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>> In the end, the others.

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This last poem I'm going
to read belongs to my --

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One of the recent books that I published
that's called Parafrasear which is --

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Once again, this poem, this specific poem was
written after reading a poem by Robert Creeley,

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one where it says that memory is the cavern,
the cave in which we end up living in.

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And I thought it was strange
idea of memory as a cave.

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So I wrote this poem which it's kind of
like a thought about this Creeley's line.

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Por la ruta de Creeley.

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Que la memoria es la caverna
donde acabamos viviendo.

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Que tumbados boca arriba miramos el techo.

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Que nos vemos de tamaños
distintos, en movimiento, quietos.

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Que corremos hacia delante aunque
nos recordamos hacia atrás.

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Que la caverna tiene secretos,
vetas, asperezas impersonales.

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Que se puede viajar en su
espacio pequeño y oscuro.

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Que uno puede no llegar a
ninguna parte y haberse ido.

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Que la caverna la hizo un
anfitrión griego sin luz natural.

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Que la fabricó hipotecando
conocimientos de puertas y ventanas.

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Que quiso poner a prueba nuestra
atracción por el sol minutero.

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Que no sirvió de nada bosquejar
la salida en la idea de recinto.

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Que afuera hay siempre una pared blanca donde
se raya la primera versión de la experiencia.

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Que subsisten algunas sombras
vienen de lejos y traen noticias.

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Que el recuerdo dura más cuando
uno se distrae del recuerdo.

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Que el mío comienza con una
alberca dislocada entre árboles.

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Que el agua pasó por mi oído
sin retirar su última burbuja.

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Que respiré sin querer la sensación del azul
y vi el cielo dividido un instante como número.

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Que adiviné la respuesta no hay
arriba desde el agua o firmamento,

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donde se entreteja la perfección con el
error simulado de mi ser tan tuyo como mío.

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Que la caverna postula su propia caverna,

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restituye la alternativa de
una intemperie sin doblajes.

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Que en el agua la memoria es pasajera, se
deshace con cualquier rutina del cuerpo.

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Que la noticia de la sombra hoy
carece de artículos, no se entiende.

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Que el mundo no es igual en todos los lugares.

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Allá gritan, aquí se esconden, se
mide el miedo con gis en mi cabeza,

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se distribuye en largos estambres, se ahorca.

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Que difieren las cavernas son largas, a
veces estrechas, apenas cabe la memoria.

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Que se ajustan incluso a su inexistencia.

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Que me recuerdo en alguien que
no es yo tumbado en mi caverna.

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Que le reclamo no me pongas en esa historia,

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no calcules entradas por
salidas, algo así de banal.

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Me quedo adentro con el techo encima.

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Que para eludirte propongo más cavernas
mientras recuerdo que la memoria es mi truco

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predilecto para extraviarme.

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Que la paradoja de la piedra negra
lustrosa, piedra será otro recuerdo.

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Que sólo el final no tendrá
principio o algo externo.

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El día, los árboles, el manantial
especulativo, tu reflejo en escorzo.

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Que la metáfora es infinita.

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Caverna o cueva o gruta, ponte en
mi lugar que empiezas donde acabo.

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>> On Creeley's path.

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That memory is the cave one finally lives in.

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That lying face up, we watch the ceiling.

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That we see ourselves different
sizes, moving, still.

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That we run forwards, although
we remember backwards.

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That the cave has secrets,
veins, impersonal roughnesses.

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That in its small dark space, one can travel.

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That you can go nowhere and have been there.

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That the cave was made by a
Greek host lacking natural light.

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That he built it, mortgaging his
knowledge of doors and windows.

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That he was trying to test our
attraction to the sun's minute hand.

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That it was useless to sketch out the
exit within the idea of enclosure.

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That outside there is always a white wall
where the first version of experience brings.

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That some shadows subsist, they
come from afar and bring news.

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That memory lasts longer if you
distract yourself from memory.

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That mine begins with a swimming
pool dislocated among trees.

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That water passed through my ear
without withdrawing its last bubble.

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That I breathed unwilling the sensation of blue

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and saw the sky divided for
an instant like a number.

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That I foresaw the answer.

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There is nothing above water or firmament, where
perfection interweaves with the feigned error

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of my self as much yours, as mine.

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That the cave postulates its own cave, restores
the alternative of the open air, undubbed.

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That in water, memory is fleeting,
dissolves with the body's every routine.

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That today the shadow's news
lacks articles is not understood.

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That the world is not the same
everywhere over there, they shout.

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Over here, they hide, gauge
fear with chalk in my head,

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distribute it in long threads
where it is hanged.

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That the caves are different long
at times, narrow memory barely fits.

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That they adjust even to their own nonexistence.

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That I recall myself in someone who
is not me lying down in my cave.

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That I demand of her don't
put me into this story,

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don't calculate entry ways
for exits, something so banal.

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I remain inside with the ceiling above me.

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That to elude you, I propose
more caves while I remember.

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That memory is my favorite trick to lose myself.

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That the paradox of the black stone,
glossy stone will be another memory.

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That only the end has no
beginning, nothing external.

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The day, the trees, the speculative
pool, your reflection foreshortened.

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That metaphor is infinite.

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Cave or cavern or grotto stand in
my place, you begin where I end.

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>> That's it.

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So thank you very, very much.