This is just to say (Rogelio Guedea)

Until a few months ago, all I knew of Mexican poetry was from a few international names like Octavio Paz, a selection of translations by Samuel Beckett, and a number of fine poets from anthologies. Then my discovery that in fact Spanish American poetry was being written a few kilometres from where I live. Rogelio Guedea has been in Dunedin for almost a decade. He teaches at the university, an intellectual who contributes regular political columns to papers in Mexico, a former legal prosecutor, a writer of crime novels, and a prolific poet. El crimen de los Tepames, the final volume of a fiction trilogy, last year was a best seller in Mexico, and his poetry has won Spain’s Premio Adonais. The enterprising Roger Hickin, whose Cold Hub Press is the only New Zealand imprint that brings out collections in foreign languages, is about to publish Si no te hubieras ido/If only you hadn’t gone, with his own finely pitched translations. The set of thirty four poems was written while the writer’s wife and family was temporarily back in Mexico. As I’ve noted in an Introduction to the volume,

‘Ordinary,’ I expect, is the first word that may come to you, should you ask, what kind of world is this, that these poems are part of? For that is the ultimate grace, you might say, that the poet’s wife bestows on a house and a suburb while she is there, and that seems so distant, so unlikely, when she is not. Just as in the Adam myth it is the correct naming of things that brings orderliness to whatever exists, it is her physical presence that gives coherence to objects, and pattern to routines. This is not ‘domestic poetry’ of the kind that sometimes seems to me a mere cataloguing of trivia. This is poetry that addresses love and purpose and emotional reach, and where everything within their range, whether cakes of soap or bathplugs or plastic rubbish bags, bask in their sheer quiddity, as philosophers used to say, because finally it is love that sanctions whatever point they have. This is the poetry of love timed to the minute by mundane clocks, yet proposing so much more as it spells out with casual, anecdotal, wryly good-humoured largesse, that right here, and only here, life and its values take shape.’

Rogelio Guedea

If you’re inclined to trace out lines of descent, you might follow the thread from William Carlos Williams’ note in ‘This is just to say,’ when he took plums from an icebox, and wrote the sort of poem that several of my contemporaries fancied was where modern personal poetry really began, to the note on the fridge door in a Dunedin suburb, in the first lines of If only you hadn’t gone. At least it places these new poems in a tradition of unshowy, unsentimental love poems, whose strength is their needing neither flourish nor elaboration to strike home. And as I very much liked having the chance to say as I wrote about Guedea, ‘I don’t know any other poetry written in New Zealand that does quite what these poems do, with their imperative of rapidly jotted notes, and yet that overarching confidence of sustaining form. I don’t believe we can any longer talk about our contemporary poetry at large, without Rogelio Guedea now being a voice in that conversation.’


Si no te hubieras ido

I (28-10-2013)

vi la nota que me dejaste adentro
del refrigerador, sobre el queso italiano,
todavía empaquetado:
son las mismas notas que me has dejado
siempre cuando te vas, puedo reconocer
tu pulso, verte escribiéndola, incluso,
de espaldas a mí, con tu mano
precipitada/ es, sin embargo, como
si fuera la primera nota que me dejas
cuando te vas, siempre que la leo
me encuentro contigo por primera vez,
la leo e inmediatamente te miro subiendo al avión,
disolviéndote entre el tumulto de gente/
nunca quito las notas del lugar donde
las dejaste, me gusta volver a ellas
de vez en vez, durante el día, principalmente
antes de entrar en la cama:
sólo entonces tengo la certeza
de que no te has ido.

I saw the note you left
in the fridge, on top of the Italian cheese,
still in its wrapper:
the sort of note you always leave me
when you go, I can tell
your firm hand, can even see you writing it,
hurriedly, with your back to me/ but it’s
as if it’s the first time you’re leaving
me a note when you go, every time I read it
I’m right back there with you,
I read it and straight away I see you boarding the plane,
disappearing in a horde of people/
I never shift the notes from where
you leave them, I like to come back to them
now and then, throughout the day, mostly
just before I go to bed:
only then can I convince myself
you haven’t gone.

VII (3-11-2013)

duermo en el lugar vacío que dejaste
al otro lado de la cama:
me mudé la siguiente noche que te fuiste/
tuve la impresión de que se hundía la cama sin ti
y de algún modo tenía yo que llenar ese hueco
que se abría con las horas/
ahora leo con la luz de tu lamparita, apoyo la cabeza
en tu almohada, siento la suavidad de la sábana
y, de vez en cuando, como haces tú, volteo hacia un lado
para ver el espacio que suelo ocupar cuando estás,
lo veo vacío, como un agujero que se alargara
hacia el sótano de la casa, oscuro, infranqueable:
podría extender la mano para salvarlo,
traerme de nuevo a mi sitio,
pero me dejo así, vacío y oscuro,
solo y, ya lo sabes,
cayendo.

