Road Trip

Abstract

Francesc Parcerisas Francesc Parcerisas was born inBegues in 1944. His books of poetry include L'edat d'or (1983; The golden age), Foes d'octubre (1992; October fires), and Dos dies mes de sud (2006; Two more southern days). Among his many translations into Catalan and Spanish are Ezra Pound's Cantos and Seamus Heaney's The Haw Lantern. The poems translated here appear inhis volume Nature morta amb nens (Cuaderns Crema, 2000; Still life with children). The Monster He lives on awire thatcoils around the chambers ofhis heart.He conceals deadly mines innocturnal hours and beneath thebloody red of day. He secrets fear in a smile, hate in theoutstretched hand of love. With children's toyshe depicts shrieks of death, massacres. He rousedme fromunder thepillow so Imight make night blacker so Imight bear witness tohorror which I invent: lie after lie,empty beds, breasts that do not nurse. Only a squirrel distractsme, permitting a tear of survival. Road Trip All ittakes isone death and these gullies ofblood and diamonds are totally foreign to me. I see a crown of firein the song ofbirds that lie inhiding, panicky at theend of an afternoon already wasted. The light is innocent and thehighway winds like a soft,rusted belt between dioramas thatgo entirelyunrecognized. Where am I? Where are you? The dark at the footof thegarden doesn't frighten nor thebliss in thatpart ofme you've made more lovely. I seemountain and well and a sinkwith dirtydishes. A melody on the car radiomakes me feel as if the summer's hyacinth were everytriing tome. Wicker Hamper When you open it, with a slow screech ofbrownish water, your heart is filled with fieldand stilldaydreamy sun and you're puzzled by the mold on plates, tumblers and those ridiculous tinknives. All thedread of time resides inside: thewine you broughtme and your bread and theoil cruet thatno longer evokes thegray stone you would use to spare the tablecloths fromanywind. Take care of the me inside, a tinobject inyour arms, and whenever the meal of regret is served once more endure the spread of aging memory. What now resides inyou is thepulse of a snowfall you blindly touched, light that lasted just an hour, a crystal of eternal blood. Untitled The street is silentbut racket reaches here fromthegrand boulevards. The man who opens thedoor isyoung. He wears a goatee and a bright vest. Steps and voices can be heard, a groan, but nobody ever comes into sight. The music is pleasant and coarse like thepassions thatpush us around. No need to hurry now: anxious time has come to a halt, a tired animal. I am likewind ina space thatbelongs tonobody, made ofdesire and pain. Completely free. You draw near and I closemy eyes: awhite pebble slips between my fingers. We are yesterday or tomorrow. Everything stops. Much later, when the rain commences, youTl punch in some number or other, hope the jacketwill keep you warm and theday might be kinder toyou, maybe even almost happy. Translationsfrom the Catalan By LawrenceVenuti 46 i World Literature Today ...