jueves, 6 de marzo de 2014


Inesperada visita e inesperada salida de Panero:

Sólo nos hemos visto dos veces amigo: la primera vez en la caseta de la feria del libro donde firmabas a mi lado; tu manera de fumar y beber Coca Cola Zero me impactó pero nada en comparación a tus versos.  La segunda vez, fue hace poco más de una semana cuando me visitaste con los copos que caían afuera, viniste para hablar, hablar de Heroína y otros poemas, te comenté que el ciervo ya no come mi hierba y que ahora hay demasiado ruido para escuchar al sapo cantar. Al irte me dejaste un recado y hoy al enterarme que te has ido, lo cumplo.

HEROIN (1992) Leopoldo María Panero

(Traducción al inglés, inédito de Heroína. Para tí, amigo.)

I have my opium pipe next to
a book of German metaphysics.
Time, and not Spain, will say who I am.


A diamond is a request
that you inject in your flesh
the scared sun flees
when this enters into my vein.

Of only women and saliva
is the world made:
heroin is more than being
and something that exceeds life.

That I´m beaten I know this
when the poison enters my blood
the triumph is a bubble
that will unmake my morning.

If the scared deer flees
it is that in the forest its house is
so search in your arm
a lake where to hide.

To count deer on the plain
is the sport of poets
that of man is to search for misery
pleasure in a spoon,
gold in the excrement
so that the howling dies.

A faun and a defeat
women and some music
and the dream of some ephebe
is all that I know of myself
and that now the heroin
changes into nothing and into dust.

All deer know how to die
but to man it is hard
it is known by the slow drawing
of the needle on my vein.

Slow smoke from roaches
like this pride dies
pale because amongst the dust
of the spoon my future is read.

Ancient toads I‘ve looked for
in the infinite ocean
the needle bites and damages
I have cactus in my arms.

Smack is a whore
that whispers in darkness
of my hands, when I prick myself
the hair of a woman falls.

Like the wings of nothing that move amongst the forest
as the journey of my teeth through the live bodies
and like the whore that kneels in the night
the prayer of a needle in the violence of the body.

The needle draws slowly
some deer in my veins
when the poison enters my blood
my brain is a rose.

Like an old man sucking on a dry lemon
so is the poetic act.
The horse with its sword
divides life in two:
at one side pleasure with nothing
and the other, like a defeated woman

life that gives off a bad smell.

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