I sleep in the empty space you left
on the other side of the bed:
I moved the night after you left/
the bed seemed to sag without you
and somehow I had to fill the hollow
that was growing by the hour/
now I read by the light of your lamp, resting my head
on your pillow, feeling the softness of the sheet
and now and then, as you do, I turn on my side
so I can see the space I usually occupy when you’re here,
it’s empty, like a hole that stretches
down towards the basement, dark and untraversable:
I could reach my hand out to save it,
draw myself back to my own spot,
but I’m still here, dark and empty,
alone and, as you’re well aware by now,
falling.

X (6-11-2013)

estoy escuchando a marco antonio solís
quien canta:
“el frío de mi cuerpo pregunta por ti y no sé dónde estás
si no te hubieras ido sería tan feliz”/
ya lo sabes
la hemos escuchado muchas veces
pero nunca supe muy bien lo que decía marco antonio solís
hasta ahora que lo escucho y tú no estás
porque no es lo mismo escucharla cuando estás que cuando
te has ido,
así que la he escuchado una vez más
dos o tres
más
porque hay canciones de marco antonio solís que son así
uno las escucha muchas veces pero no las entiende hasta
que tú no estás:
hasta qué tú no estás.

I’m listening to marco antonio solís
who is singing:
“my cold body asks for you and I don’t know where you are
if only you hadn’t gone I’d be so happy”/
you remember
we listened to it over and over
but I never really knew what marco antonio solís meant
until listening to him now without you
because it’s not the same song when you’re here
as when you’ve gone,
and so once more I’ve listened to it
two or three times
more
because marco antonio solís’s songs can be like that
one can listen many times and not understand them until
you’re not here:
until you’re not here.

XIII (9-11-2013)

no te lo había dicho pero
por primera vez en nueve años que
tengo viviendo en esta isla no me
siento solo:
tengo debajo de los pies una red que me sostiene,
amigos queridos —sebas, andrea, juan, fernanda, vero, mario, mariana, carlos, isoli—
que traigo siempre deambulando en la cabeza,
piando como los pajarillos del amanecer, tú sabes lo lindo
que cantan en la mañanas/
pensarlos es ir acompañado, recordarlos es levantar
un muro o contrafuerte: no que me inviten a comer,
no que me llamen por teléfono —yo nunca creí que alguien me llamaría algún día
por teléfono para preguntarme cómo estoy—,
la amistad no está ahí sino en su reverso:
no está en que te piensen sino en pensarlos,
no está en que te recuerden sino en recordarlos/
para un solitario como yo
(que rehúye, ya lo sabes, a todos y a todo), estos pensamientos
y recuerdos de los amigos queridos es algo nuevo,
una isla nueva,
un cielo azul despejado nuevo,
lindo como el canto del pajarillo que me abre la ventana
todas las mañanas para invitarme a caminar otro día,
otra niebla,
arder sobre otra zarza/
ya sé que mientras esto escribo tú duermes, allá, del otro lado del mundo,
y por eso lo hago, sólo para ver si nos encontramos en alguna esquina
de alguno de tus sueños: again.

I haven’t told you this but
for the first time in the nine years
I’ve been living on this island
I don’t feel alone:
I’m supported by a network of dear friends
—sebas, andrea, juan, fernanda, vero, mario, mariana, carlos, isoli–—
they’re always wandering through my mind,
chirping like birds at daybreak, you know the loveliness
of their morning songs/
to think of them means company, to recall them is to raise
a wall or buttress: it’s not that they invite me to dinner,
nor that they ring me up to check on how I am,
—I wasn’t expecting that would ever happen,—
the friendship doesn’t work that way but in reverse:
not that they think of you but rather that you think of them,
not that they remember you but you remember them/
for someone on his own like me
(who, as you know, shies away from everyone and everything),
these thoughts and memories of dear friends are something new,
a new island,
a new blue cloudless sky,
lovely as the song of the little bird that every morning
summons me to throw the window open and face another day,
another fog,
another journey through another gorse bush/
I know you’re asleep while I’m writing this,
there on the other side of the world,
that’s why I do it, just to see if we might bump into each other
in some corner of your dreams: otra vez.

