Fernando Denis
Interior Landscape
Aged in the barracks of memory,
In the infernos of Piranesi,
I meditate on the colors that light
The skylights and the windows.
After visiting this enormous, dark palace,
The dream, awakened in a language that has
Forgotten my name,
I feel the odor of the ashes of dawn,
I think about my grandsons playing on the plain
When the train passes by with rusty music
On the rails. At this hour colors dream they are already colors.
At this hour the soul of the god of colors aches,
I look at the sky petrifying a blue villain
And a grey of portentous mane,
Of luminous eyes amid dark clouds.
I know I will die soon and to the pupils of my eyes
Will come these paintings, these pure frescoes where love is,
The love I knew in America.
And at my back, a landscape I no longer know.
The cold bolt of lightning on these wet walls
Draws shadows of scorpions feeding on light.
I lift the blind weight of this strange
Bloodied body
To go up the iron steps and go down a thousand times
Until tired I try to fall asleep,
I open again my mortal eyes
And again the incredulous firmament of gold
Is magnified under my eyelids of glass,
My steps leave colored footprints on the slanting staircase,
Invisible colors hit against the void of time
And infinitely madden the man in chains.
The unfortunate, the one tortured forever
(An old shakesperean, a vanishing Lear)
Feels my repeated steps on the cold iron
Of the stairs, shouts with unhampered frenzy,
Utters insults,
Trembles like a wounded animal.
Has vertigo. Burns in furies and tears.
Under the dirty light of the skylights his chains
Emit splendors.
There are whole days in which the dramatist
Shows himself unconscious,
And in the dawn outraged by yellow birds
Pronounces between sighs the name of a woman.
\'Ophelia,\' he says, \'Ophelia\'.
Then he remains rigid,
He seems a statue of stone
And his strong body of stone perspires with the heavy
Sweat of the chains.
Now he begins to whistle an old Caribbean melody,
A curious sharp whistle repeated at sunset
By the demon when lashing the sea with chains.
I can no longer bear that melody in my ears,
The strange sound of his bloodied lips terrifies me.
With uncommon rage I go up and down the stairs,
I let my shoes hit the iron
With more violence, but my effort is useless,
The horrible whistle persists.
I must run through dark passages leading
Nowhere, I go through doors of color,
I despair because of the suspending bridges of ropes
About to break,
Of bridges leading to corridors where ancient voices
Read ancient books,
Of bridges from where I see the blind marble lions.
Sometimes I throw myself into the well of mirrors
Where I find the pain of an image.
Oh god of the mind’s labyrinths,
Show me your face!
Come and erase from the mirrors the cruel tears.
When will it be that free of dungeons
And of sordid, misty passages
I can define the landscape I saw for the first time?
When will I be rid of this inferno of colors?
At this time my feet burn, my entrails hurt,
I am scared by the horror created by my brushes.
Paisaje Interior
Paisaje Interior
Envejecido en los cuarteles de la memoria,En los infiernos de Piranesi,
Medito sobre los colores que encienden
Las claraboyas y las ventanas.
Después de visitar ese inmenso palacio oscuro,
El sueño,
Despierto en este idioma que ha olvidado mi nombre,
Siento el olor de las cenizas del alba,
Pienso en mis nietos jugando en la llanura
Cuando el tren pasa con herrumbrosa música
En los rieles.
A esta hora los colores sueñan que ya son colores,
A esta hora al dios de los colores le duele el alma.
Miro al cielo que petrifica un malvado azul
Y un gris de portentosas crines, de ojos
Luminosos en las nubes oscuras.
Sé que moriré pronto y a mis pupilas vendrán
Esos óleos, esos frescos puros donde está el amor
Que conocí en América,
Y a mis espaldas un paisaje que ya no conozco.
El frío relámpago en estas paredes húmedas
Dibuja sombras de alacranes, sombras inauditas.
Levanto el peso de este extraño
Cuerpo manchado de sangre
Para subir los peldaños de hierro y bajarlos otra vez
Hasta que cansado intento quedarme dormido.
Vuelvo a abrir los ojos mortales,
Y de nuevo el incrédulo firmamento de oro
Se magnifica bajo mis párpados.
Mis pasos huellan colores en la escalera oblicua,
Colores invisibles golpean el vacío del tiempo
Y enloquecen al hombre atado con cadenas.
El infortunado, el torturado para siempre
(Un viejo shakesperiano, un Lear desvanecido),
En cuanto siente mis pasos en el hierro de la escalera
De la escalera, grita con desbocado furor,
Profiere injurias
Se estremece como un animal herido.
