Poesia Caribeña de Habla Inglesa Traducido Al Español
Poesia Caribeña de Habla Inglesa Traducido Al Español
209
PAPIIT.
O 211
O 213
obliga al lector a reconstruir intuitivamente una visin propia. Un sentido de atemporalidad similar prevalece en "Arawak Prologue", de Basil
McFarlane (Jamaica, 1922), quien explora una lnea temtica muy importante en la definicin de la esencia caribea: la reconstruccin creativa de la
historia de los grupos amerindios que, a pesar de haber sido casi exterminados en su totalidad, conforman una de las bases culturales fundamentales de
la identidad regional.
Con diversos registros y enfoques poticos la exploracin mtica de un
pasado compartido pero fragmentado subyace en "TiII I Collect", de Martin
Carter (Guyana, 1921); "Ethnocide", de Howard Fergus (Montserrat, 1937);
"The House-slave", de Mervyn Morris (Jamaica, 1937), y "Ancestral Poem",
de Olive Senior (Jamaica, 1943). Estos poetas pertenecen a una generacin
mucho ms beligerante que emplea la expresin literario/potica como acto
consc,iente y deliberado de resistencia y protesta, lo cual, como en el caso de
Carter, incluso le signific persecucin poltica y prisin en los aos previos a la independencia nacional. Es interesante observar aqu la presencia
del pasado como un elemento clave para cuestionar y reconstruir la realidad
presente, de forma tal que los elementos metafricos y simblicos se convierten en comentarios irnicos acerca de una existencia moderna en la que
las antiguas tradiciones carecen ya de sentido y conforman individuos
hbridos por naturaleza.
Una percepcin extrema de lo anterior se deja ver en "A Far Cry from
Africa", de Derek Walcott (Santa Luca, 1930), en donde la voz potica
lucha por comprender una identidad fragmentada que trata de conciliar los
orgenes violentos de su propio pasado. De forma magistral, Walcott sobrepone la bsqueda tanto de un mito idealizado de frica (representado por
un entorno casi paradisiaco) como de una Inglaterra imperial benefactora a
una realidad moderna en la que la crueldad de los movimientos africanos de
liberacin de mediados del siglo xx y la ineptitud de los poderosas naciones
desarrolladas anulan por completo cualquier posibilidad de identificacin
espiritual absoluta con el pasado.
La bsqueda de un origen mtico que no necesariamente pertenece al
medio ambiente y a la geografa del Caribe va de la mano con un sentido de
dislocacin en el que la experiencia de la colonizacin y el proceso de modernizacin capitalista niegan, por as decirlo, la posibilidad de alcanzar
una identificacin orgnica con el entorno. As, poemas como "Colonization
in Reverse" de Louise Bennett (1919, Jamaica), "Fantasy of an African Boy"
de James Berry (1924, Jamaica), "Our Home" de Jan Carew (1925, Guyana),
"Harbour" de Edward Kamau Brathwaite (1930, Barbados) y "Without
Song" de Grace Nichols (1950, Guyana) exploran la funcin de un paisaje
National Anthem
Egbert Martin
Himno Nacional
Traduccin de Carlos Roberto Ramrez Fuentes
O 215
W. Adolphe Roberts
1 see her on a lonely forest track,
Her level brows made salient by the sheen
Of flesh the hue of cinnamon. The clean
Blood of the hunted, vanished Arawak
Flows in her veins with blood of white and black.
Maternal, noble-breasted in her mien;
She is a peasant, yet she is a queen.
She is Jamaica poised against attack.
Her woods are hung with orchids; the still flame
Of red hibiscus lights her path, and starred
With orange and coffee blossoms is her yard.
Fabulous, pitted mountains close the frame.
She stand s on ground for which her fathers died;
Figure of savage beauty, figure of pride.
La joven cimarrona
Si hemos de morir
O 217
Jean Rhys
1 thought Ken a nice man
Ken was a pal
His other name's Taylor
My name's Sal
This happened yesterday
We were all there
I was sitting
In a grown-up chair
Dad had his camera
Back to the Iight
Ken was pottering
Out of sight
Dad called to Mummy
Picking flowers in the sun
Dad said 'ready?'
