Poem
Elisa Díaz Castelo
At a Coffee Shop in Buenos Aires, my Divorced Friend Shows me a Picture of her Wedding
I didn’t know her then and yet,in the picture, she’s more like herself
than the woman sitting here beside me.
Look at us, she tells me, with this other
face of hers, these other hands. And her eyes:
asphalt after rain and midnight hunger.
In the picture, the newlyweds dance
and outside we are alone, she and I, talking.
The sadness of others is an unknown city,
we have no idea where its streets might take us,
torn down houses, glass buildings, facades
and crumbling ceilings and corridors
of curved, of creaking, wood. We can imagine
so little. The trivial illusion
of having spent our lives there and knowing by heart
the tumult of main street, the bus routes,
each subway stop, will stand but a few instants.
For it is almost impossible to imagine
habit. The saddest memory
is only a station where thought pauses,
an unsurprised glance at the ruined theatre,
all seen so many times, all
just routine. Slowly, even the greatest
sorrow loses sharpness
and pain is changed into a thing
of rounder edges.
At the table before us,
an old couple eats without speaking.
It is silence. It is the ancient ritual
that summons them to die by parts
and face to face. Perhaps one day
you’ll wake and have forgotten
the bare-footed steps of your lover
on the wooden floor of your first home.
Now night falls,
the city closes in around our words.
The old couple stands to leave, the place empties.
In the background I hear a tango and can’t remember
its name. I suddenly feel this afternoon too
is very distant, that we are, ourselves,
so far away from Buenos Aires.
© Translation: 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
En un café de Buenos Aires, mi amiga divorciada me enseña una foto de su boda
En un café de Buenos Aires, mi amiga divorciada me enseña una foto de su boda
No la conocía entonces y aun así,en la foto, se parece más a sí misma
que la mujer sentada a mi lado.
Míranos, me dice, con su cara ajena,
con sus otras manos, con sus ojos
de asfalto llovido y hambre a medianoche.
En la foto bailan los novios
y afuera estamos ella y yo solas, platicando.
La tristeza de los otros es una ciudad desconocida,
calles y calles que no sabes a dónde llevan,
casas demolidas, edificios de vidrio, mascarones
y techos con goteras y pasillos
de madera combada. Podemos imaginar
tan poco. Apenas unos segundos
se mantiene vigente la trivial fantasía
de haber nacido ahí y saber de memoria
el tedio de la calle principal, rutas del colectivo,
cada parada del metro. Pero es casi imposible
imaginar la costumbre. El recuerdo más triste
es sólo una estación del pensamiento,
ese mirar sin sorpresa el teatro en ruinas,
la parada en Congreso, la espera subterránea,
tantas veces visto, todo
tan rutina. Hasta que pierde filo
incluso lo más triste
y se cambia el dolor por otra cosa más tibia.
En la mesa de enfrente
una pareja de viejos come sin mirarse.
Es silencio. Es el ritual antiguo
que los convoca a morir de a poco,
cara a cara. Quizás un día
te despiertas y has olvidado
los pasos descalzos de tu amante
en la madera rubia de tu primera casa.
Ahora se hace de noche,
la ciudad se cierra sobre nuestras palabras.
Los viejos se levantan, el lugar se vacía.
Al fondo escucho un tango y no recuerdo
su nombre. De pronto me parece que esta tarde
también quedó muy lejos, que ya estamos
muy lejos también de Buenos Aires.
© 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
Poems
Poems of Elisa Díaz Castelo
Close
At a Coffee Shop in Buenos Aires, my Divorced Friend Shows me a Picture of her Wedding
I didn’t know her then and yet,in the picture, she’s more like herself
than the woman sitting here beside me.
Look at us, she tells me, with this other
face of hers, these other hands. And her eyes:
asphalt after rain and midnight hunger.
In the picture, the newlyweds dance
and outside we are alone, she and I, talking.
The sadness of others is an unknown city,
we have no idea where its streets might take us,
torn down houses, glass buildings, facades
and crumbling ceilings and corridors
of curved, of creaking, wood. We can imagine
so little. The trivial illusion
of having spent our lives there and knowing by heart
the tumult of main street, the bus routes,
each subway stop, will stand but a few instants.
For it is almost impossible to imagine
habit. The saddest memory
is only a station where thought pauses,
an unsurprised glance at the ruined theatre,
all seen so many times, all
just routine. Slowly, even the greatest
sorrow loses sharpness
and pain is changed into a thing
of rounder edges.
At the table before us,
an old couple eats without speaking.
It is silence. It is the ancient ritual
that summons them to die by parts
and face to face. Perhaps one day
you’ll wake and have forgotten
the bare-footed steps of your lover
on the wooden floor of your first home.
Now night falls,
the city closes in around our words.
The old couple stands to leave, the place empties.
In the background I hear a tango and can’t remember
its name. I suddenly feel this afternoon too
is very distant, that we are, ourselves,
so far away from Buenos Aires.
© 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
At a Coffee Shop in Buenos Aires, my Divorced Friend Shows me a Picture of her Wedding
I didn’t know her then and yet,in the picture, she’s more like herself
than the woman sitting here beside me.
Look at us, she tells me, with this other
face of hers, these other hands. And her eyes:
asphalt after rain and midnight hunger.
In the picture, the newlyweds dance
and outside we are alone, she and I, talking.
The sadness of others is an unknown city,
we have no idea where its streets might take us,
torn down houses, glass buildings, facades
and crumbling ceilings and corridors
of curved, of creaking, wood. We can imagine
so little. The trivial illusion
of having spent our lives there and knowing by heart
the tumult of main street, the bus routes,
each subway stop, will stand but a few instants.
For it is almost impossible to imagine
habit. The saddest memory
is only a station where thought pauses,
an unsurprised glance at the ruined theatre,
all seen so many times, all
just routine. Slowly, even the greatest
sorrow loses sharpness
and pain is changed into a thing
of rounder edges.
At the table before us,
an old couple eats without speaking.
It is silence. It is the ancient ritual
that summons them to die by parts
and face to face. Perhaps one day
you’ll wake and have forgotten
the bare-footed steps of your lover
on the wooden floor of your first home.
Now night falls,
the city closes in around our words.
The old couple stands to leave, the place empties.
In the background I hear a tango and can’t remember
its name. I suddenly feel this afternoon too
is very distant, that we are, ourselves,
so far away from Buenos Aires.
© 2019, Elisa Díaz Castelo
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