"English poems, translation by Jay Sánchez, Rennon Mariano & Keith O'Donnell"
WayAfter I Jumping,I May regret and wish to return to the platform,Too late Falling, Falling.After falling, A whip splits my spine,all that I was in life is but a silhouette markedby a chalk outline.And what if I shot myself ?The Index in its depthfeeling all the weight,to turn out the light, a night of brains blown out.And what if it were a noose pulling tight around my neck?The air leaving, the eyes bulging, blood bypassing the head,memories calling,painting the face red as a distorted Carnival Clown.For this last tripdragging with great effortthe fragile combination of nervesurging in a swell of spasm in exact coordinates.For this last tripthe toung uncoiling like a serpantan afertaste on the palateof life's last juice,the veins bursting like fragile glassscattering throughout the Universe.To sleep foreverdreaming of lifea deaf and dark night always arrivesplundering the bodyfull of Love.FormasAl saltar, pensaría en volvercayendoal caerun látigo partiría mi espina dorsaltodo lo que fue vida tras una siluetamarcada con tiza¿Y si fuese un disparo?el índice en la profundidadsintiendo todo el pesoesos espasmos como descargasde miedo para apagarla luz en una noche de vísceras¿Y si fuesen sogas?el aire perdiéndose, los ojos saltandola sangre desviándose de la cabezaPara el último viajerastreando con esfuerzola más frágil combinaciónde nerviosyéndose en un oleaje deespasmos en las coordenadasexactasPara el último viajela lengua serpenteandoun químico en la falangelas venas llenasde vidrio viajando todo el universoPara dormir soñando con vidauna noche sorda y oscurasiempre llega masacrandoun cuerpo lleno de amor.
Golden Gate BridgeJay with a rope, Keith with vodkaWe have a friendthat invites us to makes pavilions out of goldwith fish and seaweed, it helps the family to fly,as the dreams flyand to wake up from a cesspoolin the back side of the shadeunder a naked Trinity the birds,that vast landscapeand it brings forth a relief.Seeit will teach you everythingwithout useless words,if you want, from top to bottomwith a suitanddrinking Gin and Tonic.Jay with pills, Keith AAwe have a friend that it has thousand friendsthat they have gotten to flap their armsin an effort to fly.Why it springs wings,unfortunate garlandsserved with with oceanic agony.See,look aroundto the grategranting to desires its whims,with strong hands, flexing the kneeswhile contemplating sailing a boat.Jay, Keith, you and meWe have a friend thatUnite usthat show us the waywhere there are a lot of escape routesthe fury of the windwithout losing the fall,4 seconds, 75 miles an hour
Golden Gate BridgeA Keith O'DonnellJay con cuerdasKeith con vodkay yotenemos un amigoque nos invitaque hace pabellonesde oro con peces y algasmarinasque ayuda a la familia a volar.Como vuelan lossueños paradespertarte de unfondoal dorso de la sombrabajo el trino desnudode los pájarosesa inmensidad delpaisajey surge un alivioVe, te enseñará todosin palabras inútiles¿Quieres? de arriba aabajo con traje ybebiendo un gin-tonicJay con píldoras, KeithAA y yotenemos un amigo quetiene miles de amigosque han llegado arevolotear los brazosen un esfuerzo porvolar. Porque te saldrán alasunas guirnaldas funestas regadascon agonía oceánica
Ve, asómate a la rejaconcediendo al deseosus caprichoscon las manos firmesflexionando las rodillasmientras contemplas elnavegar de un veleroJay, Keith, tú y yotenemos un amigo queuneque dicta el caminodonde se concentranlos puntos de fugala rapidez del viento sindesviar la caída4 segundos, 121kilómetrospor hora.
Thirdr (Hotel Warfield)I Tie and Untie myselfand count to three,it is incomplete,and an empty longing,full of symbols that mean nothingand I create heavenly memoriesthat soon demand of me,cutting my time in half.A heavy sleep arrives before midnightand I wake up tired in the morningbetween visions,as though it had a meaning,I wake up, and do things routinely doneby those living,just a pulse with no nameit looks like we are laid outthere are sounds that frighten.While in the streets with my brothers,when in the shadows of the night,just looking at numbersI feel sick and hurt all over.Going up and going downas children play in a slidebelow there is deathpushing and shoving,foaming at the mouththey all cheerbelow they are all gray,then purple,there is no sun.As I descend from the third floor,it begins my coming togetherto solid ground.
