James Hawkey

More about the translator

Translated by James Hawkey

autopsy / autòpsia

What is this deadly poison that
corrodes the best in us, leaving
only the shell?
INGMAR BERGMAN

maybe it was the sharp eye
of the bird of sleep
that was looking at us;
maybe it was all this anguish
traversing the borders
of the countries that live within
the scab on our skin;
maybe it was the deft outline
of the nuclear aboulia that
fills us with weariness
behind the rind of us;
maybe it was You and Me,
that we understood the nothingness
and made of it a profane tree
in the paradise of watching us fall;
maybe it was the circular stroke
that I undraw in the dirty air
when I hurl myself into your ravine;
maybe it was the teeth of that rift
that welcomes us, open-mouthed, into an end
that we’ve known for many years;
maybe it was the rancid sweat of the world,
the structural narcosis,
the vascular anaesthesia,
the saintly drowsiness;
maybe it was the gastric Void
of this sad god
that for some time
is bored
and cries rubble.
Translated by James Hawkey
¿Quin és aquest verí que devora el millor de nosaltres
i només en deixa la closca?
INGMAR BERGMAN

potser era l’ull esmolat
de l’ocell de la son
que ens mirava;
potser era tota aquesta angúnia
resseguint-nos la frontera
dels països que ens habiten
el crostim de cada pell;
potser era l’hàbil silueta
de l’abúlia nuclear que
ens eixampla el cansament
rere l’escorça del nosaltres;
potser érem Tu i Jo,
que ens enteníem el no-res
i el fèiem arbre profanat
del paradís de veure’ns caure;
potser era el traç arrodonit
que desdibuixo en l’aire brut
quan m’estimbo als teus barrancs;
potser eren les dents de l’esvoranc
que ens acull, bocaobert, a una fi
que fa molts anys que coneixem;
potser era la suor rància del món,
la narcosi estructural,
l’anestèsia vascular,
el sopor deïficat;
potser era el Buit estomacal
d’aquest déu trist
que ja fa temps
que s’avorreix
i plora runa.
the Void (or the betrayal of the word-crack) / el Buit (o la traïció de la paraula-escletxa)

On voudrait saigner le Silence.
JULES LAFORGUE

and it was then that I saw the Void inside your mouth.
it was a Void made of the sleepiness of an immense forest of long-lived trees.
it was a Void made of the weeping of a thousand birds flying over a city with no memory.
it was a Void made of the people looking up and saying it is raining.
it was a Void made of the gaze of dead fish.
it was a Void made of deserts full of noise, far from the sea.

and I looked at your eyes in order to not look at your mouth anymore,
but your mouth overflowed and your gums melted
and your teeth were made of moss and your tongue was squashed
under the weight of so much silence, and your lips filled
with cracks that were new mouths that didn’t say anything either.

and it was then that I looked at the Void inside your mouth.
it was a wide and thick Void, with the colour of an end
made calm and with the shape of the sea when it’s full,
and you foamed with saburra like a sad animal,
and you spat black bile and your tongue stood upright
tall and proud like a pine tree and squeezed
through your palate like a root.

and I felt your breath.

and your breath was cold.

and the cold was very slow.
Translated by James Hawkey
On voudrait saigner le Silence.
JULES LAFORGUE

i va ser llavors que et vaig veure el Buit a dins la boca.
era un Buit fet de la son d’un bosc immens d’arbres longeus,
era un Buit fet del plor de mil ocells sobrevolant una ciutat sense memòria,
era un Buit fet de la gent que mira amunt i diu que plou,
era un Buit fet del mirar dels peixos morts,
era un Buit fet de deserts plens de soroll, molt lluny del mar.

i et mirava els ulls per no mirar-te més la boca,
però la boca se’t vessava i les genives se’t desfeien
i les dents t’eren de molsa i la llengua s’esclafava
sota el pes de tant silenci, i els llavis se t’omplien
de clivelles que eren boques totes noves
que tampoc no deien res.

i va ser llavors que et vaig mirar el Buit de dins la boca.
era un Buit ample i espès, del color d’una fi
feta calma i amb la forma del mar quan va ple,
i escumejaves de saburra com un animal trist,
i escopies bilis negra i la llengua se t’alçava
ben altiva com un pi i se t’enfonyava
al paladar com una arrel.

i et vaig notar l’alè.

i el teu alè era fred.

i el fred era molt lent.
/ (Untitled)

And the crow, with its beak
jabs at the dead metaphor;
sorts the maggots from the meat;
fills its body with putrid blood
and with the useless clots that droop from it;
pecks away with the weary rage
of one who knows every inch
of corpses, like the rooms of a house;
pokes away with the exhausted calm
of one who understands the terrifying whims
of death, and embraces them.

