Poem
Santiago Vera
No visionary except
No visionary exceptwhen the vision is real in its intensity
—and I mean intensity in the sense of the beginning,
the imaginary circle between humans and the world—
does himself the favor of imagining the language
He does himself the favor of imagining the language
—and I mean words in the sense of the beginning
without learning to return in search of the place
in the vast darkness of the woods, come
to us and listen to our singing
—and I mean the word in the sense of the light, not
in the sense of the language
Unruly poetry, gaps and divisions like a threaded whole,
disturbingly and puzzlingly unfounded
They may join in, to an extent,
enslaved to the rubble of a totality
in the sense of its parts
And in this final sense we push ourselves to touch, it’s true.
Two is later than none. None is given to zero.
The entertainment of an unimportant phase.
© Translation: 2019, Robin Myers
Geen visionair behalve
Geen visionair behalvewanneer de visie reëel is in haar intensiteit
‒ en ik heb het over intensiteit in de zin van begin
denkbeeldige Cirkel tussen de mensheid en de wereld –
zo aardig is zich de taal in te beelden
Zo aardig is zich de taal in te beelden
‒ en ik heb het over de woorden in de zin van begin
zonder te leren terug te keren om naar de plek te zoeken
in de weidse duisternis van het bos, kom
naar ons toe en hoor ons zingen
‒ en ik heb het over het woord in de zin van licht, niet
in de zin van taal
Ongeordende poëzie, vergissingen en indelingen als een gesponnen geheel
op zorgwekkende en mysterieuze wijze gespeend van elk fundament
Ze kunnen worden opgeteld, zijn tot op zekere hoogte
onderworpen aan de brokstukken van een totaliteit
in de zin van onderdelen
In deze laatste zin spannen wij ons in iets te raken, ja.
Twee komt later dan geen. Geen is geneigd tot nul.
Zich vermaken met een fase zonder enig belang.
© Vertaling: 2019, Mariolein Sabarte Belacortu
Ningún visionario excepto
Ningún visionario exceptocuando la visión es real en su intensidad
‒ y me refiero a la intensidad en el sentido del comienzo
Círculo imaginario entre la humanidad y el mundo ‒
se hace el favor de imaginar el idioma
Se hace el favor de imaginar el idioma
‒ y me refiero a las palabras en el sentido del comienzo
sin aprender a regresar para encontrar el lugar
en la vasta oscuridad del bosque, venga
a nosotros oyéndonos cantar
‒ y me refiero al verbo en el sentido de la luz, no
en el sentido del idioma
Poesía desordenada, lapsos y divisiones como un todo hilado
preocupante y misteriosamente carentes de fundamentación
Pueden sumarse, hasta cierto punto,
esclavizados a los cascotes de una totalidad
en el sentido de las partes
En este último sentido nos esforzamos para tocar, sí.
Dos es más tarde que ninguno. Ninguno es proclive a cero.
El entretenimiento de una fase sin ninguna importancia.
© 2019, Santiago Vera
Poems
Poems of Santiago Vera
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No visionary except
No visionary exceptwhen the vision is real in its intensity
—and I mean intensity in the sense of the beginning,
the imaginary circle between humans and the world—
does himself the favor of imagining the language
He does himself the favor of imagining the language
—and I mean words in the sense of the beginning
without learning to return in search of the place
in the vast darkness of the woods, come
to us and listen to our singing
—and I mean the word in the sense of the light, not
in the sense of the language
Unruly poetry, gaps and divisions like a threaded whole,
disturbingly and puzzlingly unfounded
They may join in, to an extent,
enslaved to the rubble of a totality
in the sense of its parts
And in this final sense we push ourselves to touch, it’s true.
Two is later than none. None is given to zero.
The entertainment of an unimportant phase.
© 2019, Robin Myers
No visionary except
No visionary exceptwhen the vision is real in its intensity
—and I mean intensity in the sense of the beginning,
the imaginary circle between humans and the world—
does himself the favor of imagining the language
He does himself the favor of imagining the language
—and I mean words in the sense of the beginning
without learning to return in search of the place
in the vast darkness of the woods, come
to us and listen to our singing
—and I mean the word in the sense of the light, not
in the sense of the language
Unruly poetry, gaps and divisions like a threaded whole,
disturbingly and puzzlingly unfounded
They may join in, to an extent,
enslaved to the rubble of a totality
in the sense of its parts
And in this final sense we push ourselves to touch, it’s true.
Two is later than none. None is given to zero.
The entertainment of an unimportant phase.
© 2019, Robin Myers
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