Accident by Rosario Castellanos

Eponine Howarth

Translation by Eponine Howarth

Accident

I feared... not the great love.

I was immunized in time and forever with an anachronistic kiss
and the fictitious delivery
—capable of simulating even rejection—and by the oath, which is no more rhetorical because it is no more solemn.

No, I did not fear the pyre that would consume me, but the badly lit match and this blister that hampers the hand with which I write.


Beautiful lady without mercy

She glided through the galleries.

I did not see her. I arrived late, like everyone else,
and I only reached the slowness
purple tail; the vibrant atmosphere
of a freshly sung melody.

She didn't. And it was more
than the fullness her absence
and it was more than betrothal
and it was more than a seed in which time ripens:
hope or nostalgia.

It dreams, it is not. Imagines, it is not. Remembers,
replaces, invents, anticipates,
says goodbye or tomorrow.

If she smiles, she smiles from afar,
from what will be her memories, and greets
from Her ancestor pale with death.

Because it is not the swan. Because if you point at her
you point to a shadow in the pupil
deep of the lakes
and of the skiff only the wake and of the cloud
the testimony of the power of the wind.

Promised presence, evoked. Possible
presence of the moment
in which the crystal congeals, in which the heart of fire
manifests itself.

The void it inhabits is called eternity.


To be from a river without fish, that’s what I am

To be from a river without fish, that's what I am
And I am covered in foam and ice.
Drowned and broken I carry the whole sky
And the tree is delivered to me badly wounded.

On two shores of yoked pain
my flow goes to a sea of grief.
The heron of its estuary is high-flying
and goodbye and brief faded sun.

To die without singing, blind, moving forward
bitten by emptiness and longing.
Alas, but at times deep and calm

stops under a pure shadow.
Stops and receives beauty
with a slight tremor of wonder.

***

Accidente

Temí... no el gran amor.

Fui inmunizada a tiempo y para siempre con un beso anacrónico
y la entrega ficticia
-capaz de simular hasta el rechazo- y por el juramento, que no es más retórico porque no es más solemne.

No, no temí la pira que me consumiría sino el cerillo mal prendido y esta ampolla que entorpece la mano con que escribo.

Bella dama sin piedad

Se deslizaba por las galerías.

No la vi. Llegué tarde, como todos,
y alcancé nada más la lentitud
púrpura de la cauda; la atmósfera vibrante
de aria recién cantada.

Ella no. Y era más
que plenitud su ausencia
y era más que esponsales
y era más que semilla en que madura el tiempo:
esperanza o nostalgia.

Sueña, no está. Imagina, no es. Recuerda,
se sustituye, inventa, se anticipa,
dice adiós o mañana.

Si sonríe, sonríe desde lejos,
desde lo que será su memoria, y saluda
desde Su antepasado pálido por la muerte.

Porque no es el cisne. Porque si la señalas
señalas una sombra en la pupila
profunda de los lagos
y del esquife sólo la estela y de la nube
el testimonio del poder del viento.

Presencia prometida, evocada. Presencia
posible del instante
en que cuaja el cristal, en que se manifiesta
el corazón del fuego.

El vacío que habita se llama eternidad.

Ser de río sin peces, esto he sido.

Ser de río sin peces, esto he sido.
Y revestida voy de espuma y hielo.
Ahogado y roto llevo todo el cielo
y el árbol se me entrega malherido.

A dos orillas del dolor uncido
va mi caudal a un mar de desconsuelo.
La garza de su estero es alto vuelo
y adiós y breve sol desvanecido.

Para morir sin canto, ciego, avanza
mordido de vacío y de añoranza.
Ay, pero a veces hondo y sosegado

se detiene bajo una sombra pura.
Se detiene y recibe la hermosura
con un leve temblor maravillado.

Rosario Castellanos (Mexico City, 1925 - Tel Aviv, 1974) is a Mexican writer and poet. During her childhood she lived in Comitán (Chiapas), where her family came from. She studied literature at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, and during those years she was in contact with writers such as Jaime Sabines, Ernesto Cardenal and Augusto Monterroso.


Eponine Howarth

Eponine Howarth is co-editor-in-chief of La Piccioletta Barca.

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