Harkaitz Cano Poems

According to the doctors, you lack calcium in your bones
and what they've just told you
sounds like an old person's disease.
‘An old person's disease and a woman's disease', whispers
your conscience
beside your left ear.
A woman's disease, that's a laugh. To tell the truth,
you wouldn't mind at all
coming back as a woman in your next life:
any transformation is a convoluted way
of gaining power, if you manage to retain
a shred of memory of who you were before. But old?
It's time you started to accept it.
Everything is a matter of time or
lack of time.
You put on a record a friend gave you
when you turned fifteen;
you can't bear that music for even five minutes.
Someone knocks on the door, a starving person,
‘You owe me for February'.
This may be the lament of a poor wretch
who finds death before his time
in a second celestial request.
February, the cruelest month.
An answer for the landlord comes to mind,
‘for religious reasons, would you mind
if we forgot about February, and I'll owe you
for two Marches instead'.
But you keep quiet.
The frame of the open door barely keeps you on your feet.
‘You owe me for February', you hear again.

You feel it, yes indeed,
the leech in your bones
now has a name:
February.
...

Medikuen arabera, kaltzioa falta zaizu hezurretan
eta zaharren gaixotasuna irizten diozu
azaldu berri dizutenari.
«Zaharrena eta emakumeena» arduratu da zehazteaz
ezker belarriaren parean bizi zaizun
kontzientzia.
Emakumearenak grazia egiten dizu, egia esan
ez litzaizuke batere axola izango
hurrengo bizitza batean emakume jaiotzea:
boterea izateko era bihurri bat da
aldakuntza oro, aurrez zinenaren memoria zati bat
gordetzen jakinez gero. Baina zahartzearena?
Hori ere onartzen hasteko sasoian zaude.
Dena denbora kontua da edo denbora
faltarena.
Hamabost urte bete zenituenean lagun batek
oparitutako diskoa jarri duzu tokatan;
bost minutu ere ezin duzu jasan
musika hori. Atean jo dute, gosekilen bat,
«Otsaila zor didazu»
esaldi hori, heriotza denborak baino lehen
topatu duen gizajoren baten kexua dateke
bigarren instantzia zerutar batean.
Otsaila, hilabeterik krudelena.
Bururatu zaizu erantzun bat ugazabarentzat,
«arrazoi erlijiosoak medio, axola al zaizu otsailaz
ahaztuko bagina, bi martxo
zor izango nizkizuke hartara».
Isilik geratzen zara hala ere
ate irekiak nekez eusten zaitu, «Otsaila zor didazu»
entzun duzu berriro.

Senti zenezake, bai horixe,
Otsaila
badu ja bere izena
zure hezurretan bizi den izainak.
...

Ogia, lagunak, ardoa. Hurrenkera horretan. Frankenstein doktoreak sortutako munstroak esaten dituen lehen hiru hitzak.

*

Hainbeste borroka, katramila, sesio; hainbeste literatura eta hainbeste harrokeria, azkenean, bueltan-bueltan gauza guztietan pentsalari greziarrei arrazoia emateko. Edo are okerrago dena: zure gurasoei.

*

Ume irlandar lealistak errana, handitzean zer izan nahi ote duen galdetu diotenean: "Preso ohia".

*

Felt, Arthur Millerrek sortutako pertsonaiak esana: "Aukeratu beharra dago: gizakia fidel izan dakioke bere buruari edo fidel izan dakieke gainerakoei. Gainerakoei fidel eta norbere buruari fidel izatea, hori ezinezkoa da".

*

Emazteak senarrari: "Gu biotako bat hilko balitz, ni Parisera joango nintzateke bizitzera". (Sigmund Freuden txisterik gustukoena)

*

Garraio publikoetan galdutako beste egun bat: zail egiten zait idazlea ala garai batean komertzio biajante esaten zitzaion hori ote naizen bereiztea gaur bezalako egunetan. Idazle hitza ere biajante hitza bezain sasoiz kanpokoa eta iraungia ote den susmoa gero eta errotuago nire baitan. Egin leku predikatzaile berriei.

*

Ez erortzea da eraikinen berezko joera (J.R. Amondarain).

*

Esperientzia da lortzen duzuna, nahi duzuna lortzen ez duzunean (Ratab Manzil).

