Poem
Fernando Charry Lara
CITY
Through the air you hear the scream, the echo, the distance.Someone crosses the street corners with the wind, and his look
For an instant is like a dagger scraping the shadows.
Waking one hears their steps moving secretly away
Along the deserted street following a shout.
A woman or ship or cloud at night slides like a river.
Close to the quiet water of the footsteps
No one observes the face, its icy profile
In front of the white silence of the wall.
(On the sea beneath the moon sailing would not be
So slow and pale,
As on the sidewalks, undulating,
Its clear form in waves
Advances and retreats.
Those footsteps, brushing the air, hold back from the earth:
It is not the repeated body that in half-hour hotels
Amongst unexpected lovers and porters
Her naked body is dazzled by hands upon hands
And awakens sleepy
In a hushed movement
While jumbled laments
Form in the memory.
In the darkness they are flashes of lightning,
The inflamed moisture of those eyes
Of a hidden, surprised wild beast,
And something instantaneous shines,
The rebelliousness of the sudden angel
And his disappearance into the shadows.)
The night, the square, the desolation
Of the slender column against time.
Then, a sharp and subterranean noise
Tears the silence
Of rails on which heavy coaches of dreams
Travel toward the stations of Hell.
The clock sleeps lightly, the bell’s stroke rents the clear air.
In the desert of offices, in courtyards,
In pavilions of hoarse, somber light,
The silence grows with the moon
And, not for gardens, it settles in car horns,
In repair shops, in bars,
In the weary drawing rooms of lonely women,
Until, like exhaustion,
The shadow vanishes into thicker shadow.
From the fever in circles of ceilings,
Oh, sad vagabond among stone clouds,
The somnambulist drags his delirium along the sidewalks.
The wind blows after devastations and empty spaces,
It slips hidden like a razor caressed by fingers,
It steps back before the erect dream of the towers,
It chaotically floods streets like a vanquished sea.
Its wings go on in avenues, its lugubrious flight in suburbs:
The eternity deepens in one, sole instant
And in the air the scream, the echo, the distance, resound.
Death and life advance
Among that obscure invasion of phantoms.
The fallen bodies are uniformly silent.
A body dies, but another sweet and warm body barely sleeps
And the ardent respiration of its skin
Shakes the solitary man in his bed,
Reaching him as aromas from afar, from a wood
Of young and nocturnal vegetation.
© Translation: 2006, Nicolás Suescún
Ciudad
Ciudad
Por el aire se escucha el alarido, el eco, la distancia.Alguien con el viento cruza por las esquinas y es un instante
Su mirada como puñal que arañara la sombra.
Desde el desvelo se oyen sus pisadas alejarse en secreto
Por la calle desierta tras un grito.
Una mujer o nave o nube por la noche desliza como un río.
Junto al agua taciturna de los pasos
Nadie le observa el rostro, su perfil helado
Frente al silencio blanco del muro.
(Por el mar bajo la luna su navegación no sería
Tan lenta y pálida,
Como por los andenes, ondulante,
Su clara forma en olas
Avanza y retrocede.
Esos pasos, rozando el aire, se niegan a la tierra:
No es el repetido cuerpo que en hoteles de media hora
Entre repentinos amantes y porteros
Su desnudo deslumbra bajo manos y manos
Y despierta soñoliento en un apagado movimiento
Mientras a la memoria
Acuden en desorden lamentos.
En la oscuridad son relámpagos
La humedad en llamas de esos ojos
De oculta fiera sorprendida,
Y algo instantáneo brilla,
La rebeldía del ángel súbito
Y su desaparición en la tiniebla.)
La noche, la plaza, la desolación
De la columna esbelta contra el tiempo.
Entonces, un ruido agudo y subterráneo
Desgarra el silencio
De rieles por donde coches pesados de sueño
Viajan hacia las estaciones del Infierno.
Duermevela el reloj su campanada el aire rasga claro.
En el desierto de las oficinas, en patios,
En pabellones de enronquecida luz sombría,
El silencio con la luna crece
Y, no por jardines, se estaciona en bocinas,
En talleres, en bares,
En cansados salones de mujeres solas,
Hasta cuando, como con fatiga,
La sombra se desvanece en sombra más espesa.
Desde la fiebre en círculos de cielos rasos,
Oh triste vagabundo entre nubes de piedra,
El sonámbulo arrastra su delirio por las aceras.
El viento corre tras devastaciones y vacíos,
Resbala oculto tal navaja que unos dedos acarician,
Retrocede ante el sueño erguido de las torres,
Inunda desordenadamente calles como un mar en derrota.
Siguen por avenidas sus alas, su vuelo lúgubre por suburbios:
Se ahonda la eternidad de un solo instante
Y por el aire resuenan el alarido, el eco, la distancia.
Muerte y vida avanzan
Por entre aquella oscura invasión de fantasmas.
Los cuerpos son uniformemente silenciosos y caídos.
