Poem
Álvaro Marín
THE FIRST NOISE
No, it is not the intonationIt is not the rhythm
Not even the meaning.
It is the word by itself
Mouthless.
And who would ever care about
What the poet says?
What matters is the ritual
The metaphor of what we’ve always been
The memory of the first vocal sound
“the secret language of the birds
of the first day”
Today’s man is out of tune
He has forgotten the words.
Someone stammers something
And everyone arrives, it’s the ritual
The transition
Memory,
the substitution,
The endless metaphor
What strange analogy is man?
The poet says nothing
But a living being comes out of his throat
Invisible, having only sound
And an ancient music.
We remember then the original sound
The first sound in the world
When the word became blood
And collective food.
With time came verses
But the birds no longer cared about it
The poet speaks, sings or prays
And wants to name the world
In all forms.
He invokes the spirits
And calls the other
“I will people myself with voices,” he says,
and turns to his metaphor which is of fire.
But the word keeps silent
The word is the grandfather of the species
The word is sense
It is power and walking stick.
© Translation: 2007, Nicolás Suescún
EL PRIMER RUIDO
EL PRIMER RUIDO
No, no es la entonaciónNo es el ritmo
Ni siquiera el significado.
Es la palabra sola
Sin boca.
¿Y a quién puede importarle
Lo que dice el poeta?
Lo que importa es el rito
La metáfora de lo que siempre hemos sido
La memoria del primer sonido vocal
“el lenguaje secreto de los pájaros
del primer día”
Destemplado es el hombre de hoy
Ha olvidado las palabras.
Alguien balbuce algo
Y todos llegan, es el ritual
La transición
El recuerdo,
la sustitución,
La metáfora en fin
¿Qué extraña analogía es el hombre?
Nada dice el poeta,
Pero de su garganta sale un ser vivo
Invisible, que sólo tiene sonido
Y una música antigua.
Recordamos entonces el sonido original
El primer ruido del mundo
Cuando la palabra se hizo sangre
Y alimento colectivo.
Con el tiempo vino el verso
Pero a los pájaros ya no les importó.
Habla, canta o reza el poeta
Y de todas las formas
Quiere nombrar el mundo,
Llama a los espíritus
Y llama al otro
“me poblaré de voces”, dice,
y acude a su metáfora que es de fuego.
Pero la palabra guarda silencio
La palabra es el abuelo de la especie
La palabra es el sentido
Es el poder y el bastón.
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
Publisher: Unpublished,
Publisher: Unpublished,
Poems
Poems of Álvaro Marín
Close
THE FIRST NOISE
No, it is not the intonationIt is not the rhythm
Not even the meaning.
It is the word by itself
Mouthless.
And who would ever care about
What the poet says?
What matters is the ritual
The metaphor of what we’ve always been
The memory of the first vocal sound
“the secret language of the birds
of the first day”
Today’s man is out of tune
He has forgotten the words.
Someone stammers something
And everyone arrives, it’s the ritual
The transition
Memory,
the substitution,
The endless metaphor
What strange analogy is man?
The poet says nothing
But a living being comes out of his throat
Invisible, having only sound
And an ancient music.
We remember then the original sound
The first sound in the world
When the word became blood
And collective food.
With time came verses
But the birds no longer cared about it
The poet speaks, sings or prays
And wants to name the world
In all forms.
He invokes the spirits
And calls the other
“I will people myself with voices,” he says,
and turns to his metaphor which is of fire.
But the word keeps silent
The word is the grandfather of the species
The word is sense
It is power and walking stick.
© 2007, Nicolás Suescún
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
From: Cuaderno del extrañamiento
THE FIRST NOISE
No, it is not the intonationIt is not the rhythm
Not even the meaning.
It is the word by itself
Mouthless.
And who would ever care about
What the poet says?
What matters is the ritual
The metaphor of what we’ve always been
The memory of the first vocal sound
“the secret language of the birds
of the first day”
Today’s man is out of tune
He has forgotten the words.
Someone stammers something
And everyone arrives, it’s the ritual
The transition
Memory,
the substitution,
The endless metaphor
What strange analogy is man?
The poet says nothing
But a living being comes out of his throat
Invisible, having only sound
And an ancient music.
We remember then the original sound
The first sound in the world
When the word became blood
And collective food.
With time came verses
But the birds no longer cared about it
The poet speaks, sings or prays
And wants to name the world
In all forms.
He invokes the spirits
And calls the other
“I will people myself with voices,” he says,
and turns to his metaphor which is of fire.
But the word keeps silent
The word is the grandfather of the species
The word is sense
It is power and walking stick.
© 2007, Nicolás Suescún
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