[APLAUSOS]
En español.
I just want to say thank you to everyone who's here.
Thank you to the Poetry Center.
Thank you so much to Carmen and Graywolf,
who kind of envisioned this project.
And I'm not saying this is the most fun you'll have in poetry
this season at the Poetry Center,
but I think these poems are going to say that to you.
Hi.
I'm really excited to be here, not only because for this book
tour, but also because since I got here,
I've have met the nicest people and the sweetest people,
and I'm really grateful.
So I'm going to start reading a poem.
I don't know if many of you speak Spanish,
but I hope some would understand and will understand.
La poesía es la gran aguafiestas,
la invitada sentada en la esquina callada,
observando a todos, la que no se halla.
Se aburre rápido.
Piensa que estaría mejor en casa.
La que roba vasos de otras manos y siempre pide cigarros.
La primera que baila y luego llora.
La que roba besos a chicos y chicas.
La que no logra articular palabras ni caminar derecho.
La que pierde el sentido, a quien botan a patadas y regresa
contenta, ya más animada.
La última en irse cuando la fiesta ya ha terminado.
La primera en llegar cuando la fiesta ha terminado.
La copa rota.
El suelo mojado.
El vómito en el sofá de cuero.
La quemadura de cigarrillos en mantel y brazos.
La aventura de una noche.
La resaca.
El chupetón.
El arrepentimiento.
El nuevo amor.
La pastilla del día siguiente.
Tus 3 hijos.
El departamento comprado a plazos.
La búsqueda del éxito.
La deuda con el banco.
El auto de segunda.
La estabilidad.
La confianza que dan los años.
La crisis de los 40.
El fin del amor.
La vejez tranquila.
Tu entierro.
La poesía es todas las fiestas.
Poetry is a supreme killjoy, the quiet guest sitting
in the corner, observing others, The one who can't get into it,
who bores easily, thinks she'd rather go home,
the one will take a drink right from your hand.
And always bum smokes.
The first one to dance and then end up crying.
The one who steals kisses from boys and girls.
The one who slurs her words and can't walk straight.
The one who's spun, who gets kicked out and comes back happy,
more excited now.
The last to leave when the party is over.
The first to arrive when the party is over.
The broken cup.
The puddled floor.
The vomit on the leather sofa.
The cigarette burn on the tablecloth and on arms.
The one night stand.
The hangover.
The hickey.
The regret.
The new love.
The morning after pill.
Your three kids.
The mortgage department.
The hustle.
The bank debt.
The used car.
The stability.
The confidence in growing older.
The mid-life crisis.
The end of love.
The chill of old age.
Your burial.
Poetry is all the parties.