*

Seme-alabak gerraren jarraipena dira, beste bitarteko batzuekin.

*

Xake-taulan falta den piezarik garrantzitsuena: bufoia.

*

Zure fedea meharra eta hauskorra dela diozu. Baina zer fede ez da mehar eta hauskor? Mehar eta hauskor ez den fedeari beste izen bat eman behar genioke: xalotasuna, ameskeria, diziplina.
*

Jainkoak inkontzienteei laguntzen die. Tamalez, haiek ez dira enteratzen.
...

Bread, friends, wine. In that order. The first three words of Frankenstein's monster.

*

So much fighting, so many squabbles, so many quarrels; so much literature and so much arrogance, round and round about everything; in the end, the Greek thinkers were right. Or worse: your parents.

*

A loyalist Irish child, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up: ‘A former prisoner'.

*

Felt, one of Arthur Miller's characters: ‘A man can be faithful to himself or to other people - but not to both'.

*

Wife to husband: ‘If one of us dies, I'll go live in Paris'. (Sigmund Freud's favorite joke).

*

Another day wasted on public transportation: it's hard for me to tell on days like today if I am a writer or what they used to call a traveling salesman. The suspicion has taken root in my mind that the word writer is as outdated and obsolete as the word traveling. Make way for new predicates.

*

The natural inclination of buildings is to not fall down (J.R. Amondarain).

*

Experience is what you get, when you don't get what you want (Ratab Manzil).

*

Sons and daughters are the continuation of war by other means.

*

The most important piece not on the chess board: the jester.

*

Your faith is limited and fragile, you say. But what faith is not limited and fragile? A faith that is not limited and fragile we would call by another name: naïveté, illusion, discipline.

*

God helps the unconscious. Unfortunately, they don't know it.
...

For Nietzsche, hope was the beginning of loss.

But we can be even more radical:
the beginning of anything is the beginning of loss.

We all lose, but some lose more slowly
than others.

‘How's it going?' we ask mercilessly.

‘Slowly', we answer, without really knowing.

Losing slowly is what we call winning.

But I, who do not love losing, love to lose myself in the forest.

Especially in forests
of music and breath,
skin and bark.
...

Nietzscherentzat, esperantza zen derrotaren hasiera.

Baina izan gintezke erradikalago ere:
gauza guztien hasiera bera da derrotaren hasiera.

Guztiok gara galtzaile, soilik batzuek beste batzuek baino
polikiago galtzen dutela.

"Zer moduz zabiltza?", galdetzen dugu, dohakabe.

"Poliki", erantzuten dugu, jakin gabe.

Irabaztea esaten diogu, nonbait, poliki galtzeari.

Baina nik, galtzea maite ez dudan honek, biziki maite dut galtzea basoan.

Batez ere galtzea azala eta musika,
eta arnasa eta larrua
darien basoetan.
...

Zure agendan egonagatik sekula
ezagutu ez duzun jende hori da.
Gogoratzen saiatu arren arrotzak zaizkizun
izen eta zenbaki horiek guztiak.

Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak ez dizu sekula aitortuko
baina badaki
zerua ez dela urdina
samuraien izarekin egindako banderen zurrumurrua bereizten badaki
haizearen menera dagoenean.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak, jende horrek du
benetako bertigoa.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak ezingo luke
gau-club batean edo kafetxe bateko hormen artean lan egin.
Teilaren bat aske egon daitekeen susmoa dutenean
trazatu keinuak adierazten duen eran,
teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendea tango zalantzatien
irakasle izan zen
ez hain aspaldiko bizitza batean.

Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak presa-orduak eta jende pilaketak
saihesten ditu
jendetzak eta autobusek eta leuzemiaren usainak eta gehiegi hitzak
mundua bere buztinezko artesietatik
amilarazteko arriskua balego bezala.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendea ez da fido
goizeko bostetan kale hutsez ere,
eta teilatuetatik jaisten den apurretan
espaloia utziz errepideko zebrabidea zapaldu aurretik
oin bakar batez ziurtatzen du lehenbizi
asfaltuaren gogortasuna, zer gerta ere,
oinen pean ibai izoztu bat
hondoratuko zaion beldurrez.
...

They are people you don't recognize
even though they're in your address book.
All those names and numbers that are strange to you
even though you try to remember them.

