All the given words
led me to one person, my grandmother.
1936
a bloody war
bombs fall
the space under a staircase cracks
my great uncle is a baby
a neighbour is blown up.
1943
A Cordovan torturer
sucks a lemon
while the face of the red turns blue
shots are heard in the street
a false alarm.
1987
I’ve never liked honey
I hate things that look me in the eye
neither prawns nor snails
first time I got drunk
on sour beer.
1995
She hung the curtains
in one of her flats to rent
although she didn’t invite us to eat
so as not to mess up the kitchen.
2009
My mother sets her curlers
my youngest uncle writes simple poems
and tells me his new theory
to fix Spain and the world.
2015
It’s 30 years since my grandfather died
and the word processor goes crazy.
The email opens windows without reason
and decides alone to send
an unfinished poem.
Today I’ve smashed a mobile against the floor
and without wanting, I’ve paid homage to my other drunk grandfather
to my cantankerous and bullied father
to the post-war which was messed up for the common people
to the women full of unwanted children
to the brutal priests
to the pitched battles between gangs of youth
to the doors with splintered wood from the blows…
Juan M. Santiago León
(Translated by Charles Olsen)
led me to one person, my grandmother.
1936
a bloody war
bombs fall
the space under a staircase cracks
my great uncle is a baby
a neighbour is blown up.
1943
A Cordovan torturer
sucks a lemon
while the face of the red turns blue
shots are heard in the street
a false alarm.
1987
I’ve never liked honey
I hate things that look me in the eye
neither prawns nor snails
first time I got drunk
on sour beer.
1995
She hung the curtains
in one of her flats to rent
although she didn’t invite us to eat
so as not to mess up the kitchen.
2009
My mother sets her curlers
my youngest uncle writes simple poems
and tells me his new theory
to fix Spain and the world.
2015
It’s 30 years since my grandfather died
and the word processor goes crazy.
The email opens windows without reason
and decides alone to send
an unfinished poem.
Today I’ve smashed a mobile against the floor
and without wanting, I’ve paid homage to my other drunk grandfather
to my cantankerous and bullied father
to the post-war which was messed up for the common people
to the women full of unwanted children
to the brutal priests
to the pitched battles between gangs of youth
to the doors with splintered wood from the blows…
Juan M. Santiago León
(Translated by Charles Olsen)
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