Suddenly it stops, attentive, listening,
and the shadow of its eyes mimics the panic
made by the fingers of the night
as they let their black blood
drip onto the world.

The crow feels it.

The crow knows it.

It knows that far from here
in the meagre skin of a constant desert,
a wound is opening up
full of forests.
Translated by James Hawkey
I el corb, amb el bec,
va furgant la metàfora morta,
destria els cucs de la carn;
s’omple el cos de la sangassa putrefacta
i dels coàguls inútils que hi pengen;
picoteja amb la ràbia gastada
de qui coneix els cadàvers
pam a pam, com les habitacions d’una casa;
espicassa amb la calma exhaurida
de qui comprèn els rampells tremebunds
de la mort, i els abraça.

De cop s’atura i, atent, escolta,
i l’ombra dels seus ulls imita el pànic
que fan els dits de la nit
quan deixen caure sobre el món
la seva hemorràgia negra.

El corb ho sent.

El corb ho sap.

Sap que molt lluny d’aquí,
en la pell magra d’un desert constant,
s’hi va obrint una ferida
plena de boscos.
/ (Untitled)

In the precise circle of a clearing
in the middle of the woods
there’s a man and it’s not me.

Nor are mine
these two eyes
that unrecognisably
rest on
these fleeting things
- the bird, the earth, the world

nor these hands
that without moving
have learned to measure
the light feverish,
the shadows demented

nor these feet
that torment the silent
and yielding earth with roots
- the pedestal that supports
the motionless statue
of this man
who isn’t me.
Translated by James Hawkey
Al cercle precís d’una clariana
enmig del bosc
hi ha un home i no soc jo.

Tampoc no són pas meus
aquests dos ulls
que irreconeixiblement
reposen sobre
aquestes coses breus
—l’ocell, la terra, el món

ni aquestes mans
que sense moure’s
han après a calibrar
el prodigi de la llum,
el desvari de les ombres

ni aquests peus
que mortifiquen amb arrels
la terra muda i entregada
—la peanya que sosté
l’estàtua immòbil
d’aquest home
que no soc.
/ (Untitled)

Maybe it’s a gesture that at the last moment
holds back, a secret language behind the eyes,
an intact mystery between blossoms on our tongue
- I imagine it like mother of pearl
caged inside the shell.

A sort of frenzy spreads through the world as delicately
as harp strings, a tiny chaos that hides away
inside things, a vibration that reads
the slow whims in my bones.

Only the carcass of the sun is left.
All the places have learned to exist without us.

I make the final step: the earth has backed down
- and buried in my ribs I feel my heart,
big and warm, that starts to beat
like an absurd stone.
Translated by James Hawkey
Potser és un gest que al darrer instant es reté
d’alliberar-se, un idioma secret al darrere dels ulls,
un misteri intacte entre els brotons de la llengua
—me l’imagino com el nacre de la perla
engabiada en el mol·lusc.

Una mena de vertigen recorre el món amb la finor
de cordes d’arpa, una voràgine menuda que s’amaga
a dins les coses, una vibració que m’endevina
el caprici lent dels ossos.

Del sol només en queda la carcassa.
Tots els llocs han après a existir sense nosaltres.