People who work on rooftops will never admit it,
but they know
the sky is not blue,
they can hear the murmur of flags with samurai stars
when they face into the wind.
People who work on rooftops, these people know
true vertigo.
People who work on rooftops could not
work at a nightclub or within the walls of a café.
The gesture they make
when they suspect a loose shingle suggests
they might have been teachers
of a hesitant tango
in another life not so long ago.

People who work on rooftops avoid rush hour
and mobs,
as if crowds and buses and the smell of leukemia and the words too much
weighed too much,
might press the world down through cracks in the mud.
People who work on rooftops do not trust
even the empty streets at five in the morning,
and the rare times they alight,
before they leave the sidewalk and step on the crosswalk,
they first test it with one foot,
test the hardness of the asphalt,
fearing that this frozen river
might crack beneath their feet.
...

Motelago doa denbora atzerriko hirietan;
horregatik ihesak, horregatik aire konpainia eskasak, horregatik jet laga
-edo ezustean liluratu zaituen usain ezatsegin hori-;
horregatik planoei buruzbehera begiratzeko joera.

Motelago doa denbora ezezagunen etxeetan;
horregatik hotelak, horregatik bisitak, itxaron-gelekiko gogo hori;
horregatik kaleko sirena hotsen abiadan anbulantziak su-hiltzaileetatik
bereizteko grina asegaitza.

Motelago doalako denbora gorputz arrotzetan;
horregatik zain egon beharra ekarriko duten maitaleen xerka;
horregatik zauriak, motelago doalako denbora zaurien gainean.

Mina eternitate faltsu baten promesa faltsua delako.

Esplorazio guztiak,
kepiak buruan edo hartza-larrua soinean egindakoak,
zaldiz, mendiz, airez edo itsasoz egindako espedizio guztiak,
heroikoak eta eguneroko ostera txikiak
-Scott, Shackleton, Duvoisin kapitaina-,
erlojua geratzeko,
denborari trabes egiteko ahalegin xaloak ote ziren?

Motelago baitoa denbora beti elurra apartatu edo
aihotzarekin oihanean sasia garbitzen zabiltzanean.

Bide ezagunetan, aldiz, azkarrago pasatzen dira orduak.

Hori da ordaina: galduta zaudenean doala motelen denbora.

Amildegian motelago lautadan baino.
Basoan motelago xenda seguruan baino.

Xendan dagoenak, basora begiratzen du beti, bertan laino.
Basoan nahi luke galdu denbora,
bera denboran ez galtzeko eta
denborak ez alferrik galtzeko bera, akaso.

Esanda doa:
inork ez du egundo denbora malgu hori errenditu.
Katedun erlojuetan katebegi huts gu,
basoan umeak egin eta basoan galtzen diren umeen
ipuinak egiten
jarraitzen dugu.

Motelago igarotzen delako denbora beti
bide ezezagunetatik goazenean.
...

Time goes more slowly in a foreign city;
therefore escapes, therefore inadequate airline companies, therefore jetlag
- or that sudden captivating unpleasant odor -
therefore the tendency to read maps upside down.

Time goes more slowly in strange houses;
therefore hotels, therefore visits, a fascination with waiting rooms;
therefore the insatiable desire
to tell ambulances from fire trucks in the swift wail of a siren.

Time goes more slowly in unknown bodies;
therefore the search for lovers that spring from new delays;
therefore wounds, because time goes more slowly over wounds.

Because pain is the false promise of a false eternity.

All explorations,
undertaken with military caps or wrapped in bearskin,
on horseback, in the mountains, in the open air or by sea,
heroic or daily strolls
- Scott, Shackleton, Captain Duvoisin -
are they but pathetic attempts to stop the clock,
to bet against time?

Because time always goes slower as snow is removed
or as the machete clears brambles in the jungle.

But on familiar roads the hours fly by.

This is the price you pay: time goes slowest when you are lost.

Slower on a cliff than on the flatlands.
Slower in the forest than on a safe path.

The rambler always looks to the forest, to the mist there.
He would like to lose time in the forest
but not lose himself in time or
not be lost by time, perhaps.

It has been said:
no one has yet conquered flexible time.
Mere links in the chain of time are we,
bearing children in the forest and telling
children's stories
lost there.

Because time always passes more slowly
on unfamiliar paths.
...