Jaume Subirana Poems

Empty, for winter is harsh,
it searches while it waits
for grape seeds, the light
...

If death or illness in another
creature is also our own
death or illness,
then this sharp blow, shrill yelp
...

The green of the wind among the leaves,
the hour's shadow upon the wall,
the movement she makes, as she takes off her clothes,
...

I plunged my two hands
into the fish-tank of days
and the water slipped away from me
as though it were an animal,
...

First thing in the morning I wade into the river
all alone. No-one accompanies, awaits me,
beyond the unfailing current carrying me
towards another river, another day, to the same
smell of a cloth for holding trout: ‘Here!'
The same hands, but they're tiny, tightly
grip the black handle of the landing net.
I hear my little spool rewind,
bend patiently over the water,
on a flat rock with trees around,
early evening, silence, mosquitoes,
I see, rising from the river, my
father's broad back, pulling in,
slowly stretching out his arm,
throwing, pulling in again,
wearing a cap and big green boots,
the same boots with which warily
I test the river's bed, the stones,
slippery detritus of the years,
then turn, lift on the line a trout
that flaps relentlessly, and move
upstream, letting the hook lodge, till
I reach, father, the flat rock where
I'm waiting for you, hand-net ready.

Translated by Christopher Whyte
...

Let it be always September, and winter
wait for us in vain.
Let every downpour,
...

I hear it in our embrace.
Maybe she doesn't yet know. But there are her eyes,
there are her eyes, so close to mine I can't see them,
and her other hand, the consenting hand,
...

I summon up your memory
from the dried wine-stain on the marble
worktop of the kitchen.
...

It is night I can see,
no need for car headlights.
Among the trees a hundred different greens,
pile of mute forms
I try to get my hands on:
my fingers rain on every leaf,
I snake along the crowns,
nurture the roots.
Of course there are voices, too,
and I remember a time
when I was part of this.
Now I want to write and am
only a faint soughing through the trees.

Translated by Christopher Whyte
...