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The Nightmare, by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Luke — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 23:38:05 +0000

Another translation effort.

The Nightmare
by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Javier has decided to kill himself.
He chooses to do it far away from his house,
where the furniture doesn’t recognize him
and the walls don’t talk to him about Marta.
He travels to disaster on the highway
which draws things out too much. He knows
that he won’t make the return trip and never
will have to repeat that torment.
The gasoline runs out, and his car
stops a kilometer away from Burgos.
He travels on foot to the city and steers himself
to the same hotel in which we put ourselves up in,
Alicia and me. I remember his arrival:
his pallidness; the hands, stiff with cold,
which squeezed my own in the door
of the elevator; the journey to his room.
He is in the room, he eagerly
drinks the poison, the potion
that will rescue him from Martha’s
contempt, from the love that destroys him.
After a while, dusk. Alicia goes down
to have a drink and I stay
alone in the darkness, half asleep.
And I dream that Javier is killing himself,
and that I arrive at his bedchamber and he
greets me with gunshots and says
I’m sending myself to hell,
and I call a waiter
who Javier hits, and things go like that,
and it seems like he’s going to continue
destroying himself as he intended,
but the poison corses through his veins
and Javier’s conscious becomes cloudy,
and he drops the pistol, and falls to the floor,
and vomits out his life in a final spasm
all over the carpet of the hallway.
Then Alicia comes in and wakes me up
with the sweet, big kisses of a drunk,
and she takes off my clothes and asks me
why I look so shocked,
and I don’t say anything, and we make love
hard, like in Ampurias, in August
of ‘80, and my fears are shipwrecked
in the sea of her teeth and her fingernails.

Rita, by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Luke — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:23:23 +0000

I was waiting for a meeting in the library and happened across this poem, which I couldn’t resist doing a quick translation of.

Rita
by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Rita, what are you going to do on Sunday? Are there Sundays
where you live? Are there social engagements? Do people arrive late?
I don’t know why I overwhelm you with useless questions,
why I keep thinking you can answer me.
I know that you’d like to have a voice
instead of silence, and escape from the grave
to tell me things about the land of the dead.
But you can’t, Rita, and I shouldn’t dream of you
on a night in August as lively as tonight.
One must keep up appearances. In any case, Sundays
are the worst days to leave the house.

Shame

Luke — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 16:24:32 +0000

La Malcasada, by Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Luke — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 05:02:26 +0000

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 to jail,
and your parents will die.

LHP, 2009

La Malcasada

Me dices que Juan Luis no te comprende,
que sólo piensa en sus computadoras
y que no te hace caso por las noches.
Me dices que tus hijos no te sirven,
que sólo dan problemas, que se aburren
de todo y que estás harta de aguantarlos.
Me dices que tus padres están viejos,
que se han vuelto tacaños y egoístas
y ya no eres su reina como antes.
Me dices que has cumprido los cuarenta
y que no es fácil empezar de nuevo,
que los únicos hombres con que tratas
son colegas de Juan en IBM
y no te gustan los ejecutivos.
Y yo, ¿qué es lo que pinto en esta historia?
¿Qué quieres que haga yo? ¿Que mate a alguien?
¿Que dé un golpe de estado libertario?
Te quise como un loco. No lo niego.
Pero eso fue hace mucho, cuando el mundo
era una reluciente madrugada
que no quisiste compartir conmigo.
La nostalgia es un burdo pasatiempo.
Vuelve a ser la que fuiste. Ve a un gimnasio,
píntate más, alisa tus arrugas
y ponte ropa sexy, no seas tonta,
que a lo mejor Juan Luis vuelve a mimarte,
y tus hijos se van a un campamento,
y tus padres se mueren.