ISSN 2692-3912

Two Poems

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Two Poems

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To Their Namesakes

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A Night at the Opera

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Between the fifth beer and the eleventh

the world dissolves, and

starts losing its thickness.

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Everything is simple and complicated at the same time

as if you were looking through a hole

that, some say, Pancho Villa

tore open in the celling with a gunshot

to give the spot

its legendary shanty aura.

(And it’s been high class and overpriced ever since.)

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These days, many things have changed:

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Above the bar, on screen

the boring Atlante vs Pumas game sits flickering

a picture of Saturday-night misery.

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“Offense! That’s what we need!”

mutters a diplomat with a degree

who switched his seat

for a somewhat more discreet

table, after being

displayed on national TV

receiving what might be already something of a bribe

the oral endorsement

of some ex officio Ganymede boy.

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Meanwhile, the sports journalist

screams at the top of his lungs, narrating

acts that only his eyes perceive.

In vain. Well, who could hear him

amidst the bustling of cups and plates

that the waiters and waitresses pleasantly lavish

where the air is in and of itself

a hot consommé of cackling?

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“What this game needs is a forward line”

The ex-head coach instigates, while fondling his balls.

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Things really have changed:

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The psaltery, a lounge classic, ceaselessly repeats

a little loop of a Profiriato-era song.

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“But how super chulo is everything, daddy?”

A little lady with the air of a call girl whispers to her (husband?).

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Everything is quiet and complicated all at once

(Didn’t I already tell you!?):

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C’mon, bring us more ¡qué chingados!

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A moment will come to raise our voices and fight

in the defense of the most putrid verse

from our worst poem (this one for example)

or to spew some shit worthy of these sacred foods

The maître d’ recommended

“the northern red snapper with cilantro sauce.”

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If they don’t bring us the bill soon

in a few more hours, we’ll resort

to the breakdown

of all signs and signifiers

“including our names, of course.”

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And the only thing that I would need

would be for me to start to shriek

while I remember that dark corner of the

Suave Patria.

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..

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A Day at the Races

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Like the dark horse

who despite running and running

ignores how he’s lost this race,

I go all out and strain

getting tired out, fatigued, and drained

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…Always crossing the finish line late.

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I mount, trot, come, and go.

I wage my struggle,

But I see faster horses

pass me by

nags granted grace

or ambition – who knows?

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Thus, I spur on, lashing myself,

promising myself the roses

at this derby.

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Giddyap, ya sonofabitch! You can do it, c’mon, Let’s go!

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I tell myself these pathetic phrases

as seen in the self-help books,

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and to give the scene intensity,

I give myself some flogging.

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But mine is a gentle whip,

the paper crop of indulgence.

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Slowly but surely, I chase and chase

and I don’t bet on myself because

one of these days, I’ll win this race.

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Dos poemas

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a los tocayos

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Una noche en La Ópera

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Entre la quinta cerveza y la décimo primera

el mundo se diluye,

va perdiendo consistencia.

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Todo es simple y al mismo tiempo complicado,

como si lo miraras a través del agujero

que, según cuentan algunos, Pancho Villa

abrió en el cielorraso de un plomazo

por conferirle así al local

(aburguesado y caro ya de entonces)

su aura de tugurio legendario.

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A la fecha muchas cosas han cambiado:

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Encima de la barra, en la pantalla,

parpadea el aburrido Atlante-Pumas

que retrata la miseria del sábado en la noche.

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—Lo que le falta al partido

es ofensiva

—masculla un diputado con licencia

que cambió su curul por una mesa

un poco más discreta,

después de ser

exhibido —en cadena nacional—

recibiendo ya fuere algún soborno ya

los bucales favores

de algún muchacho Ganímedes de oficio.

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En tanto, el cronista deportivo

se desgañita narrando

hazañas que sólo ven sus ojos.

En vano, pues quién podría escucharlo

entre el trajín de copas y de platos

que amablemente prodigan los meseros

do el aire es de por sí

un caliente consomé de risotadas.

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—Lo que al Partido le falta es delantera

—necea el ex tribuno sobándose los huevos.

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De veras que las cosas han cambiado:

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El salterio —un clásico del lounge

repite sin cesar el loop de una rolita porfiriana.

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—¡Pero qué re’ chulo es todo viejo!

—le susurra a su ¿marido? la doñita que parece suripanta.

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Todo es a un tiempo sencillo y complicado

(¡¿Ya lo dije?!):

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¡Pos’ que traigan las otras! ¡Qué chingados!

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Ya llegará el momento de alzar la voz para pelearnos

en defensa del verso más jediondo

de nuestro peor poema

o de escupir alguna injuria digna destos sagrados alimentos

—el mâitre nos ha recomendado

el huachinango en salsita de cilantro.

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Si no nos traen pronto la cuenta

en un ratito más asistiremos

a la disolución

de todo posible referente

—incluidos nuestros nombres, por supuesto—.

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Ya sólo faltaría

que me pusiera yo a chillar mientras me acuerdo

de aquel oscuro rinconcito de

La suave Patria.

 

 

Un día a las carreras

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Como el oscuro equino

que a pesar del corre y corre

ignora que ha perdido esta carrera,

me esfuerzo, echo los bofes,

me canso, me fatigo y me extenúo

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…y siempre llego tarde.

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Cabalgo, troto, voy y vengo:

hago mi lucha.

Pero miro pasar a mis costados

caballos más veloces,

jamelgos tocados por la gracia

o la ambición ―vaya a saberse.

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Entonces me espoleo, me fustigo,

me prometo a mí mismo la corona

de este derby:

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¡Arre, cabrón, tú puedes, venga, vamos!:

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me digo esas frases lamentables

que se lee en los manuales de autoayuda,

y para darle a la escena intensidad

me doy de azotes.

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Pero el mío es el suave latigazo

del fuete de papel de la indulgencia.

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Por más que me persigo no me alcanzo,

y no apuesto por mí

porque en una de esas gano.

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Versión de James Richie

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Víctor Cabrera is an author and an editor originally from Arriaga in the Chiapas State of Mexico. He currently works as an editor for the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) for which he has compiled volumes of essays and poems. Cabrera has published several original books of poetry including Signos de traslado (2007), WIDE SCREEN (2009), Un jardín arrasado de cenizas (2014), and Mística del hastío (2017).

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Abstract: In this pair of self-reflective poems, Víctor Cabrera addresses different elements of his writing process. “A Night at the Opera” describes a scene of poets raucously discussing their works set against the backdrop of a historic bar and restaurant in Mexico City. “A Day at the Races” shows the more introspective elements of writing poetry, as Cabrera contemplates the mental struggle of an artist and competition with peers through the extended metaphor of a horse race. Both poems derive their titles from Marx Brothers comedies: A Night at the Opera (1935) and A Day at the Races (1937). Historical references to the Mexican Revolution also establish the unique character of the setting in the first poem. The combination of historical, pop-cultural, American, and Mexican references is indicative of Cabrera’s unique style, which often unites elements from different time periods, languages, and forms of media to create a distinct and self-aware authorial voice. In my translation, I have prioritized stylistic features that convey Cabrera’s ability to combine different registers, his sense of humor, and the layers of meaning conveyed by his diction.

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James Richie is a literary translator and an interdisciplinary researcher. He is currently a Humanities PhD candidate at the University of Louisville. He has translated poetry and plays from Spanish, Italian, and Russian into English. His translations have appeared in Four Centuries: Russian Poetry in Translation, Journal of Italian Translation, Anomaly, and the Asymptote blog.

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