Un cuerpo muere, mas otro dulce y tibio cuerpo apenas duerme
Y la respiración ardiente de su piel
Estremece en el lecho al solitario,
Llegándole en aromas desde lejos, desde un bosque
De jóvenes y nocturnas vegetaciones.
© 1963, Fernando Charry Lara
From: Los adioses
Publisher: Ministerio de Educación Nacional, Bogotá
From: Los adioses
Publisher: Ministerio de Educación Nacional, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Fernando Charry Lara
Close
CITY
Through the air you hear the scream, the echo, the distance.Someone crosses the street corners with the wind, and his look
For an instant is like a dagger scraping the shadows.
Waking one hears their steps moving secretly away
Along the deserted street following a shout.
A woman or ship or cloud at night slides like a river.
Close to the quiet water of the footsteps
No one observes the face, its icy profile
In front of the white silence of the wall.
(On the sea beneath the moon sailing would not be
So slow and pale,
As on the sidewalks, undulating,
Its clear form in waves
Advances and retreats.
Those footsteps, brushing the air, hold back from the earth:
It is not the repeated body that in half-hour hotels
Amongst unexpected lovers and porters
Her naked body is dazzled by hands upon hands
And awakens sleepy
In a hushed movement
While jumbled laments
Form in the memory.
In the darkness they are flashes of lightning,
The inflamed moisture of those eyes
Of a hidden, surprised wild beast,
And something instantaneous shines,
The rebelliousness of the sudden angel
And his disappearance into the shadows.)
The night, the square, the desolation
Of the slender column against time.
Then, a sharp and subterranean noise
Tears the silence
Of rails on which heavy coaches of dreams
Travel toward the stations of Hell.
The clock sleeps lightly, the bell’s stroke rents the clear air.
In the desert of offices, in courtyards,
In pavilions of hoarse, somber light,
The silence grows with the moon
And, not for gardens, it settles in car horns,
In repair shops, in bars,
In the weary drawing rooms of lonely women,
Until, like exhaustion,
The shadow vanishes into thicker shadow.
From the fever in circles of ceilings,
Oh, sad vagabond among stone clouds,
The somnambulist drags his delirium along the sidewalks.
The wind blows after devastations and empty spaces,
It slips hidden like a razor caressed by fingers,
It steps back before the erect dream of the towers,
It chaotically floods streets like a vanquished sea.
Its wings go on in avenues, its lugubrious flight in suburbs:
The eternity deepens in one, sole instant
And in the air the scream, the echo, the distance, resound.
Death and life advance
Among that obscure invasion of phantoms.
The fallen bodies are uniformly silent.
A body dies, but another sweet and warm body barely sleeps
And the ardent respiration of its skin
Shakes the solitary man in his bed,
Reaching him as aromas from afar, from a wood
Of young and nocturnal vegetation.
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
From: Los adioses
From: Los adioses
CITY
Through the air you hear the scream, the echo, the distance.Someone crosses the street corners with the wind, and his look
For an instant is like a dagger scraping the shadows.
Waking one hears their steps moving secretly away
Along the deserted street following a shout.
A woman or ship or cloud at night slides like a river.
Close to the quiet water of the footsteps
No one observes the face, its icy profile
In front of the white silence of the wall.
(On the sea beneath the moon sailing would not be
So slow and pale,
As on the sidewalks, undulating,
Its clear form in waves
Advances and retreats.
Those footsteps, brushing the air, hold back from the earth:
It is not the repeated body that in half-hour hotels
Amongst unexpected lovers and porters
Her naked body is dazzled by hands upon hands
And awakens sleepy
In a hushed movement
While jumbled laments
Form in the memory.
In the darkness they are flashes of lightning,
The inflamed moisture of those eyes
Of a hidden, surprised wild beast,
And something instantaneous shines,
The rebelliousness of the sudden angel
And his disappearance into the shadows.)
The night, the square, the desolation
Of the slender column against time.
Then, a sharp and subterranean noise
Tears the silence
Of rails on which heavy coaches of dreams
Travel toward the stations of Hell.
The clock sleeps lightly, the bell’s stroke rents the clear air.
In the desert of offices, in courtyards,
In pavilions of hoarse, somber light,
The silence grows with the moon
And, not for gardens, it settles in car horns,
In repair shops, in bars,
In the weary drawing rooms of lonely women,
Until, like exhaustion,
The shadow vanishes into thicker shadow.
From the fever in circles of ceilings,
Oh, sad vagabond among stone clouds,
The somnambulist drags his delirium along the sidewalks.
The wind blows after devastations and empty spaces,
It slips hidden like a razor caressed by fingers,
It steps back before the erect dream of the towers,
It chaotically floods streets like a vanquished sea.
Its wings go on in avenues, its lugubrious flight in suburbs:
The eternity deepens in one, sole instant
And in the air the scream, the echo, the distance, resound.
Death and life advance
Among that obscure invasion of phantoms.
The fallen bodies are uniformly silent.
A body dies, but another sweet and warm body barely sleeps
And the ardent respiration of its skin
Shakes the solitary man in his bed,
Reaching him as aromas from afar, from a wood
Of young and nocturnal vegetation.
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
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