Plena mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente,

                    copa o dulzura destinada a mí 

                    

                    Cuando subo la mano 

                    encuentro en cada sitio una paloma 

                    que me buscaba, como 

                    si te hubieran, amor, hecho de arcilla 

                    para mis propias manos de alfarero

                  
 Tus rodillas, tus senos 

                    tu cintura 

                    faltan en mí como en el hueco 

                    de una tierra sedienta 

                    de la que desprendieron 

                    una forma, 

                    y juntos 

                    somos completos como un solo río, 

                    como una sola arena. 
                  
                 
Your whole body       

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holds

                    a stemmed glass or gentle sweetness destined for

                    me
                  
When I let my hand climb,

                    in each place I find a dove

                    that was looking for me, as if

                    my love, they had made you of clay

                    for my very own potter’s hands.
                  
 Your knees, your breasts,

                    your waist,

                    are missing in me, like in the hollow

                    of a thirsting earth

                    where they relinquished

                    a form,

                    and together

                    we are complete like one single river,

                    like one single grain of sand. 




              
              
 
                
 
				
--Stephen Mitchell
              
            
        
        










      

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                    copa o dulzura destinada a mí 

                    

                    Cuando subo la mano 

                    encuentro en cada sitio una paloma 

                    que me buscaba, como 

                    si te hubieran, amor, hecho de arcilla 

                    para mis propias manos de alfarero
                  
 Tus rodillas, tus senos 

                    tu cintura 

                    faltan en mí como en el hueco 

                    de una tierra sedienta 

                    de la que desprendieron 

                    una forma, 

                    y juntos 

                    somos completos como un solo río, 

                    como una sola arena. 
                  
                
 
Your whole body holds

                    a stemmed glass or gentle sweetness destined for

                    me
                  
When I let my hand climb,

                    in each place I find a dove

                    that was looking for me, as if

                    my love, they had made you of clay

                    for my very own potter’s hands.
                  
 Your knees, your breasts,

                    your waist,

                    are missing in me, like in the hollow

                    of a thirsting earth

                    where they relinquished

                    a form,

                    and together

                    we are complete like one single river,

                    like one single grain of sand. 











              
              
 
                
 
				
--Stephen Mitchell
              
            
        
        










                    Comes a time I check out the tailor’s or the movies

                    shriveled, impenetrable, like a felt swan

                    wafted on waters of origin and ashes.
                  
A whiff from the pubs has me sobbing my eyes out.

                    All I want is a break from rocks and wool,

                    all I want is to see neither buildings nor gardens,

                    no shopping centers no glasses no elevators.
                  
Comes a time I’m tired of my feet and my fingernails

                    and my hair and my shadow.

                    Comes a time I’m tired of being a man.
                  
Yet how delicious it would be

                    to shock a notary with a cut lily

                    or to kill off a nun with a blow to the ear.

                    How beautiful

                    to run through the streets with a green knife,

                    howling until I died of cold.
                  
I don’t want to go on like a root in the shadows,

                    hesitating, pushing forward, trembling with dream,

                    down down into the dipped tripe of the earth,

                    soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.
                  
I don’t want for myself so many misfortunes.

                    I don’t want to keep on as root and tomb,

                    alone, subterranean, in a vault stuffed with corpses,

                    frozen stiff, dying of grief.
                  
That’s why Monday burns like kerosene

                    when it sees me show up with my mugshot face,

                    and it shrieks on its way like a wounded wheel,

                    trailing hot bloody footprints into the night.
                  
And it shoves me into certain corners, certain damp houses,

                    into hospitals where bones sail out the window,

                    into certain shoestores reeking of vinegar,

                    into streets godawful as crevices.
                  
There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines

                    adorning the doors of houses I hate,

                    there are dentures dropped into a coffeepot,

                    mirrors

                    that must have bawled with shame and terror,

                    there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons and belly buttons.
                  
I pass by with serenity, with eyes, with shoes,

                    with fury and forgetting,

                    I go cruising the offices and orthopedic stores,

                    and patios where clothes hang from a wire

                    where underwear, towels and blouses cry

                    drawn out, obscene tears.
              
               
                 
                
--
              
            
        
        
          

        
      
	



  

    
design:  
      
    
		
    
 
      
      
		

			
			
		

			
			
	
	

		

			
	
	

		

			
			
      

	  	
 
	  	

          
"El Alfarero / The Potter”
        
        

       	  
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Todo tu cuerpo tiene 

                    copa o dulzura destinada a mí 

                    

                    Cuando subo la mano 

                    encuentro en cada sitio una paloma 

                    que me buscaba, como 

                    si te hubieran, amor, hecho de arcilla 

                    para mis propias manos de alfarero
                  
 Tus rodillas, tus senos 

                    tu cintura 

                    faltan en mí como en el hueco 

                    de una tierra sedienta 

                    de la que desprendieron 

                    una forma, 

                    y juntos 

                    somos completos como un solo río, 

                    como una sola arena. 
                  
                
 
Your whole body holds

                    a stemmed glass or gentle sweetness destined for

                    me
                  
When I let my hand climb,

                    in each place I find a dove

                    that was looking for me, as if

                    my love, they had made you of clay

                    for my very own potter’s hands.
                  
 Your knees, your breasts,

                    your waist,

                    are missing in me, like in the hollow

                    of a thirsting earth

                    where they relinquished

                    a form,

                    and together

                    we are complete like one single river,

                    like one single grain of sand. 

                    

                    

                  
                  
              
              
 
                
 
				
--
              
            
        
        

          


        
      
	



  

    
design: <" class="abner">abnerpeacock 
      & canoas
  
 

	  	
 
	  	

          
"Soneto XII: Plena Mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente /
 Sonnet XII: Full woman, fleshy apple, hot moon"
        
        

       	  
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Plena mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente,

					espeso aroma de algas, lodo y luz machacados,

					quÏ oscura claridad se abre entre tus columnas?

					QuÏ antigua noche el hombre toca con sus sentidos?
                  
Ay, amar es un viaje con agua y con estrellas,

					con aire ahogado y bruscas tempestades de harina:

					amar es un combate de relˆmpagos

					y dos cuerpos por una sola miel derrotados.
                  
Beso a beso recorro tu peque¿o infinito,

					tus mˆrgenes, tus rÍos, tus pueblos diminutos,

					y el fuego genital transformado en delicia
                  
corre por los delgados caminos de la sangre

					hasta precipitarse como un clavel nocturno,

					hasta ser y no ser sino un rayo en la sombra.
                
 
                
Full woman, fleshy apple, hot moon,

				thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light,

				what obscure brilliance opens between your columns?

				What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?
                  
Loving is a journey with water and with stars,

				with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour:

				loving is a clash of lighting bolts

				and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.
                  
Kiss by kiss I move across your small infinity,

				your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages,

				and the genital fire transformed into delight
                  
runs through the narrow pathways of the blood

				until it plunges down, like a dark carnation,

				until it is and is no more than a flash in the night.
              
              
 
                
 
				
--Stephen Mitchell