Faig l’últim pas: la terra ha claudicat
—i tancat a les costelles noto el cor,
gras i calent, que se’m posa a bategar
com una pedra absurda.
fracture / fractura

it bends.
you notice it’s bending
it bends
like the branch
where birds nest
and sit on eggs.
it bends.
you notice it’s bending,
in spite of faith,
in spite of the certainties
like wires
crossing
your spinal
column
to straighten it,
in spite of promises,
that were silent
shadows
uselessly
propping up
your spinal cord,
that is no longer straight,
that has taken on
this weight
that dangerously
hunches it,
that is now like this,
bendy,
its natural state.
and it bends
each vertebra
is a sacrifice
that arches you
flattening you
under the weight
of each guilt,
and it bends,
and it bends again,
and it twists,
and it makes an acute angle
of the parabola
of your body
and your blame,
and the chicks
shriek at you
the resigned
fear
of someone who awaits
the fall.
and it bends
and it hurts
your spine,
that already bleeds
sacrifice
and it shakes
your core.
it bends,
and your back
already draws a
dangerously
hunched
arch.
it bends,
and with each
new sacrifice
the birds
shriek
the resigned
fear
of someone who awaits
the f r a c t u r e
Translated by James Hawkey
se’t vincla.
notes que se’t vincla.
se’t vincla
com la branca
on nien els ocells
i coven ous.
se’t vincla.
notes que se’t vincla,
malgrat la fe,
malgrat les certeses
com filferros
resseguint-te
la columna
vertebral
per redreçar-la,
malgrat les promeses,
que eren ombres
silencioses
apuntalant-te
inútilment
la medul·la espinal,
que ja no es dreça,
que s’ha fet seu
aquest pes
que perillosament
l’encorba,
que ja és així,
vincladís,
el seu estat natural.
i se’t vincla.
cada vèrtebra
és una renúncia
que t’arqueja
esclafant-te
sota el pes
de cada culpa,
i se’t vincla
i se’t revincla,
i se’t corba,
i se’t fa aguda
la paràbola
del cos
i de la culpa,
i t’hi xisclen
els pollets
la temença
resignada
de qui espera
la caiguda.
i se’t vincla
i t’agonitza
la columna,
que ja sagna
sacrifici
i et sacseja
l’equilibri.
se’t vincla,
i l’esquena
ja et dibuixa
una arcada
perillosament
corbada.
se’t vincla,
i amb cada
nova renúncia
t’hi xisclen
els ocells
la temença
resignada
de qui espera

la f r a c t u r a.
Ruins/rubble / Ru(ï)na

Now come and tell me
that my hands are still real.

Now come and tell me
that my name is still a bastion
that quietly lays in wait for the enemy.

Now come and tell me
that our words don’t grow maggots,
that our religion knows no dead,
that we don’t understand the eyes of every ghost,
that we don’t know the shapes drawn by the wails
that fall out of our mouths in a hail
of deaf rage.

Now come and tell me
that you don’t feel the uneasiness of the stagnant water,
that you don’t feel the grey calm that shrouds the cracks,
that you don’t feel the blind doubt that drills into us
like a mole emptying the world.

Now come and tell me
that from the fires that blacken the landscapes
we’ll make a red glowing hearth
for the long winter nights.

Now come and tell me
that empires of water will rain down
on the desert that we carry within.

Now come and tell me
that we’ll call rubble ruins.

Now come and tell me
that never again will we confuse cracks for pathways.
Translated by James Hawkey
Ara vine i digue’m
que les meves mans encara tenen forma.

Ara vine i digue’m
que el meu nom segueix sent un bastió
que calla mentre espera l’enemic.

Ara vine i digue’m
que els nostres mots no crien larves,
que no coneix cap mort la nostra religió,
que no entenem els ulls de cada espectre,
que no sabem el traç que dibuixen els laments
quan ens cauen de la boca en calabruix
de ràbia sorda.

Ara vine i digue’m
que no sents el malestar de l’aigua morta,
que no sents la calma grisa que amortalla les fissures,
que no sents el dubte cec que ens trepana
com un talp que buida el món.

Ara vine i digue’m
que dels incendis que ens calcinen els paisatges
en farem una foguera de clarors totes vermelles
per a les llargues nits d’hivern.

Ara vine i digue’m
que plouran imperis d’aigua
sobre el desert que portem dins.

Ara vine i digue’m
que de la runa en direm ruïna.

Ara vine i digue’m
que mai més no confondrem les esquerdes i els camins.

James Hawkey

Translated by James Hawkey

autopsy / autòpsia

the Void (or the betrayal of the word-crack) / el Buit (o la traïció de la paraula-escletxa)

/ (Untitled)

/ (Untitled)

/ (Untitled)

fracture / fractura

Ruins/rubble / Ru(ï)na