Edda Armas
Translation by Rowena Hill
Wolves May Howl
The weak points are thorns. Burials.
They lash out when least expected. They’re seeds.
They grow in darkness.
In what shape will they appear?
They show up turning into a circumstance
confronting us.
Are we born with them or do they arise from
experiences we can’t assimilate?
Have you looked at my body through a magnifying glass?
Each particle demands a perspective,
each corner a different angle.
Look carefully at my moons. No, I don’t mean my moles,
I mean inner moons. Eclipsed, prominent,
intersensual. Cosmogonies of intimacy.
In the properties of the gem lies the secret.
It contains energy. Study the color of the mineral
that retains it. You inhabit the wellbeing of the hideaway.
I can’t defuse the bomb, nor cut the threads
that bind one sensation to another. I can’t even
prevent you loving your own rhythm or being
caught by nostalgia shutting the window.
These are not the best of times.
There’s too much monoxide. The bomb lies in wait for us.
Mediocrity and hate stain man’s actions
and the everyday word. We share confession,
lucidity on feverish nights, the oath
on what Bible, in what ceremony?
We give the senses a truce when the soul protests
habits to revive our spirits on fateful days.
I’d like to tell you I understood, but it’s not so.
We’re routine. What’s broken. The thorn.
A lobster shell on the bottom of the sea.
We turn. We cut the thread to be a different desire.
Intersection. Language being born again.
One moon is enough. Two oppress us.
Spin the top. Unload. Find the trench.
Spontaneity. Company on the grass.
Mediate with the inner moons. Bite the zed.
Challenge the sunflower swallowing light, always light
until the necessary rebirth.
The world is a salamander with dull caged
colors. Recognizing each other won’t save us from idleness
from errors. We spin the top. Cloud.
Wolves may howl, skies turn
aquamarine, nettles grow in stretches
golden to your sight, but even so your body,
desired, daring, concrete, will remain unconquered
until a certain light reaches it.
When you break the shell you’re reborn and this gazelle I am
finds you.
The Golden Finger
The golden finger points to the rib that hurts,
the hole through which you have gone out of my life.
Also the ditch where we shall have to bury
a few things, the ones left straggling
scattered straying silent in wait
with nowhere perhaps to give vent to their fury
they wait tiny sometimes tied to
my back. And there too, I say now, letters
written and never sent would fit. Sleeping
beauties dressed in thorns of density.
The golden finger wears no ring, denies
or affirms, merciless witness as it is to
the song out of tune.
Full to the Brim
Take some time
to bolt the doors
calm the virgin
spy on them without looking
boil in the same salt
drink warm broth
let go of all anchors
to give an account of yourself.
Never Ruin
it must be a sin […] that
you don’t stop paining me
Luzmaría Jiménez Faro
Love leaves them orphans
Don’t go, they say
evenly matched, the one against the other
the house doesn’t exist for them
they seek it in their own body
there may be a wound in that
but never ruin.
(with Takeshi Kitan for Zatoichi)
Little Black Horse
Among broken bricks little black horse
of a house forever under construction
only sky possesses and wearies
compulsive hole for flight
for coming and going
the suitcases filling and emptying
white and uncertain water lily exposed
splashing the table
perfectly laid.
Translation by Rowena Hill
Wolves May Howl
The weak points are thorns. Burials.
They lash out when least expected. They’re seeds.
They grow in darkness.
In what shape will they appear?
They show up turning into a circumstance
confronting us.
Are we born with them or do they arise from
experiences we can’t assimilate?
Have you looked at my body through a magnifying glass?
Each particle demands a perspective,
each corner a different angle.
Look carefully at my moons. No, I don’t mean my moles,
I mean inner moons. Eclipsed, prominent,
intersensual. Cosmogonies of intimacy.
In the properties of the gem lies the secret.
It contains energy. Study the color of the mineral
that retains it. You inhabit the wellbeing of the hideaway.
I can’t defuse the bomb, nor cut the threads
that bind one sensation to another. I can’t even
prevent you loving your own rhythm or being
caught by nostalgia shutting the window.
These are not the best of times.
There’s too much monoxide. The bomb lies in wait for us.
Mediocrity and hate stain man’s actions
and the everyday word. We share confession,
lucidity on feverish nights, the oath
on what Bible, in what ceremony?
We give the senses a truce when the soul protests
habits to revive our spirits on fateful days.
I’d like to tell you I understood, but it’s not so.
We’re routine. What’s broken. The thorn.
A lobster shell on the bottom of the sea.
We turn. We cut the thread to be a different desire.
Intersection. Language being born again.
One moon is enough. Two oppress us.
Spin the top. Unload. Find the trench.
Spontaneity. Company on the grass.
Mediate with the inner moons. Bite the zed.
Challenge the sunflower swallowing light, always light
until the necessary rebirth.
The world is a salamander with dull caged
colors. Recognizing each other won’t save us from idleness
from errors. We spin the top. Cloud.
Wolves may howl, skies turn
aquamarine, nettles grow in stretches
golden to your sight, but even so your body,
desired, daring, concrete, will remain unconquered
until a certain light reaches it.
When you break the shell you’re reborn and this gazelle I am
finds you.
The Golden Finger
The golden finger points to the rib that hurts,
the hole through which you have gone out of my life.
Also the ditch where we shall have to bury
a few things, the ones left straggling
scattered straying silent in wait
with nowhere perhaps to give vent to their fury
they wait tiny sometimes tied to
my back. And there too, I say now, letters
written and never sent would fit. Sleeping
beauties dressed in thorns of density.
The golden finger wears no ring, denies
or affirms, merciless witness as it is to
the song out of tune.
Full to the Brim
Take some time
to bolt the doors
calm the virgin
spy on them without looking
boil in the same salt
drink warm broth
let go of all anchors
to give an account of yourself.
Never Ruin
it must be a sin […] that
you don’t stop paining me
Luzmaría Jiménez Faro
Love leaves them orphans
Don’t go, they say
evenly matched, the one against the other
the house doesn’t exist for them
they seek it in their own body
there may be a wound in that
but never ruin.
(with Takeshi Kitan for Zatoichi)
Little Black Horse
Among broken bricks little black horse
of a house forever under construction
only sky possesses and wearies
compulsive hole for flight
for coming and going
the suitcases filling and emptying
white and uncertain water lily exposed
splashing the table
perfectly laid.