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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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