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.

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
translated by Hardie St. Martin

The Girl on the Balcony

The afternoon went down that street near the port
making its way slowly, swaying, filled with odors.
The old houses look pale on afternoons like this,
their squalid sadness shows more than ever and their walls
look unhappier than usual, deep stairways
give off light like phosphorescence from the sea
and perhaps dead eyes watch the late afternoon as if remembering.

It was six o’clock, something gentle stopped the newcomers,
something  gentle as if coming from the afternoon’s lips,
something full of lust.
Faces relax on afternoons like this,
they burn with something childlike
against the darkness, the breath of dancehalls.

This gentleness was as if each one were remembering a woman,
their thighs intertwined, his head on her belly,
the silence of the newcomers
was a heavy surf in the middle of the street
making knees and leftovers of tenderness crash
into the New Inn, its doors, its entrances the color of neglect.

And then the girl appeared on the balcony
standing over the afternoon that was as much hers as her room with its unmade bed
where every man believed he had loved her once
before forgetfulness had set in.

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
 translated by Hardie St. Martin

The Thief

In the night, so dark and quiet,
shying away from everything human or animal,
secretly, without a sound, he steals
fire from words and words from fire
for himself, for everyone, for the love he’ll never know.
The cold ashes punish his hands.

Selected Poems of Juan Gelman
 translated by Hardie St. Martin

The Art of Poetry

Of all trades, I’ve chosen one that  isn’t mine.

Like a hard taskmaster
it makes me work day and night,
in pain, in love,
out in the rain, in dark times,
when tenderness or the soul opens its arms,
when illness weighs down my hands.

The grief of others, tears,
handkerchiefs raised in greeting,
promises in the middle of autumn or fire,
kisses of reunion or goodbye,
everything makes me work with words, with blood.
I’ve never been the owner of my ashes, my poems,
obscure faces write them like firing bullets at death.