor ere?”,
eta zuk: “bai, ari dik”.
Poems
Poems of Harkaitz Cano
Close
PEOPLE I TELEPHONE
There are people you once adored andthat you now call only on their birthday.
People you call to fume about work and ask for favors.
A fool from the department who calls you
to measure your failure: ‘not I, but he... never’
There are people you call only when your wife has left you
(and who call you only when their husband has left them).
There are people you wouldn’t call so much if they were closer.
There are people you call to demand an explanation,
who call you to scold.
There are people who call once every four years
who warm your spirit and make you feel
they are with you, cheek to cheek, soul to soul.
There are calls that are desert mirages,
failed advertising: would you be interested in, you’ve won a.
There are people – ‘I’ll call you right back’ –
who always have someone more important on the other line,
and then they don’t call back.
There are people you call so you won’t have to buy them a whiskey
and then the call costs more than the drink.
There are people you can’t call, because they’re mad at you,
or they’re in jail, or they’ve forgotten you, or they’re dead; it’s a drag.
There are people who all too clearly pick their nose
while they talk to you.
There are people who never answer the phone
but who are always there counting the rings in a dark room,
or who, champagne in hand,
swallow a grape with each ring.
There are people who never call you
because they know someone else might answer.
There are people who call you to get together,
and people whose way of getting together
is talking on the phone.
There are those who call you every month on the thirteenth,
with a trace of esoteric melancholy perhaps.
Those you call to confirm what you already know.
Those you call to contradict you.
Those you start to call but never remember
the last digit of their number.
And then there are those like you,
people I call only rarely:
to call a truce perhaps, or break one,
or when it’s snowing outside
just to say, ‘now what?’
or ‘is it snowing there too?’
and you say, ‘yes, it is’.
© 2015, Kristin Addis
PEOPLE I TELEPHONE
There are people you once adored andthat you now call only on their birthday.
People you call to fume about work and ask for favors.
A fool from the department who calls you
to measure your failure: ‘not I, but he... never’
There are people you call only when your wife has left you
(and who call you only when their husband has left them).
There are people you wouldn’t call so much if they were closer.
There are people you call to demand an explanation,
who call you to scold.
There are people who call once every four years
who warm your spirit and make you feel
they are with you, cheek to cheek, soul to soul.
There are calls that are desert mirages,
failed advertising: would you be interested in, you’ve won a.
There are people – ‘I’ll call you right back’ –
who always have someone more important on the other line,
and then they don’t call back.
There are people you call so you won’t have to buy them a whiskey
and then the call costs more than the drink.
There are people you can’t call, because they’re mad at you,
or they’re in jail, or they’ve forgotten you, or they’re dead; it’s a drag.
There are people who all too clearly pick their nose
while they talk to you.
There are people who never answer the phone
but who are always there counting the rings in a dark room,
or who, champagne in hand,
swallow a grape with each ring.
There are people who never call you
because they know someone else might answer.
There are people who call you to get together,
and people whose way of getting together
is talking on the phone.
There are those who call you every month on the thirteenth,
with a trace of esoteric melancholy perhaps.
Those you call to confirm what you already know.
Those you call to contradict you.
Those you start to call but never remember
the last digit of their number.
And then there are those like you,
people I call only rarely:
to call a truce perhaps, or break one,
or when it’s snowing outside
just to say, ‘now what?’
or ‘is it snowing there too?’
and you say, ‘yes, it is’.
© 2015, Kristin Addis
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