She said 'wait until I've done'
Ken carne softly smiling
Cutlass in his hand
I thought a new game
Isn 't he grand
Then he swung his cutlass
Struck Daddy's head
Blood carne pouring out
Red, red, red
Ken struck a second time
Dad groaned and feH
He raised his head and looked at me
Then feH back and lay still
O 219
Ma ni siquiera grit
tampoco yo
por ms que quise no pude
me qued sin voz
Pero dej caer las flores
la o decir 'Oh no'
vi cmo las rosas
el viento esparci
Cuando Ken la golpe
lanz un grito agudo
grit sin parar
todav~ la escucho
Al venir gente corriendo
Ken ni siquiera volte
rea mientras golpeaba
a Mam que tirada qued
Rea sin parar
al tiempo que deca
'carne blanca, carne blanca'
a mi madre que mora
Esto ocurri ayer
habla luz an
antes de la noche
viene el atardecer.
O 221
Frank Collymore
1 see these ancestor of ours:
The merchants, the adventurers, the youngest son s of squires,
Leaving the city and the shires and the seaports,
Eager to establish a temporary home and make a fortune
In the new lands beyond the West, pawning perhaps
The old familiar acres or the assured competence;
Sturdy, realist, eager to wring wealth from these Barbadoes
And to build, trade, colonize, pay homage to their King,
And worship according to the doctrines of the Church of England.
I see these ancestors of ours
Torn from the hills and dales of their motherIand,
Weeping, hoping in the mercy oftime to return
To farm and holding, shuttle and 100m, to return
In snow or rain or shine to humble homes, their own;
Cursing the day they were cheated by rebel standard s,
Or betrayed for their country's honour; fearing
The unknown land, the fever and the hurricane,
The swamp and jungle-all the travellers' tales.
I see them, these ancestors of ours;
Children of the tribe, ignorant of their doom, innocent
As cattle, bartered for, captured, beaten, penned,
Cattle ofthe slave-ship, less than cattle;
Sold in the market-place, yoked to servitude;
Cattle, bruised and broken, but strong enough to plough and breed,
And promised white man's heaven where they sing,
FiII lamps with oil nor wait the Bridegroom 's coming;
Raise chorused voices in the hymn of praise.
O 223
Trptico
Pocomania
Philip Sherlock
Long Mountain, rise,
Lift you' shoulder, blot the moon.
Black the stars, hide the ski es,
Long Mountain, rise, Iift you' shoulder high.
Black of skin and white of gown
BJack of night and candle Iight
White against the black of trees
And altar white against the gloom,
Black of mountain high up there
Long Mountain, rise,
Lift you' shoulrler, blot the moon,
Black the stars, black the sky.
Africa among the trees
Asia with her mysteries
Weaving white in flowing gown
B1ack Long Mountain looking down
Sees the shepherd and his flock
Dance and sing and wisdom mock,
Dance and sing and falls away
AIl the civilized today
Dance and sing and fears let loose;
Here the ancient gods that choose
Man for victim, man for hate
Man for sacrifice to fate
Hate and fear and madness black
Dance before the altar white
Comes the circle closer still
Shepherd weave your pattern old
Africa among the trees
Asia with her mysteries
Black of night and white of gown
White of altar, black of trees
O 225
O 227
O 229
Imagina
a un pueblo que por ms de cien aos
usa una librea natural bajo el sol
y brota por generaciones y muere
en una franja costera de Sudamrica.
Observa a un pueblo postrado
enderezar sus rodillas y erguirse
y con ojos oscuros desafiar al sol.
Mira cmo el poder oculto arquea el ceo
y aade profundidad a la visin de los ojos.
Imagina
a un pueblo que por ms de cien aos
trabaja contra el clima
lucha contra el prejuicio
y crece en un entorno ajeno
confinado, pero estirando sus miembros
y desafla al sol
A veces la sangre olvida los rboles en flor,
rojos flamboyanes en el sol intenso y claro
y despierta recuerdos de soles ms calientes,
de otros rboles de verde brillante bajo un cel
que quema un azul ms profundo y vital.
La sangre regresa:
atravesando desde frica
los vientos cerraban sus bocas, el mar se calmaba
y dejaba jadeando a las pequeas barcas, despus el Sol
desde lo alto, contemplaba la escena entre los mstiles.
