Searching for an Unemployed Lover

Hasta la Victoria Siempre (English translation: Che) This poem is included in "Che in Verse" available at 

Liturgy

Cumbite

Exodus

Pedro Pérez-Sarduy ~ Poems

Searching for an Unemployed Lover

Havana lives on the edge of darkness
with its air contaminated by tourists
and uncommon dissidents
where the young offer of a dress tightly fitting
the circumstances of the latest fashion trots ironically
along the sea front
among seemingly exotic cocktails
and the perennial indifference of a commissar
also confused when it comes to persuasion.

Whatever form it took
Havana was there mine and more sensual than usual
leaning out as always from her balconies
gazing tirelessly towards the sea of girls and boys of the past
dressed in lycra and the reflection of a forbidden disco
with that dizzy silhouette
facing a pale face unexpected and unknown
wearing foreign clothes, of course.

However
there is no time to lose for the poor beggar
searching for the right moment for a quick feel
and the game between tongues.
After all
we are in the presence of an age tormented by so many ailments.

There is no time to lose either
because tomorrow afternoon would already be tonight
and also another peaceful dawn
rewarded with a sumptuous supper of simply a supper
with no imported frills
for as long as the reign of austerity lasts
or just a daring invitation.

In these times only okana
the solitary African conch who predicts ill omens
restlessly roams the earth thirsting for so many kind acts
wasted
incoherent offerings and sullied pleas
something is wanting in the look
like that aimed at assisting the needy
so much that today Monday seems to exude a certain arrogance
which was never before entirely rational.

If only you were here with me now
Oh my Queen of the Sea
You who dares to ride the waves mounted on Taurus
among precious torquoise gems which adorn gentle crown
You who are always ignore the secretly agreed cry of the initiate
before dusk and you keep going in my arms
accompanied only by the sound of dry coconuts
which have always been dry.
You did not return from the grand feast
and were speaking with yourself
endeavouring to satisfy the freshness of honey
on the tips of yours breasts
your body writhing fresh with clean waters
penetrating the most intimate point of your night
there where shame halts frightened.

And before parting all the shadows
were innocent and silently similar.

Sahnet

You are the face of the initiated
D.Diop

Your s the censured profile of beauty
unreality
rupture
golden oils
you rest my weariness of fabulous revolutions
like violent forests
mountains of wild beasts
wisdom
inebriated sands of night.

Thus you dare to console my pain
survival of empires
goddess of scepters through tears
night-saturated monster
silhouette
exact confidence
concave monastery of milk.

You are
the memory resonant in the girdle of the ages
suffering
trafficked jewel.
I cry love
living blood
wounds
angels like centaurs
and conjure.

I surge from your womb
savage caresses
present testimony
caprices
orishas
fertility
rhythm
semen
you are the forbidden fruit
the word of life
seed.

The intersection of your thighs is forged
demon
snail
cedar.

Here I am you feed me with stars
for you are
the flesh of suffering night
tumultuous sexual luminaries
I proclaim your tremulous being.
Animals like frontiers
sweet sea breezes
skeleton adrift
howl at the most exalted moment
silent gardens without crosses.

My guitar
my emptied body
my vision
childish images
covered with virgin blackness.

I return to the texture of skin
towards the lips
and heavy closed eyes.
Thus I name you
pendulum of the rebel hours.

The new hour advances shadows
on the hand of the confessions
and fatal enterprises.
Masks revealing mistaken desires.

Invasion of sun-tanned marionettes.
Prow pointing towards the tropics discovered yesterday.

What if I refused to leave your womb
and return to a fury of leaves and flamboyant
bowed before your altar or mercy.

You are the scar
for I never proclaim you aloud.
And there I sustain this temporal fall
south of all regions.

Island pregnant with saltpeter
in your breasts of peninsular waters.
Inexorable weapon of sunflowers and incense.
Messengers from Caesar hammered into my forehead.

I salute you foreign woman
while the war reconstructs your next
alienation
I sing to piety
to the coitus of cosmic shipwrecks.

Metamorphosis
ingenious insects of reason
colts
crushed butterflies
because you are fecundity
sacrifice
my universal dream without future dress.

Algae
snatched from the id
like sabres sheathed in blood
ebony.

In the swamp sleep the trees
which one sustained.

But I am your creation
your prophecy
your people Sahnet
who continue unknown
in the small islands imported to the Caribbean.

(1966)

HASTA LA VICTORIA SIEMPRE

Como si caminaras por entre la selva americana hinchada de pólvora
como si de repente un gemido por tu partida
interrumpiera en la calle viva de la noche seis lágrimas rebeldes
como si madre nuestra madre soberbia te palmeara el hombro
sobre tu guerrera olivo y te indicara de nuevo tu próximo camino
inexplorado.

Hay en los continentes exactos un viento reventado como de guerras
como si un profundo tumor se amamantara impotente
débil lazarillo que muere.

Hay detonaciones de bravas palabras que fusilan la curva del foete
que pega que vuelve y golpea nuestra espalda de batallas
y de cicatrices corpulentas se incorpora y tú vas.

Hay un grito increíble como un mar como un pedazo de montaña
o una agitada multitud o un poco de amor
inmensos como la madrugada que te aguardan en un lugar presentido
y tú vas
con la ebriedad sobria de mil combates
y tú vas
a vivir por los techos del mundo por su grito.

