Four Poems by Esther Ramón

translated by Emma Ferguson

THREE STEPS BELOW,

is the shadow that guides
the light
the deformed feet,
their contrast
through the corridors
of the house.
Hands enveloped
by candles,
a foothold of sticks
in the bones
of the collapse,
visitors that pass through
tiptoeing
clothes bitten in the closets,
furs covering the mirrors,
children that slip
on the glass that passes through
the walls.
Red signals. Of clay.
In the same pill.
Water and lime.
Flow in reverse.
You don’t have to find
the bedroom
and nonetheless it exists,
now that nothing else
is known
it appears on every corner,
stripped of its stones
and their hidden inscriptions,
may prosperity enter our
home, may the screams come in
and leave
lookouts,
currents of sun,
they used to say—
in many dead
languages, minerals,
broken letters,
voices that breathe
with extinguished candles
in their hands.

TRES pasos por debajo,

es la sombra la que guía
a la luz
los pies deformes,
su contraste
por los corredores
de la casa.
Son las manos sostenidas
por velas,
un estribo de palillos
en los huesos del derrumbe,
visitantes que la recorren
sigilosos
ropa mordida en los armarios,
pieles que cubren los espejos,
niños que resbalan
en el cristal que atraviesa
las paredes.
Señales rojas. De arcilla.
En una misma cápsula.
Agua y cal.
Fluir en el reverso.
No hay que encontrar
la habitación
y sin embargo es,
ahora que nada más
se sabe,
aparece en cada esquina,
despojada de sus piedras,
de las inscripciones ocultas
en sus piedras,
la prosperidad entre en nuestro
hogar, los gritos entren
y salgan
miradores,
corrientes de sol,
decían,
en muchas lenguas
muertas, minerales,
letras rotas,
voces que respiran
con velas apagadas
en las manos.

PERHAPS A BOAT,

and what it navigates
isn’t water,
legs like
submerged oars
hanging over the walls,
into the squelching fruit,
so then climb on
the ship
and head toward home
that suddenly is
an elm ripped
by its roots,
by sick roots,
consumed
by a slow pestilence
of elms,
boat that eats
its own white dawn
and knits bark
for the light
that falls vertically
upon the trunk,
with knives,
and its drops are the bodies
that abandon the body,
that walk without air,
their impulse exhausted,
openings broken,
unfinished structure, no lock,
no roots,
leaning
against a wall
that slips
beyond the last
knot, the last
thread: a worm
that lifts its head
and dies,
and is pulled out by its roots,
emptied,
and it is the house.

TAL vez un barco,

y lo que navega
no es agua,
piernas como
remos sumergidos
en los muros,
en la fruta
rezumante,
entonces subirse
a esa embarcación
y avanzar por la casa
que de pronto es
un olmo arrancado
de raíz,
de raíz enfermo,
consumido
por la peste lenta
de los olmos,
barco que se come
su albura
y le teje a la luz
una corteza,
a la luz que
cae vertical
sobre el tronco,
con sus cuchillos,
y las gotas son los cuerpos
que abandonan el cuerpo,
que caminan sin aire,
agotado el impulso,
quiebre de apertura,
estructura sin cierre,
sin raíces,
apoyada
en una pared
que se desliza,
más allá del último
nudo, del último
hilo: un gusano
que levanta la cabeza
y muere,
y es arrancado de raíz,
vaciado,
y es la casa.

WHEN THEY CAME IN

they saw eyes half
finished and hair,
evidence of
an individual without form,
a being who looks
like stone,
who smells like stone,
there was enough room
for development,
maybe digging,
away from
trees with their nuts
that hold fast the cartilage
to the skin,
avoiding formation
of fat cells,
barely brushing
the curtains
that slow
our movement
through corridors,
they weren’t monsters
or captive animals,
only old furniture
covered with sheets,
under the floor
digging so deep
in the earth, into its
vibrating beds—
and chairs appear,
the ones that disappeared,
now rest.

CUANDO entraron

vieron ojos a medio
hacer y pelo,
diagnóstico de
individuo sin forma,
un ser con aspecto
de piedra,
con olor a piedra,
había espacio suficiente
para el desarrollo,
tal vez cavando,
alejándose de
los árboles con fruto,
eso mantiene el cartílago
muy pegado a la piel,
evita formaciones
adiposas,
rasgando acaso
las cortinas
que frenan
el paso libre
de los corredores,
no eran monstruos
ni animales detenidos,
sólo viejos muebles
tapados con sábanas,
bajo el suelo,
cavando muy hondo
en la tierra, en sus
lechos vibratorios,
aparecen las sillas
desaparecidas,
el descanso.

WE CROSS SWORDS

or canes.
We dance
in our naked bodies,
squeezed by ropes,
without form,
we polish our elbows
from the inside,
we want a name—
we have metallic branches
that skewer doves
and frequencies of the voice
of whoever loses
the rhythm: we
or the adversary.
The walls are pincers,
precise pins
advancing,
to walk in the wheel
is what spreads
equilibrium,
to not give it rest,
not allow it silence—
it has to speak
and in dialogue
it has to move,
lips of salt,
fishhooks
that don’t adjust—
only in the body
is there collapse,
kneeling, rummaging
lethargic
where this x marks the spot
abandon yourself to the horse
wounded by music,
to the needle that spurs it,
to the altered volume
too sharp,
it almost collapses,
it crushes us:
cries and wails reclaiming
the name.

CRUZAMOS espadas

o bastones.
Danzamos con
el cuerpo desnudo,
apretado por cuerdas,
sin su forma,
pulimos los codos
desde dentro, queremos un nombre,
tenemos ramas metálicas
que ensartan palomas
y frecuencias de voz,
pierde quien pierda
el ritmo: nosotros
o el adversario.
Sus muros son pinzas,
alfileres de precisión
que se adelantan,
caminar en la rueda
es lo que extiende
el equilibrio,
no darle reposo,
no dejarle el silencio,
tiene que hablar
y en el diálogo
moverse,
labios de sal,
anzuelos que
no modulan,
sólo en el cuerpo
el derrumbe,
de rodillas, escarbando
sin ganas
en este punto x
abandonarse al caballo
herido de la música,
a la aguja que lo espolea,
al volumen alterado,
demasiado agudo,
ya casi se desploma,
nos aplasta:
a gritos reclamar
su nombre.

Esther Ramón is a poet, critic, and professor from Madrid, Spain. She has published nine volumes of poetry and earned the Premio Ojo Crítico in 2008. Several poems of hers have been translated into various languages and she appears in the US anthology Panic Cure: Poetry from Spain for the 21st Century (Otis Books, 2014). She has been coordinating editor for the journal Minerva, director of a radio poetry program for Radio Círculo, and is currently a professor of creative writing and literary criticism at Universidad Carlos III in Madrid.

Emma Ferguson is a Seattle-born poet, translator, and educator. She attended Bard College and NYU in Madrid. She has been accepted to Breadloaf Translators’ Conference for 2020 (postponed to 2021) and is a spring 2020 AWP Writer to Writer mentee. She is currently translating the poetry collection Dwelling (2015) by Esther Ramón, and her original poems can be found at River Heron Review and The Bookends Review. She teaches Spanish at Eastside Preparatory School and lives in Seattle.