JESÚS SEPÚLVEDA
Viaje a Tánatos
Journey to Thanatos
These are unpublished poems from the last section (“Journey to Thanatos”) of my new poetry collection Mirror of Details [Espejo de los detalles]. This book is scheduled to be published in the USA by El Sur es América in a bilingual edition illustrated by Ivo Vergara, and in Chile by Calabaza del diablo in a Spanish edition sometime in 2020. They are short poems, except for “Route,” the longest one, whose first version in Spanish appeared in Fabricio Estrada’s blog, Bitácora del párvulo. The translation was made by Elmira Louie, a graduate student of Comparative Literature at UC Davis. “Viaje a Tánatos” is a journey to the region of death. Inhabited by spirits, this region becomes available to the spiritual seeker through a brew made out of a visionary vine that grows in the Amazon basin. Known as “ayahuasca” or “yagé,” this sacred beverage is a medicine that in the tradition of Santo Daime is considered a sacrament. Daimistas walk through the path of truth and consciousness to clean their heart and find healing. Sometimes healing is only possible through purgation. Then the body expels the mariri — the magical phlegm where the spirit of nature lives. Through this cleansing, the divine water connects the human spirit to the sachamama — the spirit mother of the jungle, which raises the vibration of thoughts and talks through songs, hymns and poems.
DANZA MACABRA
Cuando se danza con los muertos
suena la marimba
el cascabel que le habla al fuego
la liana que entra al cuerpo
y alumbra la serpiente
DANSE MACABRE
When you dance with the dead
the marimba sounds
like a rattle speaking to the fire
the vine that enters the body
and lights the snake
MARIRI
O la manera en que un líquido
susurra a la altura de su columna
Steven White
La abuela canta en el poso
Sedimento que respira en el fondo del recipiente
En un rincón de la noche
anidan ciervos y mapaches
El presente es una elipsis
Luz de focos en la espesura del matorral
Flema donde corren ríos torrentosos
La medicina comienza a hablar
MARIRI
Or the way a liquid
whispers at the height of its column
Steven White
Grandma sings in the sludge
Sediment that breathes at the bottom of the container
In a corner of night
nest the deer and raccoons
The present is an ellipsis
Spotlight on the dense thicket
Phlegm where torrential rivers run
The medicine starts to talk
SACHAMAMA
El murciélago devora la luz
Sirenas ocultas en enjambre de zumbidos
Eco monocorde en noche de serpientes
Mosquitero que ametralla la tormenta
Un cruce de ríos se forma en el cuerpo
El capullo se apaga
Ha purgado y vaciado su memoria
Ha abierto el pasado y divisado el futuro
Es inmune
La selva lo ha embrujado
SACHAMAMA
The bat devours the light
Sirens hidden in a swarm of buzzing
Repetitive echoes during the night of serpents
Storm that bombards the mosquito net
A confluence of rivers develops within the body
The cocoon fades
Your memory has been purged and emptied
The past has been disclosed and the future discerned
You’re immune
Bewitched by the jungle
LA SELVA
No vayas por esos sitios
en busca de lo que no se te ha perdido
Juan Carlos Galeano
El Amazonas es un lugar para morir
La luz se apaga / se enciende el cuerpo
Haber sido la selva
Haber regresado
Sin marcas de tigre ni besos de serpiente
Sin picaduras ni dengue ni zika
Desnudo en la oscuridad
Un pequeño cambio altera las cosas
El río se bifurca
Evitar el sendero que conduce al pantano
THE JUNGLE
Don’t go searching
for what you haven’t lost
Juan Carlos Galeano
The Amazon is a place to die
The light fades / the body ignites
To have been the jungle
To have returned
Without tiger scars or snake kisses
No bug bites or dengue or zika
Naked in darkness
One small change alters everything
The river splits
Avoid the trail leading to the marsh
ANACONDA
En el fondo espera a su presa
Boa indigesta
Ha dormido y comido
Tiene piernas
Su objetivo es enseñar a soñar
ANACONDA
Awaiting its prey in the deep
Indigestible boa
Has slept and eaten
Has legs
And a goal to teach to dream
PURGA
Por la boca
caen traumas y pecados
El cuerpo muda de piel
Se derrumba el edificio del ego
Es un espectáculo
la fiesta de la muerte
PURGE