O 231
Wilson Harris
Bold outlines are drawn to encompass
the history ofthe world: crude but naked emphasis
rests on each figure of the past
wherein the golden sunlight burns raw and unsophisticated.
Fires of brightness are sheltered
to burn the fallen Iimbs ofmen: the green
spirit of leaves like smoke
rises to mark the barrow of earth
and dwindles to perfection. The stars
are sparks
emblems of fire
to blacken thelimbs of each god who falIs:
spendthrift creation. The stable dew-drop is flameo
The dew burnishes each star in preparation for every deserted lane.
Time les uneasy between the paintless houses
weather-beaten and dark.
The Negro once leaned on his spade
breathing the smoke of his labour
the arch of his body banked to shelter or tame
fury and diamond
or else like charcoal to grain
the world.
O 233
Carbn
Basil McFarlane
We cross many rivers, but here is no anguish; our
dugouts have straddled the salt sea. The land
we have found is a mountain, magical with birds'
throats, and in the sea are fish. In the forests are many
tleet canoes. And here is no anguish, though storms
still the birds and frighten the fish from inshore shallows,
And
once it seemed the mountain moved, groaning
a Iiule.
In the sunless wet, after
rains, leaves in the tangled underbrush (like cool hands
of children on face and arms) glisten. I
am not one for society, and think how the houses throb with
the noise
of women up to their elbows
in cassava milk, when the dove-grey sea's breast is
soft in the lowering Iight - and the land we found
fairest of women.
That bright day, the light
like clusters of gold fruit, alone, unknown
of any, the dugout and I tled the shore's
burning beauty; the first wave's shock
an ecstasy like singing, oh, and the sea's strength
entered these arms. All day
we climbed the hill
ofthe sea.
It seemed l died
and found that bleak
Coyaba of the wise. The dugout
falte red in a long smooth swell. There were houses on the
water, aglow with light and music and strange
laughter. Like great birds, with
ominous mutterings and preenings, they
hovered on every side. Flat on the dugout's
O 235
O 237
James Berry
Such a peculiar lot
\Ve are, we people
without money, in daylong
yearlong sunlight, knowing
money is somewhere, somewhere.
Everybody says it's a big
bigger brain bother now,
money. Such miJIions and miJIions
of us don't manage at all
without it, tike war going on.
And we can't eat it. Yet
without it our heads alone
stay big, as lots and lots do,
coming from nowhere joyful,
going nowhere happy.
We can't drink it up. Yet
without it we shrivel when small
and stop forever
where we stopped,
as lo(s and lots do.
We can't read money for books.
Yet without it we don't
read, don't write numbers,
don't open gates in other countries,
as lots and lots never do.
We can't use money to bandage
sores, can 't pound it
to powder for sick eyes
and sick bellies. Yet without
it, f1esh melts from our bones.
O 239
240
O 241
Jan Carew
Our Caribbean
a bandolier
of emerald isles
circling
the waist
of twin continents,
suspended
miraculously
between Atlantic deeps
and the sun;
archipelago of famished hearts
manacled
with silver sands
caged
inside
moon burnished seas,
behind the flash
of cotton eyes
and tiger-orchid teeth
secret Fanonesque dreams
linger.
Our Caribbean
where sufferers laugh
to keep from weeping
and limpets
laze
on golden beaches,
half a millennium
ofpain
vanished
when Cuba
reclaimed
a sto len heritage.
Nuestro hogar
O 243
244
TiII 1 Colleet
Martn Carter
O 245
Harbour
Edward Kamau Brathwaite
But love curdles to milk in this climate
love of companion to distrust
love of good woman to lust
love ofthe good soil
to rust
the white man will not take
the black man's eye to his brother
the brown man keeps his own corridor
lies become politics of getting on
rum explodes in the blood stream
the humming bird dreams of the thickening horn of the hornet
sing dance drum limbo
the chains have not been shucked
the shackles are not off
their links tinkle with money
the tight collar of history chokes on blue dollars
the eyes blaze back into their history
to discover damp, squid, black-fire; shame makes me laugh
shame brings its cracked twigs of terror
so the sick skin must be peeled
the canefields of pain must be cutlashed away: their juice like a soft
error; their trapped crystal traitors
the trash of their dry river beds
is chained to my feet
why is the sun of this colour
and the islands tloat, unmoored and moisture laden
Iidded with dream and dew
and find no anchor of love, no hover
of hope in their backyard: they can find no safe hollow
the sun rises and sets, rages
bleeding bleeding the pages of history's horror
O 247
O 249
250
Ethnocide
Howard Fergus
The willing Arawak
Kissed by the Iily Iips of Spain
Demonstrated his belief
In Christianity
And self-extermination
Columbus in communion
Ate their bread
Drank their blood
And dyed their bed
He washed his hands
And thanked St Christopher
For the slaughter.
