>> In the end, the others.
This last poem I'm going to read belongs to my --
One of the recent books that I published that's called Parafrasear which is --
Once again, this poem, this specific poem was written after reading a poem by Robert Creeley,
one where it says that memory is the cavern, the cave in which we end up living in.
And I thought it was strange idea of memory as a cave.
So I wrote this poem which it's kind of like a thought about this Creeley's line.
Por la ruta de Creeley.
Que la memoria es la caverna donde acabamos viviendo.
Que tumbados boca arriba miramos el techo.
Que nos vemos de tamaños distintos, en movimiento, quietos.
Que corremos hacia delante aunque nos recordamos hacia atrás.
Que la caverna tiene secretos, vetas, asperezas impersonales.
Que se puede viajar en su espacio pequeño y oscuro.
Que uno puede no llegar a ninguna parte y haberse ido.
Que la caverna la hizo un anfitrión griego sin luz natural.
Que la fabricó hipotecando conocimientos de puertas y ventanas.
Que quiso poner a prueba nuestra atracción por el sol minutero.
Que no sirvió de nada bosquejar la salida en la idea de recinto.
Que afuera hay siempre una pared blanca donde se raya la primera versión de la experiencia.
Que subsisten algunas sombras vienen de lejos y traen noticias.
Que el recuerdo dura más cuando uno se distrae del recuerdo.
Que el mío comienza con una alberca dislocada entre árboles.
Que el agua pasó por mi oído sin retirar su última burbuja.
Que respiré sin querer la sensación del azul y vi el cielo dividido un instante como número.
Que adiviné la respuesta no hay arriba desde el agua o firmamento,
donde se entreteja la perfección con el error simulado de mi ser tan tuyo como mío.
Que la caverna postula su propia caverna,
restituye la alternativa de una intemperie sin doblajes.
Que en el agua la memoria es pasajera, se deshace con cualquier rutina del cuerpo.
Que la noticia de la sombra hoy carece de artículos, no se entiende.
Que el mundo no es igual en todos los lugares.
Allá gritan, aquí se esconden, se mide el miedo con gis en mi cabeza,
se distribuye en largos estambres, se ahorca.
Que difieren las cavernas son largas, a veces estrechas, apenas cabe la memoria.
Que se ajustan incluso a su inexistencia.
Que me recuerdo en alguien que no es yo tumbado en mi caverna.
Que le reclamo no me pongas en esa historia,
no calcules entradas por salidas, algo así de banal.
Me quedo adentro con el techo encima.
Que para eludirte propongo más cavernas mientras recuerdo que la memoria es mi truco
predilecto para extraviarme.
Que la paradoja de la piedra negra lustrosa, piedra será otro recuerdo.
Que sólo el final no tendrá principio o algo externo.
El día, los árboles, el manantial especulativo, tu reflejo en escorzo.
Que la metáfora es infinita.
Caverna o cueva o gruta, ponte en mi lugar que empiezas donde acabo.
>> On Creeley's path.
That memory is the cave one finally lives in.
That lying face up, we watch the ceiling.
That we see ourselves different sizes, moving, still.
That we run forwards, although we remember backwards.
That the cave has secrets, veins, impersonal roughnesses.
That in its small dark space, one can travel.
That you can go nowhere and have been there.
That the cave was made by a Greek host lacking natural light.
That he built it, mortgaging his knowledge of doors and windows.
That he was trying to test our attraction to the sun's minute hand.
That it was useless to sketch out the exit within the idea of enclosure.
That outside there is always a white wall where the first version of experience brings.
That some shadows subsist, they come from afar and bring news.
That memory lasts longer if you distract yourself from memory.
That mine begins with a swimming pool dislocated among trees.
That water passed through my ear without withdrawing its last bubble.
That I breathed unwilling the sensation of blue
and saw the sky divided for an instant like a number.
That I foresaw the answer.
There is nothing above water or firmament, where perfection interweaves with the feigned error
of my self as much yours, as mine.
That the cave postulates its own cave, restores the alternative of the open air, undubbed.
That in water, memory is fleeting, dissolves with the body's every routine.
That today the shadow's news lacks articles is not understood.
That the world is not the same everywhere over there, they shout.
Over here, they hide, gauge fear with chalk in my head,
distribute it in long threads where it is hanged.
That the caves are different long at times, narrow memory barely fits.
That they adjust even to their own nonexistence.
That I recall myself in someone who is not me lying down in my cave.
That I demand of her don't put me into this story,
don't calculate entry ways for exits, something so banal.
I remain inside with the ceiling above me.
That to elude you, I propose more caves while I remember.
That memory is my favorite trick to lose myself.
That the paradox of the black stone, glossy stone will be another memory.
That only the end has no beginning, nothing external.
The day, the trees, the speculative pool, your reflection foreshortened.
That metaphor is infinite.
Cave or cavern or grotto stand in my place, you begin where I end.
>> That's it.
So thank you very, very much.