Through the mouth
trickle traumas and sins
The body sheds its skin
Tears down the temple of the ego
It’s a spectacle
the feast of death
AVESTRUZ
La verdad cruje
bajo el tambo de la selva
Antonio Escrivania
Entonces me doy vuelta y
vomito
Veo caer la carne de los perros
La historia atiborrada de rosas marchitas
que los buitres robaron del valle
Veo montañas silenciosas y tensas
El bochorno
La luz de las velas
Sepelio sin rumbo
Vomito el rostro abultado de la violencia
La ignominia el resentimiento el descaro
Las armas de guerra
El horror
El monstruo que viola a su hija
y la madre que esconde su cuello
OSTRICH
The truth rattles
Under the tambo of the jungle
Antonio Escrivania
Then I turn around and
vomit
I see the flesh fall off the hounds
History is filled with wilted flowers
stolen from the valley by vultures
I see silent and tense mountains
Muggy weather
Candlelight
Aimless burial
I vomit the hefty face of violence
The disgrace the resentment the audacity
War weapons
Horror
The monster that rapes his daughter
and the mother who buries her head in the sand
NARCISO
Los ojos de la selva
son mariposas que sueñan el presente
y comparten su transparencia con el aliento de las cosas
que empañan el espejo donde un hombre mira su delirio
El aliento del ahora
se posa en los ojos de la selva
que contemplan el vuelo de las mariposas
y ahondan el sueño de un hombre que mira su delirio
La selva se humedece
en el sueño de las mariposas
que contemplan las puertas del presente
y pulsan los ojos de un hombre que mira su delirio
NARCISSUS
The eyes of the jungle
are butterflies that dream the present
and portion their transparency with the breath of things
that fog up the mirror where a man gazes upon his delusion
The breath of the present
rests on the eyes of the jungle
that muse over the flight of the butterflies
and deepen the dream of the man who gazes upon his delusion
The jungle humidifies
in the dream of the butterflies
that muse over the portal of the present
and press down on the eyes of the man who gazes upon his delusion
IQUITOS
La idea de la muerte es más fuerte que la muerte misma
Fantasma que vuelve por amor
Recuerda la sonajera del derrumbe
El miedo convertido en gozo
La selva es un lugar para morir
Después de la muerte solo queda la vida
IQUITOS
The idea of death is stronger than death itself
Ghost returning for love
Remember the rattle of the ruins
Fear turns to joy
The jungle is a place to die
After death only life remains
RUTA
Medellín, 2017
Entro en aquella senda
con cortes en el rostro
La música suena
aunque apagados estén los parlantes
Espíritus monótonos
monopolizan el paisaje
Padre, madre, hermanos
¿dónde dejaron su sombra?
Vuelta de senda
con más chicotazos en el cuerpo
Madre mía
¿cómo se deshizo el mundo?
La flautista traversa
hace un solo en el triángulo de la noche
Entro en el ritmo
Las palabras destilan un nombre fugaz
Sangre de sangres y sangres
La selva tiene huellas circulares
¿Cómo le darás la mano?
¿O un beso?
No es sino con el corazón
que el cuerpo cavila
Y oye con los oídos
que cuelgan de la techumbre del cerebro
La senda es larga como una carreta
pero caminando se anda
Coagulemos todos con fuerza
¡Vamos, dale, puja!
Por cada parto caen lágrimas
que se transforman en hongos al borde del camino
¿Cómo hacerse gigante o pequeño
sin ser mísero ni mezquino?
El sendero tiene ojos
y las paredes orificios donde entran las estrellas
Vestido rojo en penumbra de balcón
De lo obvio ni hablar
¿Cuántos trajes yo no diera?
¿cuántos mandamases y estafetas?
Dolor de la montaña y colmenas humanas
No hay imaginación
El río se seca
y los árboles raquíticos se pronuncian con angustia
Soplan los abuelos el recuerdo
que se esfuma con el viento del sur
“Lo esencial es invisible al estado”
Caos orgánico
Yo pensaba que los ciegos no miran
Habitantes del misterio
Estar satisfecho es estar muerto
Ríos de palabras y hormigas de cartulina
Los cortes en el rostro desaparecen
Pintura ritual
Bajo la suela se alisa la senda
Caminando se anda
ROUTE
Medellín, 2017
I begin that path
with cuts on the face
Music plays
although the speakers are off
Monotonous spirits
monopolize the countryside
Father, mother, siblings
where have you left your shadow?