The hostile Carib
Dodged the holy hand of Spain
Affirming his belief
In ethnocide
And self-determination
Caonabo fed
His godly guests
The poisoned juice of cassareep
In a calabash of gold
The gods of Anacona drank
Their blood and thundered
Righteous laughter.
Etnocidio
O 251
Mervyn Morris
A drum thumps, faraway;
around the lamp my tribe of blood
are singing brothers home.
But soon that central fire will rage
too harsh for relics of the whip:
they'lI burn this building,
fire these books, this art.
And these are my rooms now:
my pallid masters fled,
freeing the only home I knew.
l' 11 stay another night,
sounding my tutored terror of the dark.
El esclavo de la casa
Traduccin de Claudia Eguiarte
Ancestral Poem
Olive Senior
n
My mothe(s womb impulsed
harvests perpetually. She
deeply breathed country air
when s~e laboured me.
m
The pattern woven by my
father's hands lulled me
to sleep. Certain actions
moved me so: my father
planting.
When my father planted
his thoughts too k flight.
He did not need to think.
The ritual was ingrained
in the blood, embedded
in the centuries of dirt
beneath his fingernails
encased in the memories
ofhis race.
(Yet the whiplash of my
father's wrath reverberated days in my
mind with the intensity' of tunning forks.
He did not think.
My mother stunned wept
and prayed Father
O 253
IV
Now against the rhythms
of subway trains my
heartbeats still drum
worksongs. Sorne wheels
sing freedom, the others:
home.
StilI, if I could balance
water on my head 1 can
juggle worlds
on my shoulders.
Poema ancestral
El vientre de mi madre
Perpetuamente impuls cosechas. Respir
profundo aire del campo
cuando me pari.
III
El patrn que tejan
las manos de mi padre me
arrull. Ciertas acciones
me conmovan tanto: mi padre
sembrando.
O 255
Without Song
Orace Nichols
O 257
Colonization in Reverse
Louise Bennett
Wat ajoyful news, Miss Mattie,
1 feel like me heart gwine burs
Jamaica people colonizin
Englan in reverse.
By de hundred, by de tousan
From country and from town,
By de ship-Ioad, by de plane-Ioad
Jamaica is Englan boun.
Dem a pour out a Jamaica,
Everybody future plan
Is fe get a big-time job
An settle in de mother lan.
What an islan! What a people!
Man an woman, old an young
Jus a pack dem bag an baggage
An tun history upside dung!
Sorne people doan like travel,
But fe show dem loyalty
Demall a open up cheap-fareTo-Englan agency.
An week by week dem shippin off
Dem countryman like tire,
Fe immigrate an populate
De seat a de Empire.
Oonoo see how life is funny,
Oonoo see de tunabout?
Jamaica live fe box bread
Out a English people mout'.
For wen dem ketch a Englan,
An start play dem different role,
O 259
Colonizacin al revs
O 261
Derek Walcott
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies
Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
But still the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
"Waste no compassion on these separate dead"
Statistics justify and scholar seize
The salients of colonial policy.
What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
To savages, expendable as Jews?
Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break
In a white dust of ibises whose cries
Have wheeled since civilization's dawn
From the parched river or beast-teeming plain;
The violence of beast on beast is read
As naturallaw, but upright man
Seeks his divinity with inflicting pain.
Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars
Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,
While he calls courage still, that native dread
Of the white peace contracted by the dead.
Again brutish necessity wipes its hands
Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again
A waste of our compassion, as with Spain.
The gorilla wrestles with the superman.
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can 1 face such slaughter and be cool?
How can 1 turn from Africa and Iive?
O 263