José Ángel Cilleruelo was born in Barcelona
Old Book
Fair En Ciutat Vella
The stain
of time erases the gold
and
presence of the letters. I read Rime
with my
head and not my eyes.
Nacre of
old parchment. Printed
in the Florence
edition. A
year before dying
Leopardi,
in Naples
He wrote
alcune poche avvertenze,
in defense
against old reprimands
and
forgotten accusations, darts
whose
poison infects the memory,
in pain,
remembering others’
plagiarism
of his notes to Petrach.
(Translation
by Mark C. Aldrich)
Who Dies
With No Elegy
I must have
looked at you,
clumsy
canine waste by the curb,
with the
blank stare of one who’s driving,
perhaps,
too, a death like ours, unplanned for.
I must have
spoken with the arrogant eyes
of a
thinker to the friend who has seen
the same
blood and guts, because speaking
differentiates
us from one who barks.
What
nonsense did I utter later
to soften
up the unpleasant image?
The
highway, nonetheless, goes on.
The radio
is on. Someone passes us.
In the inn
where we have lunch, there’s nothing
left of the
dog. Nor of he who saw it.
(Translation
by Mark C. Aldrich)
Presentation
of Barcelona
Rimbaud
would be so bored among us.
Without his
mane, his pipe,
without
anywhere to sleep
along the
side of the road, we greet.
Our
celebrante, the old high priest of poetry,
an atheist
by virtue of forgetting.
Café del
Centro, Girona Street
sixty—nine.
June looking dirty and ugly.
What could
make us brothers of Rimbaud?
We age
slowly, calmly.
No one
threatens us in our asylum
of bad
editors and no reviews.
But we love
one another a lot,
because,
with Rimbaud dead, there’s no life.
(Translation
by Mark C. Aldrich)
A Man of Action Reading
From the beginning it was believed Quijote was one thing and Cervantes something quite different. There were those who who went to great lengths to demonstrate the obvious, that Cervantes was as singular as his character. On deaf ears. At estate auctions rarely is a Quijote figure missing: framed, wooden, metal, miniature, as a bust... the variety of forms is enormous, as is the variety of gestures and postures. Today I find a surprising one: an armored Quijote, seated, book in hands, reading. There is no greater paradox: if don Quijote sat down to read, he wouldn't be Quijote, he'd be Cervantes.
(Traducción Por Mark C. Aldrich)
