Ramos Sucre Selected Works
Guillermo Parra (USA)
I would like to exist amid empty darkness, because the world damages my senses cruelly and life afflicts me, impertinent lover whispering bitter stories.
By then my memories will have abandoned me: now they flee and return with a rhythm of ceaseless waves, they are wolves howling in the night shrouding desert snows.
Reality’s disturbed symbol, movement respects my fantastic asylum; moreover, I will have scaled it with death at my arm. She is a white Beatrice, and, standing on the crescent of the moon, she will visit my painful sea. Under her spell I will repose forever and I will no longer lament offended beauty or impossible love.
LIFE OF THE DAMNED
I suffer an illustrious degeneration; I love pain, beauty and cruelty, especially the latter, that serves to destroy a world abandoned to evil. I constantly imagine the sensation of physical suffering, of the organic lesion.
I retain pronounced memories of my childhood, recall the withered faces of my grandparents, who died in this same spacious house, wounded by prolonged ailments. I reconstruct the scene of their funeral rites, which I witnessed astonished and innocent.
Since then my soul is critical and blasphemous; it lives at war against human and divine powers, impelled by the obsession of research; and this indefatigable curiosity declares the motive of my scholarly triumphs and my disorganized and criminal life once I left the classrooms. I intimately detest my peers, who only inspire inhuman epigrams from me; and I confess that, during the vacant days of my youth, my irritable and unsociable nature always involved me in vehement brawls and evoked the ironic observations of the licentious women who frequent the locales of pleasure and danger.
Mundane pleasures don’t seduce me and I spontaneously returned to solitude, long before the end of my youth, retiring to this my native city, far from progress, situated in an apathetic and neutral district. Since then I haven’t left this mansion of vines and shadows. Behind it flows a thin river of ink, extracted from the light by the density of grown trees, standing at the margins, constantly lashed by a furious wind, born of the arid mountains. The street in front, always deserted, at times sounds with the passing of an oxcart, reproducing the scene from an Etruscan countryside.
Curiosity induced me to unfortunate nuptials, and I suddenly married a girl characterized by the traits of my physical person, but improved by an original distinction. I treated her with a superior disdain, devoting to her the same regard as I would toward a doll with detachable pieces. I soon grew bored with that infantile, occasionally bothered being, and decided to suppress her for the enrichment of my experience.
I purposely led her under a certain pretext to an open excavation in the patio of this very house. I was carrying a piece of iron and with it I struck a great blow to her ear. The wretch fell on her knees in the pit, emitting feeble shrieks like a fool. I covered her with dirt, and that afternoon I sat at the table alone, celebrating her absence.
That night and the following ones, at a late hour, a sudden gleam would illuminate my bedroom and dispel my sleep
I pass the time in a restless meditation, half my body down to my feet covered by a thick plush. I want to die and I seek lugubrious suggestions, and at my side this candelabra constantly burns, which had once been hidden in an attic.
I am visited in this situation by the specter of my victim, who savagely reproaches me. She moves toward me with her vengeful hands lifted, while my continuous servant cowers in fright; but I won’t leave this mansion until I succumb to the rancor of the inclement ghost. I want to escape mankind even after my death, and I have left orders for this building to disappear along with my corpse, the day after my life ends, amidst a whirlwind of flames.
I declined my forehead on the plateau of revelations and terror, where the impartial dew of the parabola will not venture.
I departed to an illustrious city and the virgins would close their window to the accent of my sinister lute.
A chaste form, of celestial origin, was depositing her glacial kiss on my hair. She was arriving through my exile’s sleep, to my stone bed, pit of Job, abyss of the sorrows of Leopardi. Did she hurt her orange blossom feet?
A tree, emissary of the storm, lashes the horizon with its naked branch in the course of the monotonous day. My voice has frightened you away from my hard road, tempest bird, zenith of the sky’s cupola.
Textos tomados del libro José Antonio Ramos Sucre, Selected Works (trad. Guillermo Parra), University of New Orleans Press, 2012.
|Guillermo Parra (USA, 1970). Poeta y traductor. Estudió inglés en University of South Florida y obtuvo su máster en Creative Writing en Boston University. Ha publicado dos libros de poesía: Caracas Notebook (Cy Gist Press, 2006) y Phantasmal Repeats (Petrichord Books, 2009). Sitio web: Venepoetics.|