XXV (21-11-2013)

¿has escuchado "mi casa nueva"?
la cantan los invasores de nuevo león,
ayer la escuché en la noche antes de dormir,
puse la radio en mi celular
y la estaban cantando los invasores:
¿la has escuchado?
dice:
“a veces lloro muy cerca de las botellas/
especialmente cuando me acuerdo de ti”
y luego, más adelante, dice:
“si amanece no se miran las estrellas/
y oscurece y nunca brillan para mí”
seguro la has escuchado, empieza
así:
“te escribí una carta y no me contestaste”/
me llegó me llegó cuando lo escuché,
son los invasores, dije, por eso no cambié de estación,
la estuve escuchando antes de dormir
en la radio de mi celular, con los audífonos y
la luz apagada,
lo mejor fue esa parte que rasga cualquier vestidura,
mira, te la transcribo:
“una radiola y dos amigas me acompañan/
mi casa nueva muy distinta a las demás/
tiene un letrero de color en la vidriera/
y una cualquiera es la que ocupa tu lugar”
ya sé que eso de “una cualquiera es la que ocupa
tu lugar” te va a molestar,
pero tú sabes que yo creo en las consejas populares,
y la mía dice: un perdido a todas va.

have you heard “my new house”
by the invaders of nuevo león?
last night I listened to it before I went to sleep,
I turned my cellphone radio on
and the invaders were singing it:
have you heard it?
it goes:
“sometimes when I remember you/
I weep among the bottles”
then, further on:
“at dawn the stars are nowhere to be seen/
at dusk they don’t come out for me”/
you must have heard it, it starts
like this:
“I wrote you a letter and you didn’t reply”/
it touched me touched me when I heard it,
that’s the invaders I said, and didn’t change the station,
I was listening to it before I went to sleep
on my cellphone radio headphones
with the light off,
best of all was where it sounds like clothing’s being torn,
here, I’ll write it down for you:
“two lady friends and a jukebox keep me company/
my new house is nothing like the others/
with a bright sign in the window/
and a certain woman in your place”
I know that “certain woman
in your place” will bother you,
but you know how I believe in popular sayings,
and one of mine goes: a desperate man grabs what he can.

XXIII (19-11-2013)

te estropeé la toallita que usamos
para secarnos las manos/ como se me cayó
un poco de agua en el suelo y otro poco de salsa,
limpié con la toallita amarilla —la que compramos
en el Just Two Dollars—, pero intenté exprimirla y seguía húmeda,
así que se me ocurrió coger la toallita
del secamanos —la que tú misma bordaste allá en México—,
pero con la salsa se estropeó toda/
en la tienda de los chinos vi una igualita a la tuya
que me costó tres dólares.
el chino me aseguró que es más original que las que borda
la gente a mano, allá en México:
verás que no notarás la diferencia

I’ve ruined the little towel we use
to dry our hands/ when I spilled
water then salsa on the floor
I wiped them up with the yellow cloth —the one we bought
at the Just Two Dollars—, but it wouldn’t squeeze out properly,
and when I grabbed the hand towel
—the one you embroidered back in Mexico—,
the salsa ruined it/
at the Chinese shop I saw one much the same
which cost three dollars.
the Chinese guy swore it was more authentic
than the hand-embroidered Mexican ones:
you’ll see, you’ll never know the difference.

XXVIII (24-11-2013)

los arbolitos de durazno y mandarina
los he traído a la habitación nuestra/
pensé que no los plantaste a propósito
y que te gustaría que los tuviera en mi habitación,
junto al espejo que habríamos querido que fuera de luna/
se ven hermosas sus ramas invadiendo la habitación,
ya han tapado media pantalla del televisor
y ahora me cuesta ver el box los martes en la noche.
seguramente no darán fruto hasta que vuelvas.

I’ve brought the young mandarin
and peach trees into our bedroom/
I thought you might have left them unplanted on purpose
and be pleased I have them in the room with me,
next to the mirror (we’d wanted a moon-mirror)/
their branches look lovely invading the room,
already they’re halfway across the tv screen
and now it’s hard to watch the tuesday night boxing.
surely they won’t fruit before you’re back.

XXXIII (29-11-2013)

me han preguntado si realmente
te has ido: que porque te han encontrado
en el jardín botánico, que porque te han visto salir del supermercado,
que porque te saludaron a la salida del cine, que porque
se cruzaron contigo en las escaleras eléctricas del Meridian/
les he dicho que no, es decir que sí te has ido,
¿y cuándo es que volverá, entonces?, me han insistido,
en cualquier momento, mañana o pasado,
hoy mismo quizá, contesto:
pero ellos saben que les he mentido.

people ask me if it’s true
you’ve gone: since they’ve come across you
in the botanic gardens, seen you coming out of the supermarket,
waved to you leaving the cinema,
passed you on the escalators in Meridian Mall/
no! I say, in other words yes you’ve gone,
and when will she be back? they keep on asking,
any time now, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow,
perhaps even today, I reply:
but they know I’m lying.


Meinenung K. Kunthee

While we have the freedom to write and publish as we like, it's worth remembering - yet again - what a rare right this is for many contemporary writers. One of these was the Thai poet and political activist, Meinenung K. Kunthee. Known as 'the People's Poet', he was murdered on 23 April. PEN International has called for an official investigation, which seems unlikely. Other writers and commentators are currently under threat in Thailand.