Poem
Santiago Vera
All of this is reporting
All of this is reporting. Journalism and historyAnd history and repetition and narration and anecdotes
Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies
Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting
It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet
A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn
The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed
A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,
Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!
All of this is reporting
Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language
It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets
Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind
We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?
The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation
A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games
Infinity is sick of us
Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux
A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting
The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness
The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees
Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing
All of this is reporting
A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice
© Translation: 2019, Robin Myers
Dit alles is reportage
Dit alles is reportage. De journalistiek en de geschiedenisEn de geschiedenis en de herhaling en de vertelling en de anekdotes
Wat de evolutie van de voet heeft gemaakt blijkt nu niet eens meer voldoende om
Massaal te vluchten naar een plek ongeschikt om leugens te vervaardigen
Zware storm of bombardement
Alles is reportage
Het overkomt ons al dat nergens enige vorm van verbond ertoe in staat is de gehele vernietiging van de planeet onmogelijk te maken
Een diepte, een omvang die amper radeloosheid veroorzaakt in de mate ‒ ik meen het serieus ‒
van een gemeenschappelijk labyrint
Het personage van de voorbije tijd is de verslaggever van de toekomst
Slaat zijn tenten op in de hoeken van de feesten, meisjespartijtjes
Waarin hij haastig wat zaad fijnmaalt dat hem dik maakt
Hij doet alles tegelijk zonder boos te worden
Een vlakte, smakeloze anekdotes geregen aan een spier,
Te veel huizen te veel echtparen te veel armen te veel datums Ach!
met zovelen!
Dit alles is reportage
Ook de getallen stinken en veel te onmetelijk is de vracht aan verhalen die
niemand wil vertellen en te veel voedingsmiddelen doorboord door een uitgestorven taal
Er is altijd gezegd dat we willen sterven om de goede oude tijd
Daar we met zovelen zijn, ontrukt een enorme golf ons de droom dat we jong zijn. En een ziekelijk licht
kookt onze energie die de dood in onze databladen deponeert
Te veel dood, te veel geschiedenis te veel lichte wezens in de lucht ‒ ik meen het serieus,
te veel individuele levens, angstaanjagend licht, mooie rokjes die te veel zijn opgewaaid in de wind
We zijn op een punt beland dat niemand zich in het begin kon inbeelden toen hij zei, ja, kijk, we gaan mens worden, wat zeg je ervan?
De verslaggever van de toekomst is de visionair geworden van de ordinaire epidemieën
Hij maalt de zaden die zwanger zijn van alle stiltes alle stiltes maken zich los van de schreeuwers en gymnasten alle rechthoeken en gymnasten van de paralellen en de rechthoekige gymnasten van de geest
ze glijden
als door de hoogte dodelijk getroffen kompassen naar de afgrond
Een kosmische luiheid verlicht ons zonder te weten wat ze verduistert door dat te doen
Moderne speelgoedwinkels van enorme omvang, veel te treurig om oorlogje te spelen
De oneindigheid heeft haar buik vol van ons
Ach, zijn we met zovelen? En met een tikje ontwapent de stompzinnigheid ons
Partij seismografen te koop:
dit alles is reportage
De perfecte pezen onder de huid, het perfecte leven en een vrouwelijke
wilskracht verbergen de zichtbaarste god die zich voortsleept in blindheid
De zon, de kerkklokken, de bomen, de beelden van de zon, de beelden van de kerkklokken, de
beelden van de bomen
Oneindige trappen en mogelijkheden waarmee wij dit projecteren. De glibberige paden, de criteria op het uur van beoordeling, de vlaggen achter de piketpaaltjes, de melkwegstelsels, opgewaaid in de wind,
die immense ijzeren ballen die onze verbeelding bevolken wanneer we op een kruispunt staan, het bankje, het licht, de laatste adem, jij, deze lui, nooit beter gezegd, precies, ik, de laatste trede voorafgaand aan geen enkel niets
Dit alles is reportage
Een fictief universum blaast zich beurtelings op en loopt leeg. Is een leugen. Springt uit zijn vel Vandaag
Beseffen wij
© Vertaling: 2019, Mariolein Sabarte Belacortu
Todo esto es reportaje
Todo esto es reportaje. El periodismo y la historiaY la historia y la repetición y la narración y las anécdotas
Ya ni siquiera lo que la evolución hizo del pie ha resultado suficiente
Para en tropel huir hacia un lugar que no se preste de ocasión para labrar mentiras
Tempestad o bombardeo
Todo es reportaje
Ya nos ocurre que en ningún lugar asociación alguna hace imposible la destrucción entera del planeta
Una profundidad, una amplitud que apenas desespere a la medida – lo digo en serio-
De un vericueto común
El personaje del tiempo ido es el reportero del futuro
Alza su casa en los rincones de las fiestas, celebraciones de muchachas
En las que muele de prisa unas semillas que lo engordan
Todo lo hace a la vez sin acabar molesto
Una llanura, músculo enhebrado de anécdotas insulsas,
Demasiadas casas demasiados matrimonios demasiados pobres demasiadas fechas Ay, ¡tan numerosos!
