Poem
Veronica Jimenez
Postcard from a port
The philosopher González Pérez, stevedore of seatnumber three, examines with imperceptible avidity
the sensual movement of the sea. Each white drop of foam
having brought forth a gram of a grand immeasurable secret. The roar
of boats’ motors does not impede his thoughts on all
that earth was and will never become
because they ran an unspeakable path
at the hand of blonde goddesses – half sins,
half women, base and ordinary.
© Translation: 2017, Heather James, Veronica Jimenez
Postal de puerto
Postal de puerto
El filósofo González Pérez, estibador del sitionúmero tres, examina con avidez imperceptible
los movimientos de la mar. Cada gota de blanca espuma
ha de portar un gramo de ese gran secreto inmensurable. El rugir
de los motores de las barcazas no le impide pensar en todos aquéllos
que tierra eran y en tierra nunca se convertirán,
porque corrieron un destino innombrable
de la mano de rubias diosas, mitad peces,
mitad mujeres comunes y corrientes.
© 2015, Veronica Jimenez
From: Nada tiene que ver el amor con el amor
Publisher: Garceta Ediciones, Santiago, Chile
From: Nada tiene que ver el amor con el amor
Publisher: Garceta Ediciones, Santiago, Chile
Poems
Poems of Veronica Jimenez
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Postcard from a port
The philosopher González Pérez, stevedore of seatnumber three, examines with imperceptible avidity
the sensual movement of the sea. Each white drop of foam
having brought forth a gram of a grand immeasurable secret. The roar
of boats’ motors does not impede his thoughts on all
that earth was and will never become
because they ran an unspeakable path
at the hand of blonde goddesses – half sins,
half women, base and ordinary.
© 2017, Heather James, Veronica Jimenez
From: Nada tiene que ver el amor con el amor
From: Nada tiene que ver el amor con el amor
Postcard from a port
The philosopher González Pérez, stevedore of seatnumber three, examines with imperceptible avidity
the sensual movement of the sea. Each white drop of foam
having brought forth a gram of a grand immeasurable secret. The roar
of boats’ motors does not impede his thoughts on all
that earth was and will never become
because they ran an unspeakable path
at the hand of blonde goddesses – half sins,
half women, base and ordinary.
© 2017, Heather James, Veronica Jimenez
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