Tercer piso (Hotel Warfield)Me amordazo medes-amordazo y cuentohasta tresincompleto, en unaansia carentee invento esté paraísode instantes que luegocobrareduciendo mi tiempoa la mitadDuermo cansado antela medianochey despierto cansadoante la mañana entrevisionesy nadie responde paracomenzar de nuevoUn pulso sin nombreparece estirarnossonidos que chocanAbajo está la muerte yespumeaarrinconay todos le aplaudenabajo las personas songrises, moradasy no hay solAl descender del tercerpiso inicio miacercamiento a latierra…
Tenderloin (San Francisco)Dead walking,nude crawling in a love parade,the return of the ambulanceswithout roads,when I am close to a blissful highI long a lot forcaresses,to help me fall asleepit is night,six months have gone bybetween incenses over graves,and a celestial restlessness,visions of jupiter compacted into pipes.This face cannot be minethe face of Sundayat noon.If it wasn't noonand had I something to dothese damn ambulance sirenswould not torment mewith their regrets.How do I recover with punchesthe street's quietness,how do I destroy with an axethe remembrances from my veinswithout diving in a tubto masturbate.there is a horrible smell of beer,so romantic yet so pathetic,There are ideas of escape, andlasting words.
if I had a dog his barkingwould convince me but I have no dog,only nights find I joy in contempt,and instead of I protesteverything induce meinto a terrible and sorrowful laughter.Tenderloin (San Francisco)Muertos moviendodesnudos crepitandoen el desfile del amorel regreso de lasambulancias sin pistascuando estoy al borde celebréy quiero por lo tantocaricias
ayúdame a dormirnochede 6 a seis ha pasadomesesentre inciensos sobresepulturasascua astralJúpiter compacto enpipasno puede ser mi rostroeseel rostro del domingoal mediodíaSino fueran las doce ytuvieraalgo que hacer estasmalditas sirenasde ambulancia noretumbarandescalificándomecómo recobrar elsilencio de las callescómo cerrarla vena de losrecuerdosHay un horrible olor acervezatan románticopatéticoideas de escapefrases cursis dedespediday todo me causa unaterribley angustiosa risa.
Juan Carlos Vásquez was born in Valencia, Venezuelan on December 20. As a narrator, Vasquez has published a short stories book entitled Pedazos de Familia (2000) published by Estival Editions Maracay-Venezuela. A book of poems entitled Colapso and a story book Vulnerables which deals with the contradictions which ends in the human experiential perspective. Vasquez other works were published in Ciclos Valencia Association for the Bipolar Affliction in Valencia, Spain, in the Poetic Anthologies While Vivir Soñando (2004) published by Poetic Studies Center of Madrid, Paseo en Versos (2005) published for passages in the roof Df Mexico, Hemiparesias published by Viceralia Ediciones, Santiago de Chile. Poesías y aparte el Libro y su Autor, Cuentos para niños, Literary Works compilation by Betty Goldman and Enrique Epelbon, USA, 2007. Magazine Voces, vol 55, june 2000. Vol 68. September 2007. His works have been broadcasted in radio programs Breus, Barcelona (Spain) 106.9. FM, Production AFV, Buenos Aires (Argentina) 105.9 FM. Two of his poems were translated into Portuguese by Antonio Miranda. (2006) While Vasquez Literary Texts Letragrafias de la Veleta (2006) was published by Veracruz University, Mexico. Currently. Vasquez has lived in St. Petersburg, Tampa, Miami, FL, San Francisco, CA, y New York. Since 2016, he lives in Barcelona, Spain. Twitter - Facebook- Instagram - E-mail: jcvasquezf@gmail.com - Perfil
