Selections from Galápagos by Malva Flores

Translated by Jennifer Buentello

My Arrival

Oh, how futile it is to navigate around the islands
Álvaro Mutis

1.

It took me ten years to return to Galápagos.

Those lists of light flowing like rivers from the sky barely peek through the main island fog. I barely discover the knots in its calligraphy of fish: long silver scale.

How many
                    two
                           three islands
hours pass, a steep peak.
Then, only fog.

The islands manifest themselves from heaven like an incomplete promise: land spreading like beads of a rosary, extending a small prayer.

They didn’t see them like that from the Beagle, that ship where the wise man with the long beard searched for his tortoise. His beard like clouds uselessly crossing over this rusty motor flying through the sky.

On the ground, carrying that large shell, the Indica Testudo nigra, carved long paths into the land, seeking water.

And I, looking for the desert. The sands that, I know, are destroying everything.

The cancer of silence.

2.

Promontory crests. From the air, the island’s black wrinkles peek out, craters of tuff. And suddenly the sea appears again: the double line of waves crashing on the beach, the plaza glimmering from above. The biggest market, the tugging of pigs, their constant screeches: outrage before death.

3.

The bare mountains are broken, stingy, with a few huisaches: old, dusty plants. Stunted shrubs “sunburnt and can barely survive, covered by a black basaltic lava flow throughout,” Darwin said, observing the islands.

Some trees growing in the middle of nowhere cast a brief shadow. Grays that used to be green, I imagine.

We see the ravaged land from the sky. Close by the trail, I make out clear reflections: a large lake of salt or is it water sparkling there?

4.

Crest of the grebe even with the water. The duck’s reflection, inconceivable duck with its duckling striped like a zebra.

The invisible mob passes level to the water.

Arribo

Oh el infructuoso navegar alrededor de las islas
Álvaro Mutis

1.

Diez años me tomó regresar a Galápagos.

Esas listas de luz que son los ríos desde el aire apenas si aparecen entre la niebla de la prima isla. Apenas si descubro los nudos en su caligrafía de pez: larga escama de plata.

Cuántas
               dos
                     tres islas
al paso de las horas y el escarpado pico.
Luego, sólo la niebla.

Las islas se despliegan desde el cielo como una promesa incumplida: un rosario de tierra donde extender una plegaria mínima.

No las vieron así desde el Beagle, aquel barco donde viajó buscando su tortuga el sabio de las barbas largas. Barbas como las nubes que inútilmente atraviesa este motor roñoso por el cielo.

A ras de suelo, cargando el gran caparazón, Índica Testudo nigra, trazaba largos caminos en la tierra para encontrar el agua.

Y yo, buscando el desierto. Las arenas que, sé, van destruyendo todo.

El cáncer del silencio.

2.

Las crestas del promontorio. Desde el aire se asoman esas arrugas negras de las islas, los cráteres de toba. Y de pronto aparece: de nuevo el mar: la doble fila de las olas chocando con la playa, la plaza que desde arriba atisbo. El mercado mayor, el jalar de los puercos, su chillar de rutina: escándalo que anticipa la muerte.

3.

En los montes pelones se desgajan, tacaños, unos cuantos huizaches: viejas matas polvosas. Raquíticos arbustos “tostados por el sol y que apenas pueden vivir, cubren en toda su extensión una corriente de lava basáltica negra”, comentó Darwin al observar las islas.

Algunos árboles plantados en medio de la nada proyectan una breve sombra. Grises que fueron verdes, imagino.

[page break, new stanza]

Desde el aire miramos esa tierra arrasada. Cerca ya de la pista se adivinan unos claros reflejos: un gran lago de sal ¿o es agua lo que brilla ahí?

4.

Cresta de somormujo a ras del agua. El reflejo del pato, inconcebible pato con su cría rayada como cebra.

A ras del agua pasa el tropel invisible.

Malva Flores is author, among others, of the following books: Galápagos (Era, 2016); La culpa es por cantar. Apuntes sobre poesía y poetas de hoy [The fault is for singing. Notes on poetry and poets today] (Literal Publishing / Conaculta, 2014); Aparece un instante, Nevermore [Appears for an instant, Nevermore] (Bonobos / UNAM, 2012), Viaje de Vuelta. Estampas de una revista [Journey of Return. Prints from a magazine] (FCE, 2011), Luz de la Materia [Light of Matter] (ERA, 2010), Passage of the Tree (Literal Publishing, 2006), Malparaíso [Bad paradise] (Eldorado, 2003), Casa nómada [Nomadic house] (Joaquín Mortiz, 1999), Ladera de las cosas vivas [Hillside of living things] (CNCA, 1997), Pasión de caza [Passion of hunting] (Gob. Del Estado de Jalisco, 1993). In 2006, Flores won the José Revueltas National Essay Prize with her book El ocaso de los poetas intelectuales [The Twilight of the Intellectual Poet] (UV, 2010). In 1999, she received the Aguascalientes National Poetry Prize, and in 1991, she also received the Elías Nandino National Young Poetry Prize. Her poetry has been translated into English, Portuguese, Japanese, German, and Dutch.

Jennifer Buentello is a writer and Ph.D. student of English and Creative Writing at Texas Tech University where she currently serves as an Associate Editor for Iron Horse Literary Review. Her stories and essays have appeared in the New Orleans Review, the Texas Review, Writing Texas, and elsewhere.