Nunca hubo temor por el aire que sudaras en todas aquellas
mis calles de Santa Clara y en todas las barbas crecidas
de diciembre.

Tu presencia se sintió bajita acariciando el filo
el calor de los perdigones
y tu trigueña mirada de invierno penetró como niño travieso
en todas las casernas tumultuosas de difuntos héroes robados
y así surgieron los días nuevos y enero cruzó dejando
sobre una esquina del cielo pedazos cuajados de la sangre.

Pero nadie se detuvo en la aurora reconquistada y menos tú
que con un suicidio de fiebres supiste herir el corazón más templado
por tu partida.

Sin embargo --y como ayer-- hoy comenzamos de nuevo
la nueva guerrilla
y un regocijo como de gaviotas revoloteando en la leyenda del alma
nos palpa en lo más sencillo
y tú vas así
como si madre nuestra madre soberbia te palmeara el hombro
sobre tu guerrera olivo
y te indicara de nuevo tu próximo camino
inexplorado
así te presentimos entre todos los hombres y mujeres.

Octubre 1965

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Escribi ese poema justo la noche en que se anuncio que el Che andaba por
otras tierras... Y ahora lo entierran en mi ciudad natal, Santa Clara,
donde lo vi llegar a finales de Dic. de 1958...

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Che

just as if you were walking in the American jungle
and swollen with powder
just as if an urgent longing for the fatherland had interrupted
six rebel tears in the open street one night
just as if Mother-proud-woman had touched your shoulder
your guerrilla olive fatigues and told you
again about your next unknown journey
there is in the exactness of continents a whirlwind
as with wars
just as if a deep tumor were sucking a dying blind buffer
there are detonations of heroic words which shoot
the curve of the whip
which hits back and returns to strike again
our shoulder of battles of bulky wounds is joined
and you are gone
there is an incredible myth like a sea like a chunk
of the Sierra around you
an agitated multitude a millennium of lore
immense like the morning which is waiting for you
in some place a presentiment
and you are gone with the sober drunkenness 
and you are gone to live under the roof of the world
there was never any fear in the air that you sweated
in any of the circumstances
in my narrow streets of Santa Clara or among the thick beards
in December
your presence was low-keyed as it caressed the rough edge
the warmth of smallshot
and your brown steely glance penetrated like a mischievous child
the thunderous barracks of dead heroes who were robbed
and so the crisp new days came and January crossed leaving
in a corner of the sky clots of blood
and nobody stayed behind in the morning
and least of all you who in your suicidal fever knew how to wound
the most prepared heart by your departure
nevertheless and like yesterday today we begin again
the new guerrillas
and rejoice like the flapping seabirds in the legend
of the soul
all this touches us in our most simple essence
and you are gone
just like that
just as if Mother-proud-woman had touched your shoulder
your guerrilla olive fatigue and told you
again
about your next unknown journey
so we fix you firmly as our presage in the core of humanity


Pedro Perez Sarduy (1965)
(Translated by John La Rose)

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In 1963 four black Sunday School girls were killed on a bombing attack
in Birmingham, Alabama. This poem was written soon after I heard the news

LITURGY

Folded prayers dreams of stopped candles
Where the earth wakes up and kneels
Before the power of involuntary stares
Rains triggered by a word
A look
A distant tear covered with sores
And coiled rings
Adventures proposed for the coming years.


Beyond compare
A Sunday in September is as warm
As the little feet of a black girl of ten.

One hundred thirteen were the crosses found
In a night of horrible laments
In a night of inconsolable howls
In a night of huddled fires
Over the tile roofs where the sweat gropes
In the groin of a new-born
As in the sowing of captive seeds
Still bearing the clean imprint of corpses
Made for creaking dreams by a ballad
Before the impotent signal of the coffin hauled
Through narrow streets with livid names
Liturgical avenues badly laid out
Boulevards crossing in a hurry the barren fields
Or stagnant torrents in the city of unrest
Awaited
But one day
The swelling of the gospel will rouse a march of shadows
Magnetised to the continent
Looking for a place to shelter the taste of a tree
Where to leave the links of a piece of skin
Where to bleed in peace.


LITURGIA

Oraciones doblegadas ilusión de velas encorvadas
Donde la tierra amanece y se arrodilla
Ante la fuerza de involuntarias miradas
Lluvias provocadas por una palabra
Un gesto un llanto lejano cubierto de llagas
Y ensortijados anillos
Aventuras propuestas para los próximos años.

Sin comparación
Un domingo en septiembre es tan tibio
Como los piesesitos de una niña negra de diez años.

Ciento Trece fueron las cruces procuradas
En una noche de horribles lamentos
En una noche de aullidos irremediables
En una noche de incendios acantonados
Sobre los tejares donde el sudor se palpa
En la ingle de un recién nacido
Como en la siembra de las cautivas semillas
Todavía con la huella limpia de los cuerpos
Hechos para sueños crujidos por una balada
Ante la impotente señal del féretro arrastrado
Por los callejones de nombres lívidos
Litúrgicas avenidas bulevares mal trazados
Cruzando de prisa
Por estériles campos o raudales estancados
En la ciudad del desorden
Presentido

Pero un día
El crecer del canto provocará una procesión
De sombras
Imantadas al continente
Buscando donde guarecer el sabor de un árbol
Donde dejar los eslabones de un pedazo de piel
Donde sangrar en paz.


Pedro Pérez Sarduy (1963) from "Surrealidad" (Havana, 1967)