Luis Yuseff (Cuba)

Por: Luis Yuseff
Traductor: Manuel García Verdecia, Nicolás Suescún

PROMETEO
Latinoamerican Poetry Magazine
84-85. July 2008.

pain of resurrection

I am in the instant when I don’t cling to life any more, but I carry within myself all the being’s hungers and persistent titillations.
I have but one occupation: to make up myself again.
Antonin Artaud

empires exhumed by God’s eye that makes bells toll
in the air’s secret monasteries
empires of roots adventitiously growing from the wood’s entrails
into the wind’s flowing room

empires succeeding in the light like stars of tiny nature
impoverished by the new advents

empire of the body that returns from earth and accepts itself
in a brief rise
gradually awaking by densities
by the most obscure pores
by the slot through which the gas of life does its inauguration
from the chest to the blue veins
clutching arms/ legs/ hearts/ sighs

empire of the body that has started to defrost breath
with an excitement of fire detached from the original womb 
by the hand that is already moving
that is already a promise on the rose’s skeleton:

resurrection of the rose: pain of resurrection

hands that will turn against the wood
since it has been granted the craft and the grace for returning
the feet that took it to the celebrations of longing
the hands with which it fed the hunger exhaled by the mouth of singing
the hands which gave shelter to anger and peace
hands like paths between mountains
hands to drink from on the thick layers of summer
hands to hold on to faith:
chosen are the ones who attend the resurrection of the rose/
advent of the body
celebrations amidst incense smoke and the clamour and the revelry
and the pregnancy of life to be lived

now that you return: pain of resurrection
when nothing that you look at
nothing that extols you is known:

the mountain-top species flutter around your head
there’s a music expelled by oboes
that solemnly pierce the morning
like those spikes which in another century were caressed
by the virgin’s finger
and now push towards the sky held
by deaf archangels

the oboe sounds solemnly and there’s a crevice
through which the breeze of the amazed mutant filters into

you smile amidst the most recent wine
you wake up from sleep: someone has left over your blanket
a crown of good fortune

you’ve been chosen by the instant’s posterity and now
grateful –convinced of the miracle–
before the embrace of others
you find next to the doors of God’s love
that there isn’t a single reason
to remain swaying on the plains of the living.

Jacques Prévert Don’t Let her Cry for Me

Jacques Prévert poet lover
of the nights of Paris
the wind swept away your poems.
They seem giant butterflies beating their wings among the rubber
plants.
I am afraid of the dry grass
stopping like nets
the flight of your white butterflies.
I am afraid of those boys
looking at me from the shadows and
of the long smiles
clasped to their lips like mesh.
I am afraid of their smiles
that I would not like to understand.
the more we smile
the more we suffer
atrociously.
Last night I could no longer sleep
Jacques Prévert.
The dream has become
a handful of dust on my eyes.
Y now they say I’m a angel
although no one truly knows
what is an angel
nor what that star weighs in solitude.
My lover does know
in her arms
more than a creature in suspense
I have been a man of tenderness
lashed by demons and marvels.
One night
fear proyected itself against the fight of pines
howling like dogs
and we kept silent Jacques Prévert
in spite of our naked bodies
and the smell of dry leaves in her breast.
Because the loving desire always made us defenseless.
And this city is not Paris.
This city that has seen me so many times
hiding the reveilles of my crying.
I would no longer care if one more time
she hoists against my sadness
the taunt of a smile
because now I invite you Jacques Prévert
to cheer up the heart
leaving one tree for another like birds.
Let’s get drunk with the liquors of midnight
before the half moon of your eyes
raises the amazemente of my lips that did not kiss you
because the wind ended up frightening us.
I invite you Jack Prévert poet lover
let us get drunk till we believe
this crying is of merriment.