The Mismarried Woman
by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

You tell me that Juan Luis doesn’t understand you,
that he only thinks about his computers
and completely ignores you at night.
You tell me that your kids are good for nothing,
that they only trouble you, that they’re bored
with everything and you’re fed up with dealing with them.
You tell me that your parents are old,
that they’ve become misers and  egoists
and you’re not their Little Princess like you were before.
You tell me that you’ve turned thirty-five
and it isn’t easy to start over,
that the only men you socialize with
are Juan’s colleagues from IBM
and you don’t like executives.
And me, what role do I play in this drama?
What do you want me to do, kill somebody?
Lead a coup against this tyranny?
I loved you like crazy. I don’t deny it.
But that was long ago, when the world
was a luminous dawn
that you didn’t want to enjoy with me.
Nostalgia is a sordid pastime.
Go back to being what you were. Go to the gym,
wear more makeup, buff out your wrinkles,
and wear sexy clothing, don’t be stupid,
hopefully Juan Luis will start paying attention to you again,
and your kids will go off to camp,
and your parents will die.

LHP, 2009

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I was looking on Amazon today for books by Spanish poets, and I noticed that Luis Alberto de Cuenca doesn’t have anything available in translation. It’s a real loss for y’all gringos, he writes beautiful poetry.

Here’s a poem of his I’ve translated.

Breakfast
Luis Alberto de Cuenca

For J. B.

I like you when you say silly things,
when you put your foot in your mouth, when you lie,
when you go shopping with your mother
and I get to the movies late because of you.
I like you more when it’s my birthday
and you cover me with kisses and little cakes,
or when you’re happy and it shows,
or when you  use a clever turn of phrase
that sums everything up, or when you laugh
(your laugh is like a shower in hell),
or when you forgive me for forgetting something.
But I like you the most, so much that
I almost can’t resist you,
when, full of life, you wake up
and the first thing you do is say to me:
“I’m starving this morning.
I’m going to start the day with you over breakfast.”

LHP, 2009

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I don’t know that anyone really cares about him any more, but Gene Fowler was a journalist and Hollywood writer in the 1930′s and 40′s who was famous for his wit. The other day I was trying to remember a poem he wrote about himself becoming rich. I couldn’t find a copy of it online, so I took it upon myself to transcribe it.

It’s found in H. Allen Smith’s book Lost in the Horse Latitudes. I present it here with Smith’s introduction.

The poem that follows is about Gene Fowler and was written by Gene Fowler and it treats of the attitude of Mr. Fowler’s friends on learning that he had hit the Hollywood jackpot. It was written some years ago just after Mr. Fowler had gone to work for Darryl Zanuck. Mr. Zanuck got it in the mail one day just as it is here:

HOLLYWOOD HORST WESSEL

The boys are not speaking to Fowler
Since he’s been the wine of the rich;
The boys are not speaking to Fowler–
That plutocrat son of a bitch. Continue reading →