Some poems


You lived in postal signs of letters Lorelei
In the deaths of words
The most straying Suzanne of these roads
Buried on the threshold of the day
The steps of infancy
You already know there is no jade image
In the beech grove
There are no shortcuts remember
But we set out nonetheless
Through an autumn of wild boars
Toward the cold rooms of time
Knowing that they are easily corrupted
Well known to muleteers
Fragile notebooks
Without a single sign
Of those burned by smallpox

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Jonas Poisson, Susa, 1986.

Room 203

Every morning
the traveler in room 203 remembers
the colors of the cars going to the beach
while he folds smiles and black kisses
into his small suitcase
he sees the sun purchased on some avenue
until the names of those eaten up by weakness
stick to each other
without reaching a hundred surely
drizzle can make
bad comparisons on the balcony
a puddle a mirror for example
when all is said and done in order to caress
the bronze of the bridges (knowing
that it is prohibited) on the body
of an obese woman
the sheet of the ocean is far away
in room 203

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Jonas Poisson, Susa, 1986.

The road is the color of your hair
I move like a wounded deer
Imagining silvered lakes
Or plains without end
And the earth does not come with me
I am a startled Giacometti
While the streets knit their white network
I see eunuchs beneath your window
Awaiting the clarity that flows from the hills
At dawn
And the rain brings shells
It is the age of the rhinoceros- are
Your first words

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Dordokak eta elurrak (Tortoises and Snow), Susa, 1989.

I still wear on my wrist
That Isidore Ducasse Luxe Quartz watch
That you gave me last year for St. John's Day
I can need it as much as your flower
Opening the door
On sluggish days of lemon juice.
I have not written a single word
You know me, c?est trop topique
Gazing at the mist of viscous quince trees
I heard the sound of fallen leaves,
A wave of strawberries between your thighs.
And the ash of the afternoon in the hollow of the door.
Yes, it's growing late for me.

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Dordokak eta elurrak (Tortoises and Snow), Susa, 1989.

When I was a child and daring
sitting on the river bank
blood flowed from the roundness of the stones
and blood from the gigantic woman
who stretched out in the ash grove
as if she had died keeping memories
and time left me free
in the meadow of her black eyes
left me free
to enter the infection of the days
to catch yellowish butterflies in blood
from the fertile lands
it left me free
for my baptism in the blue waters of the years
in the meadow of her black eyes
where the grass entered the sky
until it made its white wounds flare up
all paths cut off
by slitting the throats of lions.

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Dordokak eta elurrak (Tortoises and Snow), Susa, 1989.

I navigate in the last hours
along pointed words
I will send you nothing but this letter
everything is going badly you know
he will know that I am fine
and that moss covers
my tiny heart
that the rivers are long here
and wanting to drown the traces of time
they curl and turn
almost every afternoon, seeking nostalgia,
we go to the forest
but we catch nothing but dead crickets
and they drip laurel
when they discover the small America in our hands
and suddenly all is dark
or large
as big as the past
and I remember your letters
offering kisses full of dust
as if they were fugitive cranes
until my memory turns to lime

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Dordokak eta elurrak (Tortoises and Snow), Susa, 1989.

Something always remains
bottles, fields full of shoes
your feet in the bed
as white as the Navarrese snow
scarves in the stations, enemies
they imitate
the most subtle segment of the hours of birds
the lament of the purple herons: feathers
the solitude of the streets is also there
crushed desperation in your eyes
and tears
it is necessary to hate
hate is our most hidden
tall trees all around
like an escort
covered with the strangest cloth
while the gloom of the day
approaches with tiny steps
as if it were a wounded heron
looking around with merciful eyes
later smiles were heard

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Dordokak eta elurrak (Tortoises and Snow), Susa, 1989.

How to lighten the burden of so much impatience
How to corrode our punished pride

How to hate the treacherous market of our language
The holy trees we should have felled long ago
The uncontrollable rockrose that never should have felled us
That we never should have felled
How to forget the meadows where we threw stones at
Birds in the dark shade
How to forget so much fenced road, so much fence turned road

Tell me how we should show our house
Without locking a single room
How to show our hands, how to close our eyes
How to silence their code
Tell me how we should dirty our memory
So fragile, so deep
A geography so wild that the trails
Fling themselves to the sea
They fling us to the sea
Rocks that embrace forgotten corpses
Waters that lull the dreams of yesteryear
Tell me how we are supposed to love
Something that burns so slowly
This glass rose, a wound so muzzled
How to find its face if not with pallid fingers
How to raise its fingers to your mouth without the tiniest nibble
How can we learn so much duty
How should we learn

How to write on clods of earth
How to unwrite without laying the land to waste

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

Nerviones of the Bidasoa

On the skin of the water, children skip stones
The seagulls have become sailboats
Someone has made a path in the abandoned factory

On the skin of the water, German steamers protect
the steps of the unknown
Perhaps I should shout
But my hands are knots

On the skin of the water, someone has set fire to a bus
Telephones do not stop ringing in friends' houses
They see images of a distant war on television
Someone cries. I know why:
At dusk we dead all look alike
on the skin of the water

On the skin of the water, known hands make holes in the water
as if seeking something
They say they have time on their side
There are no workers on the cranes. The brambles grew black this year

On the skin of the water, people flee the friend who approaches
to speak, gesturing on the sidewalk
I cling to the rocks but they weigh like the night

On the skin of the water, suspicions weigh like stones

On the skin of the water, bathtubs are covered at night so that children
will not fall in
Water does not eat faces. We dead do not know how to swim

I speak with the dead on the riverbed
So my words will not rust in the depths of the water

In the depths of the water, my misfortune has no language
But it is difficult to know it

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

Afraid to say no in forty minutes

Say it calmly. Say it to me. Say it roughly.
Say that we didn't manage to love each other
Say that we didn't take the time to sweeten the scars
Say it to me. Say it roughly. Say it slowly.

