Category Archives: Poetry

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.Continue reading “The Nightmare, by Luis Alberto de Cuenca”

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.

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

Continue reading “La Malcasada, by Luis Alberto de Cuenca”

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

Continue reading “El Desayuno (Breakfast), by Luis Alberto de Cuenca”