The path contorts
as the body endures lashes
Holy shit
how did the world come undone?
The well-versed flutist
performs a solo in the triangle of night
I get in rhythm
the words distill into a fleeting name
Blood of bloods and bloods
the jungle has circular footprints
How would you offer a hand?
Or a kiss?
Is it not with the heart
that the body ponders
And listens with the ears
that hang from the dome of the brain
The path is long like a caravan
but by walking we proceed
Let us unite and gain strength
¡Vamos, dale, puja!
For each birth fall tears
that turn into fungi on the edge of the road
How can you become big or small
without being pitiful or petty?
The trail has eyes
and walls where stars enter through the holes
Red dress in the balcony’s twilight
Don’t state the obvious
How many suits would I not give?
how many barons and couriers?
Mountain pains and human hives
There’s no imagination
The river dries up
and the stunted trees scream in anguish
Elders blow the memory
that fades away with the southern wind
“The essential is invisible to the state”
Organic chaos
I thought the blind couldn’t see
Residents of mystery
To be satisfied is to be dead
Rivers of words and ants of cardboard
The cuts on the face disappear
Ritual painting
The path smooths beneath the sole
By walking we proceed
Dear Jesús,
I am curious about one thing – why have you chosen not to translate your poems yourself?
As I read you (your mails) it strikes me that your command of English would easily enable that decision.
Do you find something precisely valuable in having the work translated by (presumably) an English native speaker?
Or is it the poetic register that you do not feel comfortable enough with in English, as opposed to prose that is, possibly, “easier” to translate?
Respectfully,
Aryan
Dear Aryan,
English is my second language, French my third one, Portuguese my fourth, and then I can navigate the world through Italian and a little bit of German. I regret not knowing Mapudungun or Arabic. Lately, I have been trying to teach myself Mandarin. The world of Dao is beautiful to me, especially after 14 years of practicing Taiji. So, languages…mmm….I love them and respect them. I’m currently writing a poetry collection in English. It took me a while to channel poems in English, but voilà! There they come.
I have certainly translated myself but I have the impression my translations are sometimes too literal. If I let myself freely translate my own poems, I normally end up writing a different poem, or a version of a poem. Period. A translator is perhaps more objective than me. I have also worked closely with some of my translators, which has been a sweet experience and possibly a preferable way to go.
When Elmira read my manuscript in Spanish, she asked me if she could translate it. I accepted right away, especially after I realized she was writing about Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad, whom I quote at the beginning of the collection. That was a sort of serendipity. After our first meetings, I handed her the few poems I had already translated myself and she polished them and then translated the rest of the book. She worked hard and did a great job.
Also, for me writing poetry has a different taste than essay or prose writing. When I wrote Poets on the Edge (2016) I also translated poems by César Vallejo, Vicente Huidobro, Juan Luis Martínez and Néstor Perlongher. There I have no problems translating poems by other authors. But I truly believe my poetry is channeled and not written in the traditional way — or the way writing poetry is generally conceived. Here I interconnect certain Romanticism (perhaps) regarding the inspired poem vis-a-vis Shamanism, the voice that channels the spirits.
So, my decision to let others translate my work has nothing to do with my command of English but with certain mental disciplines or, perhaps, indisicipline as an idiosyncratic way of being that I’ve been following since I was a teenager. Having said that, maybe it’s time for me to start translating myself to see what happens–perhaps versions of the originals. Why not? Free translations are also fun to read.
Wishing you much love, health, happiness, and freedom!
Jesús
PS. I’m also copying a video of a reading I did of my poem “Insurrection.” I wrote this poem-manifesto two days after the uprising in Chile (I’m also copying a link to an article I wrote for the magazine Fifth Estate about the situation in Chile before the pandemic). I hope you enjoy them. Cheers!
Doll by Françoise Duvivier
Illustrations by Abraxas