Appointment With The Critic

Doctor, I bring you a reclusive poetic ego
to be examined under your magnifying glass.
May he confess to you his narcissism with verbs,
the darkness accumulated under his fragile walls,
his uncontrollable anger at wax statues;
why he refuses to be constructed by dreams
and deconstructed by the chalk of long nails;
how his sobs crackle in chiseled stanzas
and a well-behaved silence mutes his screams.
May he tell you of his senseless games with the moon,
a faithful roundness that visits him each evening,
and of the tempestuous nightmares with rootless initials.
Check if he is made of another essence, this double that loves
my lovers and reveals my forgotten expressions,
my fruits, bones that bloom smiling in the night;
if his parents have died; if he is a lost bird
going from temple to temple, pale towers,
crashing sometimes into hearths, windows and fires.
May he describe the rosary of his orgasms, his prolific sword,
the thousand-pain chains suffered by others, for whom he prays every day
and why he dresses stylishly and strips in public
defying at his whim countless rules and advice.
May he open his trunks holding the rags of mirrors, smoke, echoes
with the murky softness of three jumbled codes
and also the heart that violently rows melodies
of love and loss, tunes at once classical and profane.

That ego, fearsome and fragile like an angel,
had the audacity, the curse and the luck to write poems.

When you, doctor, explain him,
perhaps we all will understand each other.

Translated by Yvette Neisser Moreno

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Turno Con El Critico

Doctor, le traigo un yo poético recluso
para que lo examine bajo su lupa.
Que le confiese su narcisismo con los verbos,
la oscuridad acumulada bajo sus frágiles muros,
sus enojos incontrolables con las estatuas de cera;
porqué rehusa ser construido por los sueños
y desconstruido por tizas de uñas largas;
cómo sus sollozos crujen en estrofas cinceladas
y un silencio bien portado enmudece sus gritos.
Que le cuente sus juegos insensatos con la luna,
redondez fiel que cada tarde lo visita,
y las tempestuosas pesadillas con iniciales sueltas.
Indague si está hecho de otra esencia, doble que ama
mis amantes y destapa mis gestos olvidados,
mis frutos, huesos que florecen sonrientes en la noche;
si sus padres se han muerto; si es un pájaro perdido
yendo de templo en templo, torres mortecinas,
chocando a veces con lumbres, ventanales y fuegos.
Que le detalle el rosario de sus orgasmos, su sable prolífico,
las cadenas de mil dolores que a diario por otros reza
y porqué se viste de estilo y se desnuda en público
desafiando con su capricho hartos cánones y consejos.
Que le abra sus baúles con harapos de espejos, humos, ecos
con la suavidad turbia de tres códigos promiscuos
y también el corazón que rema violentamente melodías
de amor y de pérdida, tonos clásicos y a la vez profanos.

Ese yo, temible y frágil como un ángel,
tuvo la audacia, la culpa y la suerte de escribir poemas.

Cuando usted, doctor, lo explique,
acaso todos nos entendamos.

Washington D.C., 28 de Junio de 2002