Juan Manuel Roca Poems

For Rafael Alcides, who knows the little park of No One.

Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
TS Eliot
In bronze. Let it be in bronze the statue of No One. With pedestal. Let it be of marble, its pedestal. In a bright-lit square we shall put up his monument. No One will have the green epaulettes that pigeons will leave on his shoulders.
In the absence of heroes we could adopt him as the city standard bearer, front man in the battles of nothing. Historians and academics will take care of the necessary details of his life. Couples will meet beneath an equestrian shadow - since heroes take pleasure in horses - in the big square that we'll give a Chirico touch.
It will be seemly to adorn the statue with out-of-season flowers: sunflowers in stone and metal orchids.
In bronze. Let it be in bronze the statue of No One, in homage to the just man, to the non-existent gentleman.
...

Un cura me abofeteó en el patio del colegio porque no cantaba un himno, y mi mejilla, luego de 40 años, apenas regresa de aquella bofetada.

Vi en el giro de la mejilla hacia la izquierda el país que pudo ser, y en el giro a la derecha el encierro del sueño.

De regreso de la bofetada, ha empezado a holgar la casa como un sacón prestado. Sobra decir que sigo sin cantar el himno y la mano del cura al que nunca puse la otra mejilla está envuelta en la nada.
...

A priest slapped my face in the schoolyard because I wasn't singing a hymn, and my cheek, after 40 years, is barely returned from that slap.

I saw in the turn of the cheek to the left the country that might have been, and in the turn to the right the burial of a dream.

Coming back from the slap, the house is growing loose like a borrowed coat. Needless to say I still haven't sung the hymn and the hand of the priest to which I never gave the other cheek is wrapped in nothing.
...

Se nos dio el cuerpo
Para tener más cerca al enemigo,
Para vigilarlo
Y que no tenga tiempo
De apostarse tras un árbol
A esperar nuestro paso.
Se nos dio el cuerpo
Para que entre él y nosotros
No haya terrenos minados
Ni emboscadas.
Se nos dio sin exigirlo,
Como al príncipe el trono,
Para que no pudiera
Mezclar el vino con veneno
Sin abdicar de su reino.
En adelante se impuso
La costumbre de ir con el cuerpo
A todas partes,
De bañarse con él
Para evitar la sorpresa
De un brillo de puñal tras la cortina.
Construimos el hábito
De seguirle los pasos al cuerpo
Y tenderle la trampa del espejo,
De no dejarlo a solas
Ni siquiera cuando duerme.
Se nos dio el cuerpo
Para tener más cerca al enemigo.
...

We were given the body
To have our enemy nearer,
To watch him
So he doesn't have time
To hide behind a tree
And wait for us to go by.
We were given the body
So that between him and us
There would be no mined ground
Or ambushes.
We were given it without asking,
Like the prince got the throne,
So he couldn't
Mix wine with poison
Without abdicating his kingdom.
Later was the imposition
Of the habit of going with the body
All over the place,
Of having a bath with it
To avoid the surprise
Of a dagger flash behind the curtain.
We constructed the habit
Of following the body's steps
And setting it the trap of the mirror,
Of not leaving it alone
Not even when it sleeps.
We were given the body
To have our enemy nearer.
...

Con las guitarras de Wichi Nogueras
y Ramón Fernández Larrea
Y todos estos hombres que bailan
¿Van a morir? ¡Yeah!
Y los bárbaros que no llegan
Al poema del griego, ¿van a morir? ¡Oh, yeah!
Y el pájaro azul que me despierta
De la horrible pesadilla
En la que chapaleo ¿recubierto de lodo? ¡Yeah, yeah!
¿Y los niños, por Dios,
Los niños que vuelcan el cesto de sus voces
En medio de nuestra estúpida historia?
¡Sí, nena!
Y la luna rasurada y palmoteada con lavanda
Y la muchacha loca como los pájaros
Y los ríos donde la muerte se baña una y tres veces
Y las idiotas mañanitas de Dios
Y todos los poetas los engolados los puros
Los amorosos los solemnes y los piojosos
Todos los arrogantes y soberbios poetas
¿Van a morir? ¡Yeah! ¡Tres veces yeah!
...

With the guitars of Wichi Nogueras
and Ramón Fernández Larrea
And all these men who are dancing,
Are they going to die? Yeah!
And the barbarians who don't come
To the poem of the Greek, are they going to die? Oh yeah!
And the blue bird that rouses me
From the horrible nightmare
In which I splash about, covered in mud maybe? Yeah, yeah!
And the children, for God's sake,
The children who knock over the hamper of their voices
In the middle of our stupid story?
Yes, babe!
And the moon clean-shaven with lavender slapped on
And the girl crazy as the birds
And the rivers where death bathes once and thrice
And God's idiot daybreaks
And all the poets the haughty the pure of heart
The amorous the solemn the lice-ridden
All the arrogant and supercilious poets
Are they going to die? Yeah! Three times yeah!
...

Trazo la palabra piel. En un festín de garras y de plumas la palabra cuervo la desmembra como a una res desollada.

Siembro la palabra jazmín. Cuando está a punto de brotar su aroma, la palabra desierto la borra, escamotea su savia.

Escribo la palabra eternidad y una rosa se marchita. Arrojo la palabra pájaro y cae en espiral, desplumada y seca.

Ni siquiera la palabra agua queda de la palabra hielo.
...

I trace the word skin. At a feast of claws and feathers the word crow dismembers it
like a flayed beast.

I sow the word jasmine. When it's about to sprout its fragrance, the word desert
wipes it out, whisks away its sap.

I write the word eternity and a rose withers. I hurl the word bird and it spirals down,
featherless and dry.

Not even the word water remains of the word ice.
...

Las ventanas
Permanecen
Asomadas al paisaje.

Los parques
Viven
Tendidos en la hierba.

El mar
Se navega a sí mismo.

Las cuevas se esconden
En bostezos de piedra.

Nos ignoran los signos.

Qué fácil prescinden
De nosotros.
...