Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
translated by Hardie St. Martin

Another May

when you went past my window may
with autumn on your back
and flashed signals with the light
of the last leaves

what was your message may?
why were you sad or in your sadness gentle?
i never found out but there was always
one man alone in the street among autumn’s golds

well i was the boy
at the window may
shielding my eyes
when you went past

and come to think of it
i must have been the man

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
translated by Hardie St. Martin

Friends

jiri wolker attila joszef me
probably never three more perfect friends
jiri would talk about prague
and the blind stoker’s eyes still fixed on us
joszef would sing to Flora and the Revolution
and there were no trains for suicides then
or hospital beds to die in

what do you think of it? jiri joszef me
all three knocking around going through countries and women
and drinking wine and writing brilliant poems
the world was wide and all ours we had nothing
and everything ahead of us like youth
and so this was turning out as we had always planned
in a barricade
jiri joszef and me whistling to the end
they were giving up their bones their tremendous nevers

juri died in a hospital
joszef hurled himself under a train
oh god we were so beautiful
whistling to the end

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
translated by Hardie St. Martin

The End

A man has died and they’re teaspooning up his blood,
dear john, you’re dead at last.
Those pieces of you soaked in tenderness
were of no use to you.

How could you possibly get out
through a little hole
without someone to put a finger there
to keep you back?

He must have swallowed all the rage in the world
before dying
and afterwards he was so sad so very sad there
leaning on his bones.

They lowered you down, brother,
the ground trembles above you.
Let’s watch and see where his hands
pushed by his immortal rage send up shoots.

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
translated by Hardie St. Martin

Stuck in Paris

The one I miss now is the old lion at the zoo,
we always had coffee together in the Bois de Boulogne,
he’d tell me about his adventures in Southern Rhodesia
but he made it all up, obviously he’d never been out of the Sahara.

Anyway I loved his elegance,
the way he shrugged off the little things in life,
he’d look out the café window at the French
and say “those idiots make babies.”

The two or three English hunters he’d put away
stirred up unpleasant memories and even sadness,
“the things one does to keep flesh and bones together” he’d muse
admiring his mane in the café mirror.

Yes, I miss him very much,
he never picked up the bill
but would point out how much tip to leave
and the waiters saw him off with special respect.

We’d say goodbye at the approach of twilight,
he’d go back to what he called his bureau,
not before warning me with a paw on my shoulder
“watch out for the Paris night life, son.”

I really miss him very much,
a desert would sometimes fill his eyes
but he knew how to be silent like a brother
when moved, deeply moved,
I’d talk to him about Carlitos Gardel. ²

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Gotán represents “tango” spelled backwards.

²  Carlos (Carlitos) Gardel was and, more than thirty years after his death in a plane crash, still is the most famous singer of tangos in  Argentina.