Kenneth Patchen. 2 poemas traducciòn Pablo Queralt.

 

 Trás las huellas del caminante aire

 

Tras las huellas del caminante aire

Los pollos proféticos de Sky tejen su tela de asombro

Y las laderas levantan alas verdes en un viaje sombrío

 

La noche en su suave prisa golpea sobre los hombros del abismo

Y una sola gota de sangre oscura cubre la tierra

 

Ahora es la china del espíritu caminando

En mis alcances.

Un órgano de sable suena en mi voluntad reunida

Y canta el esqueleto inescrutable del amor. 

 

Mi vista se mueve bajo una mortaja vegetal

Y los bosques muertos están donde una vez estuvo Mary

 

Los perros de piedra hoscos esperan en los bosques de agua

A través del vagabundo se ahoga, su bienestar es como un fuego

Que arde en el fondo del mar, calentando

Caminos desconocidos por los que dormir para caminar.

 

 

Saturday Night In The Parthenon

 

 

Tiny green birds skate over the surface of the room. 
A naked girl prepares a basin with steaming water, 
And in the corner away from the hearth, the red wheels 
Of an up-ended chariot slowly turn. 
After a long moment, the door to the other world opens 
And the golden figure of a man appears. He stands 
Ruddy as a salmon beside the niche where are kept 
The keepsakes of the Prince of Earth; then sadly, drawing 
A hammer out of his side, he advances to an oaken desk, 
And being careful to strike in exact fury, pounds it to bits. 
Another woman has by now taken her station 
Beside the bubbling tub. 
Her legs are covered with a silken blue fur, 
Which in places above the knees 
Grows to the thickness of a lion's mane. 
The upper sphere of her chest 
Is gathered into huge creases by two jeweled pins. 
Transparent little boots reveal toes 
Which an angel could want. 
Beneath her on the floor a beautiful cinnamon cat 
Plays with a bunch of yellow grapes, running 
Its paws in and out like a boy being a silly king. 
Her voice is round and white as she says: 
'Your bath is ready, darling. Don't wait too long.' 
But he has already drawn away to the window 
And through its circular opening looks, 
As a man into the pages of his death. 
'Terrible horsemen are setting fire to the earth. 
Houses are burning ... the people fly before 
The red spears of a speckled madness . . .' 
'Please, dear,' interrupts the original woman, 
'We cannot help them ... Under the cancerous foot 
Of their hatred, they were born to perish - 
Like beasts in a well of spiders ... 
Come now, sweet; the water will get cold.' 
A little wagon pulled by foxes lowers from the ceiling. 
Three men are seated on its cushions which breathe 
Like purple breasts. The head of one is tipped 
To the right, where on a bed of snails, a radiant child 
Is crowing sleepily; the heads of the other two are turned 
Upward, as though in contemplation 
Of an authority which is not easily apprehended. 
Yet they act as one, lifting the baby from its rosy perch, 
And depositing it gently in the tub. 
The water hisses over its scream ... a faint smell 
Of horror floats up. Then the three withdraw 
With their hapless burden, and the tinny bark 
Of the foxes dies on the air. 
'It hasn't grown cold yet,' the golden figure says, 
And he strokes the belly of the second woman, 
Running his hands over her fur like someone asleep. 
They lie together under the shadow of a giant crab 
Which polishes its thousand vises beside the fire. 
Farther back, nearly obscured by kettles and chairs, 
A second landscape can be seen; then a third, fourth, 
Fifth ... until the whole, fluted like a rose, 
And webbed in a miraculous workmanship, 
Ascends unto the seven thrones 
Where Tomorrow sits. 
Slowly advancing down these shifting levels, 
The white Queen of Heaven approaches. 
Stars glitter in her hair. A tree grows 
Out of her side, and gazing through the foliage 
The eyes of the Beautiful gleam - 'Hurry, darling,' 
The first woman calls. 'The water is getting cold.' 
But he does not hear. 
The hilt of the knife is carved like a scepter 
And like a scepter gently sways 
Above his mutilated throat ... 
Smiling like a fashionable hat, the furry girl 
Walks quickly to the tub, and throwing off 
Her stained gown, eels into the water. 
The other watches her sorrowfully; then, 
Without haste, as one would strangle an owl, 
She flicks the wheel of the chariot - around 
Which the black world bends ... 
    without thrones or gates, without faith, 
    warmth or light for any of its creatures; 
    where even the children go mad - and 
As though unwound on a scroll, the picture 
Of Everyman's murder winks back at God. 
Farther away now, nearly hidden by the human, 
Another landscape can be seen ... 
And the wan, smiling Queen of Heaven appears 
For a moment on the balconies of my chosen sleep.

 

Sábado por la noche en el Partenón.

 

Pequeños pájaros verdes patinan sobre la superficie de la habitación.

Una chica desnuda prepara una palangana con agua hirviendo

Y en la esquina alejada del hogar, las ruedas rojas

De un carro de punta hacia arriba gira lentamente.

Después de un largo momento, se abre la puerta al otro mundo.

Y aparece la figura dorada de un hombre. se pone de pie

Rubio como un salmón junto al nicho donde se guardan     

Los recuerdos del príncipe de la tierra; luego tristemente

Dibujando con un martillo de su costado avanza hacia un escritorio de roble.

Y teniendo cuidado de golpear con furia exacta, lo hace pedazos,

Otra mujer ha tomado su puesto

Junto a la tina burbujeante.   

Sus piernas están cubiertas con un pelaje azul sedoso,

Que en lugares por encima de las rodillas 

Crece hasta el grosor de la melena de un león.

La esfera superior de su pecho

Esta recogido en enormes pliegues por dos alfileres enjoyados

Botitas transparentes revelan los dedos del pie.

Lo que un ángel podría querer.

Debajo de ella en el suelo un hermoso gato canela

Juega con un racimo de uvas amarillas, corriendo

Sus patas entran y salen como un niño siendo un rey tonto.

Su voz es redonda y blanca mientras dice:

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