Todo esto es reportaje
También los números apestan y hay demasiado peso inconmensurable de narración que nadie quiere contar y demasiados alimentos perforados a causa de un lenguaje extinto
Se ha dicho siempre que es por los viejos tiempos que se desea morir
De ser tan numerosos una inmensa ola nos arrebata el sueño de ser jóvenes. Y una luz de
enfermedad nos cuece la energía que la muerte deposita en nuestras fichas técnicas
Demasiada muerte, demasiada historia demasiado livianos en el aire- lo digo en serio,
demasiadas vidas individuales estremecedora luz, faldas hermosas demasiado mecidas por el viento
Hemos llegado al punto que ninguno imaginó en los comienzos al decir ya, mira, vamos
a ser hombres, ¿qué me dices?
El reportero del futuro ha devenido el visionario de las pestes ordinarias
Muele esas semillas preñadas de todos los silencios todos los silencios se descuelgan de los aulladores y gimnastas todos los cuadrados y gimnastas de los paralelos y los ortogonales gimnastas del espíritu
se deslizan
como imanes del abismo fulminados por la altura
Una flojera cósmica nos ilumina sin saber qué oscurece al hacerlo
Jugueterías actuales de inmensas proporciones, demasiado tristes para jugar a la guerra
La infinitud se ha aburrido de nosotros
Ay, ¿somos tan numerosos? Y la estupidez en un tinco nos desarma
Ruma de sismógrafos en venta:
todo esto es reportaje
Los tendones perfectos bajo la piel, la vida perfecta y una voluntad
femenina por ocultar al dios más evidente arrastrándose por la ceguera
El sol, las campanas, los árboles, las imágenes del sol, las imágenes de las campanas, las
imágenes de los arboles
Infinitas escalas y posibilidades con que proyectamos esto. Las resbaladeras, los criterios a la hora de juzgar, las banderas a la zaga de los hitos, las galaxias, mecidas por el viento,
esas inmensas bolas de acero que pueblan nuestra imaginación cuando nos hallamos frente a una encrucijada, la banqueta, la luz, el último soplo, tú, estos, nunca mejor dicho, eso, yo, el último escalón previo a ninguna nada
Todo esto es reportaje
Un universo ficticio se infla y se desinfla alternativamente. Es mentira. Se desalma Hoy
Nos damos cuenta
© 2019, Santiago Vera
Poems
Poems of Santiago Vera
Close
All of this is reporting
All of this is reporting. Journalism and historyAnd history and repetition and narration and anecdotes
Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies
Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting
It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet
A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn
The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed
A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,
Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!
All of this is reporting
Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language
It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets
Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind
We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?
The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation
A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games
Infinity is sick of us
Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux
A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting
The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness
The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees
Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing
All of this is reporting
A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice
© 2019, Robin Myers
All of this is reporting
All of this is reporting. Journalism and historyAnd history and repetition and narration and anecdotes
Not even what evolution has made of the foot is sufficient anymore
For fleeing en masse toward someplace that offers no occasions for fashioning lies
Storm or bombardment
It’s all reporting
It now occurs to us that there’s no place where an association halts the total destruction of the planet
A depth, a breadth that barely exasperates according – I mean it –
To the needs of an ordinary twist and turn
The character of time elapsed is the reporter of the future
He builds his house in the corners of parties, of schoolgirls’ celebrations
Where he rushes to grind up seeds that fatten him
He does it all at once without ending up annoyed
A plain, a muscle threaded of insipid anecdotes,
Too many houses too many marriages too many poor people too many dates on the calendar Oh, such abundance!
All of this is reporting
Numbers stink too and there’s too much excessive narrative weight that no one wants to tell and too much perforated food resulting from an extinct language
It’s always been said that the good old days are what make us want to die
There are so many that a massive wave sweeps away our dream of being young. And a light of
illness cooks the energy that death deposits in our info sheets
Too much death, too much history we’re too light in the air—I mean it,
too many individual lives alarming light, beautiful skirts too swished by the wind
We’ve reached the point when no one imagined ever saying at the start hey, look, let’s be men, what do you say?
The future reporter has become the visionary of ordinary epidemics
He grinds those seeds impregnated with all possible silences all silences lower themselves down from the howlers and gymnasts all the squares and gymnasts from the parallels and the orthogonal gymnasts of the spirit
slip
like magnets of the void struck down by elevation
A cosmic laziness throws light on us not knowing what it darkens when it does
Contemporary toy stores of vast proportions, too sad for war games
Infinity is sick of us
Are there really so many of us? And stupidity disarms us in a conflux
A pile of seismographs for sale:
all of this is reporting
The perfect tendons under the skin, a perfect life and a feminine
will toward concealing the most evident god crawling around the blindness
The sun, the bells, the trees, the images of the sun, the images of the bells, the
images of the trees
Infinite scales and possibilities we use to project this. Slippery ones, the standards we judge by, the flags flapping ahead of the landmarks, the galaxies swaying in the wind, those huge steel balls that populate our imaginations when we reach a crossroads, the sidewalk, the light, the final gust, you, these, never better put, that, me, the last rung before no nothing
All of this is reporting
A fictional universe alternately inflates and deflates. It’s a lie. It wanes Today
We notice
© 2019, Robin Myers
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