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>> I am going to begin with a very old poem,
one from my first poems written in my life.

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It was so far away as the 1960.

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And --

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Cirabel, llego siempre a tu aposento con una
confusión de bocas y una zozobra de tiempo,

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a traerte la ofrenda cotidiana
de mis manos huecas.

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Un montículo de ausencia
fundido en recuerdos cobrizos.

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Más o menos, cuando la ceniza de la noche
se derrama sobre el brasero de tus pupilas,

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igual que ante una ciudad inerme.

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Anudado tu grito de silencio, no me dices nada.

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También en mis labios crece musgo y
nos contemplamos como si no existieran

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nuestros cuerpos.

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>> The translations I'll read tonight are
by a variety of poets and translators.

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They are Betty Ferber, George McWhirter,
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Martha Black Jordan,

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Philip Lamantia, W.S. Merwin, John Frederick
Nims, Kenneth Rexroth, Jerome Rothenberg,

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Brian Swann, Barbara Szerlip,
Nathaniel Tarn and Eliot Weinberger.

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Cirabel, I always come to your rooms with
a confusion of mouths, an anxiety of time,

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to bring you the daily gift of my empty hands,

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a mound of absences smelting
into the coppers of memory.

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More or less, when the cinder of the night
spills over the brazier of your eyes,

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as in the front of an unarmed city.

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Knotted up, your cry of silence
tells me nothing.

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Moss is also growing on my lips

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and we contemplate each other,
as if our bodies didn't exist.