Cansaço da PoesiaNão há na poesianem em meus mecanismos formas.posso presumir coisaspensar no azaresperando uma surpresa ou um milagre,dizer o já ditocriar importunandoe ainda assim não deixará o ciclode seguir com seu desgaste,que posso te dizer para deixarde gritar no absurdo.Creio cansar-te susurrando fatos,agitando moscas,estou fraco e flutuo repetindoainda que incendiarei as conexões,os mesmos cárceres e eu incursionando.E é que observo a mensagemsobre a planíciecom minha onda de toques,eu quisera ter prolongado em suacara minha razãomas os murmúrios me colocaramdiante das antigas incógnitasda superfície.Cansancio de PoesíaNo hay en la poesíani en mis mecanismos formaspuedo suponer cosaspensar en el azaresperando una sorpresa o un milagrodecir lo dichocrear importunandoy aun así no dejara el ciclode seguir con su desgasteque te puedo decir para dejarde gritar en el absurdoCreo aburrirte susurrando hechosagitando moscasestoy flaco y floto repitiendoaun que incendiaré las conexioneslas mismas cárceles y yo incursionando
Y es que observo el mensajesobre la planiciecon mi oleada de toquesyo quisiera haber prolongado en sucara mi razónpero los murmullos me colocaronfrente a las antiguas incógnitasde la superficie.
Golden Gate ParkQuando se recolhem as sombras se levantamas árvores ante mim e soa o fio doanoitecer arrasando tudo,sombras e mais sombras, violentas pausas.Suavemente a morte sem que a agonia se façaloucura, na quietude me perturbam palavras,três dias falando de mulheres e em noitede montanha todos os fantasmas se lançampara acurralar-me,pisadas, murmúrios, flautas e esse rangerdistante que completa com desproporcionados metaismeus tormentos,suavemente morte sem que a fauna me asfixie,sem que os turnos me plasmem em suas engrenagensmalditas,vejo através do cristal a confidência e oúltimo anúncio em meus olhos rotos.Golden Gate ParkCuando se recogen las sombras se levantanlos árboles ante mi y suena el filo delanochecer arrollándolo todosombras y mas sombras, violentas pausasSuavecito muerte sin que la agonía se hagalocura, en la quietud me perturban palabrastres días hablando de mujeres y en la nochede la montaña todos los fantasmas se abalanzanpara acorralarmepisadas, murmullos, flautas y ese rechinarlejano que completa con destartalados metalesmis tormentossuavecito muerte sin que la fauna me asfixiesin que los turnos me plasmen en sus engranajesmalditosveo a través del cristal la confidencia y elultimo anuncio en mis ojos rotos.
Traduções de Antonio Miranda
Juan Carlos Vásquez nasceu em 1972 em Valência, Venezuela. Participou dos volumes e antologias coletivas: Paseo en Versos (Pasos en la Azotea, Df México, 2006); Hemiparesia (Visceralia Ediciones, Santiago do Chile, 2006); Poesías y aparte (El Libro y su Autor, Creaciones Literarias, selección de Betty Goldman y Enrique Epelbon; Estados Unidos, 2007). Membro do grupo cultural Spanic Attack (Nova York, 2004); The Hall (Miami, 2001). É autor dos livros de histórias Pedazos de familia (Estival Editions, 'Colecção Salamandra', 2000); Vulnerables (Amazon Media EU, 2022); Ward's Island, história autobiográfica de sua vida em Nova York (2001-2006); Colapso. Poesía reunida (1999-2022). Obteve distinções nos concursos de poesia pró-linguística e multimídia Prêmio Nosside (Calábria, Itália), edições de 2005 e 2006. Finalista no concurso de micro-contos “Guka”, Buenos Aires, 2018. Colaborou em várias revistas e jornais, impressos e virtuais. Vásquez mudou-se para a Flórida em 1999. Desde então, vive em Tampa Bay, São Francisco, Nova York e outras cidades nos Estados Unidos e na Espanha. Atualmente reside entre Barcelona e Alicante. E-mail: jcvasquezf@gmail.com - Perfil
Portadas: Lili Popper & Tim Foster (unsplash - public domain).
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