Say roughly that the future does not want us like this
Say that we don't want the future like this
Say that we rubbed too much salt in our gashes
Say that they have learned too much

Say it quietly. Say it to me. Say it roughly
Say that in you too a threadbare penitence has grown
Say that one faces each morning scratching in the dirt
Say that it's enough, that our hearts are worn out

Say that we will not praise suffering
Say that it does not want us in any way
Say that waiting is also living
Say that waiting is also living

Say it sweetly. Just say it. Say.

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

Abandoned houses

We all have a house that awaits
our arrival at dusk
A kitchen window freshly soaked with rain
A table that night cannot conquer
next to the refrigerator
A bottle of wine with the cork still in it
Sign that no one has yet come
A deep sea of threats
In which someone walks sated with love

We turn on the light and sit on chairs
Silence needs repose
Humidity has taken the paint off the ceiling
They have stolen the handles off the doors and windows
We fill glasses that were empty
Red waters are rising, stirred up from within
This is how we tell each other
About our fear of solitude
The rain has stopped and we see more lights in the distance
They are the color of old paper and tremble
They are guarding someone's cracked happiness
Night is a great ship capsized under the stars

We dial some numbers we know
Friends reduced to numbers
It's me we call saying it's me it's me
But the verb to be is useless without a telephone line
Our words: drunken friends who cannot go home
Lost in the alleys of the town
A capsized boat without a rudder

It's late, my friend told me
And her fingers make an old gesture
as if she were removing the cork
From a bottle in which she sees a dried up sea
But the dial brings only the night
They are messages of love in strange voices
And we do not understand

Tora mea tunsa chilug
Sora mea de detentie si singuatate

In the sea the waters are rough
You do not know what it is
You do not know what it is to hear those messages and
To walk and hear those messages far from home

Moartea citeste ziarul

The lights tremble in the distance
The color of old paper

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

If you hear it

If you hear the gallop of stones
Do not call me at daybreak

If you hear the gallop of stones
Under a roof that seemed safe
Do not take refuge in any friendship
That blow to the earth is only for you
For you the wound of that killer dum-dum bullet
This desire to flee. These steps of the disinherited
Well-appointed bedrooms in empty workshops

If you hear the gallop of stones
It will step on the hand with which you write
It will seek your eyes
It will throw a rope around your neck
In the sertaô of white lands
And in the strangeness of the wilderness
Do not call me at daybreak
I prefer to love in ignorance
If you hear the gallop of stones

If you hear the gallop of stones
Breathe the clouds of some memory
Close the windows and listen: listen
The swift ride. The sound of stones on earth.

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

Night hunter

I am the night hunter who melts your eyes

The moon fills the floor under the bed with stars
All the cars run over the lid of the sewer
when they pass beneath our window: we are alive
Let me draw a net to wrap up your body
Let me turn loose thousands of black balloons
in its path
Let putrefaction not bite your ankles
I want you asleep, asleep in the warm serum of darkness
Not barefoot in the crags of insomnia
Nor on foot holding its hand
With thousands of black balloons for the night that arrives with a firm step
To proclaim that sleep is not the right of a few
I will not leave any night that opens your wounds
A spent heart cannot go faster than a beating one
Those tender eyes will not be the fodder of blue mold
And I want you asleep

Let me rock you on the windward side of my words
Let me give your sleep an April roof

I am the hunter of the eyes that melt your night

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.


Wherever you may go
Bring me a stone

Bring me a stone
Let us make each a lovely Muslim tomb
Wherever you may go
To every red trench of our hearts
Let them rest rather than weary us
A green waning moon in the shape of a sickle
A star lighter than a hammer
Let the earth that will accompany us on all our flights
Rest easy on us
Wherever you may go on the skin of the water
I also would love to paint them in vivid colors
Those from here and those from there
The straight and the jagged
The drunkenness of a voodoo painter
To dress the skin of rocks too naked for me
A small strange museum offensive to all the colonels
But everything I would need has weakened
And dirties me, as tarnished as the rain
Wherever you may go
Bring me a pretty stone
So that it will put a lavish cloud
On the red Boavista of our solitude
A simple stone
A bitter blow of memory
To make a proud boat for our desire to be quiet
Wherever you may go

Wherever you may go
Never forget my stone
Tombs need a cloud of stones
The cloud and the pride of the stone ship
They point the prow smoothly into the black waves
The beautiful photograph I will never forget
The language I will never explain to you

Bring me a stone
When you go to towns that exist nowhere

Š Aranbarri, Iņigo. Harrien lauhazka (The Gallop of Stones), Susa, 1998.

Š Translation: Kristin Addis