Poem
Álvaro Marín
CHRONICLE OF THE MOUNTAIN PASS (fragment)
Heads cloven onto the tips of lancesshow us that we are not the first ones
to try to pass the steep stone.
Reality is fierce, monstrousness dominates
through terror: the pure reality, the narrow reality
of death represented as a speared head
is a form of terror.
We go on, some asleep, others sleepwalking,
others delirious: “this is history”, says the dying man in the arms of his wife, “this is the story
of crossing the mountain range in 1819.”
The poor man raves, is delirious.
And someone asks about the felled men,
about the bodies thrown into the river: it is the woman,
the crazy ghost, the widow of the executed man.
Who travels across this mountainside of death?
The muleteers of the wind pass
with their packs of mules on their way to the burnt-out hill.
The crude half-moons of horseshoes
stud the night with verdigris melancholy:
mules of fire and docility,
mules of grain and arsenal,
saddles of lightning, mules of gold,
gray mules of shadow and bloody shirts.
Beasts of god in the silent procession,
in the mystery of not knowing
where they are taking our bodies felled
like tree-trunks.
Corpses riding the fog,
riding the bleak plateau and the burning sands.
And these half-moons
shine brightly on the bitter bread
and on the broken strings
the musicians don’t know how to play anymore:
the separated toes,
the eyes already out of their sockets.
The fruits fallen from the tree pass by,
and it is really the body of Colombia
passing on a portable platform
on the back of the processionists
in the feast of Corpus.
© Translation: 2007, Nicolás Suescún
CRÓNICA DEL PASO DE LA CORDILLERA (fragmento)
CRÓNICA DEL PASO DE LA CORDILLERA (fragmento)
Cabezas clavadas en las puntas de las lanzasnos muestran que no somos los primeros
en intentar el paso de la piedra empinada.
La realidad es feroz, lo monstruoso domina
por el terror: la realidad pura, la estrecha realidad
de la muerte representada como cabeza lanceada
es una forma del terror.
Vamos, unos dormidos, otros sonámbulos;
otros deliran: “esta es la historia” dice el moribundo entre los brazos de su mujer, “esta es la historia,
es el paso de la cordillera en el año de 1819”.
Desvaría, el pobre delira.
Y alguien pregunta por los hombres talados,
por los cuerpos arrojados al río: es la mujer,
la fantasma loca, la esposa del supliciado.
¿Quién viaja por estas laderas de muerte?
Pasan los arrieros del viento
con sus recuas de mulas hacia la colina incendiada.
Las toscas medialunas de las herraduras
tachonan la noche de verdinegra melancolía:
mulas de fuego y mansedumbre,
mulas de grano y de arsenal,
monturas del relámpago, mulas de oro,
grises mulas de sombra y camisas sangrantes.
Bestias de dios en la procesión silenciosa,
en el misterio de no saber
hacia donde llevan nuestro cuerpo talado
como un tronco de árbol.
Cadáveres al lomo de la niebla
jinetean el páramo y la ardiente playa.
Y estas medialunas
relumbran sobre el pan amargo
y sobre las cuerdas reventadas
que los músicos ya no saben pulsar:
los dedos separados del pie,
los ojos ya fuera de sus cuencos.
Pasan los frutos desprendidos del árbol,
y es realmente el cuerpo de Colombia
el que pasa en andas
sobre el lomo de los caminantes
en la fiesta del Corpus.
© 2007, Álvaro Marín
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
Publisher: Unpublished,
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
Publisher: Unpublished,
Poems
Poems of Álvaro Marín
Close
CHRONICLE OF THE MOUNTAIN PASS (fragment)
Heads cloven onto the tips of lancesshow us that we are not the first ones
to try to pass the steep stone.
Reality is fierce, monstrousness dominates
through terror: the pure reality, the narrow reality
of death represented as a speared head
is a form of terror.
We go on, some asleep, others sleepwalking,
others delirious: “this is history”, says the dying man in the arms of his wife, “this is the story
of crossing the mountain range in 1819.”
The poor man raves, is delirious.
And someone asks about the felled men,
about the bodies thrown into the river: it is the woman,
the crazy ghost, the widow of the executed man.
Who travels across this mountainside of death?
The muleteers of the wind pass
with their packs of mules on their way to the burnt-out hill.
The crude half-moons of horseshoes
stud the night with verdigris melancholy:
mules of fire and docility,
mules of grain and arsenal,
saddles of lightning, mules of gold,
gray mules of shadow and bloody shirts.
Beasts of god in the silent procession,
in the mystery of not knowing
where they are taking our bodies felled
like tree-trunks.
Corpses riding the fog,
riding the bleak plateau and the burning sands.
And these half-moons
shine brightly on the bitter bread
and on the broken strings
the musicians don’t know how to play anymore:
the separated toes,
the eyes already out of their sockets.
The fruits fallen from the tree pass by,
and it is really the body of Colombia
passing on a portable platform
on the back of the processionists
in the feast of Corpus.
© 2007, Nicolás Suescún
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
CHRONICLE OF THE MOUNTAIN PASS (fragment)
Heads cloven onto the tips of lancesshow us that we are not the first ones
to try to pass the steep stone.
Reality is fierce, monstrousness dominates
through terror: the pure reality, the narrow reality
of death represented as a speared head
is a form of terror.
We go on, some asleep, others sleepwalking,
others delirious: “this is history”, says the dying man in the arms of his wife, “this is the story
of crossing the mountain range in 1819.”
The poor man raves, is delirious.
And someone asks about the felled men,
about the bodies thrown into the river: it is the woman,
the crazy ghost, the widow of the executed man.
Who travels across this mountainside of death?
The muleteers of the wind pass
with their packs of mules on their way to the burnt-out hill.
The crude half-moons of horseshoes
stud the night with verdigris melancholy:
mules of fire and docility,
mules of grain and arsenal,
saddles of lightning, mules of gold,
gray mules of shadow and bloody shirts.
Beasts of god in the silent procession,
in the mystery of not knowing
where they are taking our bodies felled
like tree-trunks.
Corpses riding the fog,
riding the bleak plateau and the burning sands.
And these half-moons
shine brightly on the bitter bread
and on the broken strings
the musicians don’t know how to play anymore:
the separated toes,
the eyes already out of their sockets.
The fruits fallen from the tree pass by,
and it is really the body of Colombia
passing on a portable platform
on the back of the processionists
in the feast of Corpus.
© 2007, Nicolás Suescún
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