Tiene vértigos. Arde en furias y lágrimas.
Bajo la sucia luz de las claraboyas sus cadenas
Despiden esplendores.
Hay días en que el dramaturgo se muestra inconsciente,
Y en la aurora sin pájaros
Pronuncia entre susurros el nombre de una mujer
"Ofelia", dice, "Ofelia".
Luego permanece rígido. Parece una estatua de piedra.
Y su recio cuerpo de piedra transpira el sudor
Pesado de las cadenas.
A veces empieza a silbar una antigua melodía del Caribe,
Un agudo silbido que al ocaso repetía
El demonio cuando azotaba el mar con cadenas.
Ya no soporto esa melodía en mis oídos;
Ese extraño sonido de sus labios sangrientos me horroriza.
Con cólera, con desprecio subo y bajo la escalera,
Dejo que mis zapatos golpeen el metal
pero el esfuerzo es inútil.
El horrible silbido persiste.
Debo correr por pasillos oscuros que no van
A ninguna parte, atravieso puertas de colores,
Me desespero por puentes de cuerdas que se rompen,
Puentes que van a galerías donde antiguas voces
Leen libros antiguos,
Puentes desde donde veo los ciegos leones de mármol.
A veces me arrojo al pozo de los espejos
Donde encuentro el dolor de una imagen.
¡Oh dios de los laberintos de la mente!
Ven y borra los espejos las lágrimas crueles.
¿Cuándo serán borradas de mi alma las mazmorras,
Los sórdidos pasadizos de niebla?
¿Cuándo podré definir el paisaje que vi por primera vez?
¿Cuándo seré libre de este infierno de colores?
A esta hora ya me arden los pies, las entrañas me duelen,
Me espanta el horror que mis pinceles han creado.
Publisher: Editorial La Serpiente Emplumada, Tortuga Ediciones, Bogotá
Interior Landscape
Aged in the barracks of memory,
In the infernos of Piranesi,
I meditate on the colors that light
The skylights and the windows.
After visiting this enormous, dark palace,
The dream, awakened in a language that has
Forgotten my name,
I feel the odor of the ashes of dawn,
I think about my grandsons playing on the plain
When the train passes by with rusty music
On the rails. At this hour colors dream they are already colors.
At this hour the soul of the god of colors aches,
I look at the sky petrifying a blue villain
And a grey of portentous mane,
Of luminous eyes amid dark clouds.
I know I will die soon and to the pupils of my eyes
Will come these paintings, these pure frescoes where love is,
The love I knew in America.
And at my back, a landscape I no longer know.
The cold bolt of lightning on these wet walls
Draws shadows of scorpions feeding on light.
I lift the blind weight of this strange
Bloodied body
To go up the iron steps and go down a thousand times
Until tired I try to fall asleep,
I open again my mortal eyes
And again the incredulous firmament of gold
Is magnified under my eyelids of glass,
My steps leave colored footprints on the slanting staircase,
Invisible colors hit against the void of time
And infinitely madden the man in chains.
The unfortunate, the one tortured forever
(An old shakesperean, a vanishing Lear)
Feels my repeated steps on the cold iron
Of the stairs, shouts with unhampered frenzy,
Utters insults,
Trembles like a wounded animal.
Has vertigo. Burns in furies and tears.
Under the dirty light of the skylights his chains
Emit splendors.
There are whole days in which the dramatist
Shows himself unconscious,
And in the dawn outraged by yellow birds
Pronounces between sighs the name of a woman.
\'Ophelia,\' he says, \'Ophelia\'.
Then he remains rigid,
He seems a statue of stone
And his strong body of stone perspires with the heavy
Sweat of the chains.
Now he begins to whistle an old Caribbean melody,
A curious sharp whistle repeated at sunset
By the demon when lashing the sea with chains.
I can no longer bear that melody in my ears,
The strange sound of his bloodied lips terrifies me.
With uncommon rage I go up and down the stairs,
I let my shoes hit the iron
With more violence, but my effort is useless,
The horrible whistle persists.
I must run through dark passages leading
Nowhere, I go through doors of color,
I despair because of the suspending bridges of ropes
About to break,
Of bridges leading to corridors where ancient voices
Read ancient books,
Of bridges from where I see the blind marble lions.
Sometimes I throw myself into the well of mirrors
Where I find the pain of an image.
Oh god of the mind’s labyrinths,
Show me your face!
Come and erase from the mirrors the cruel tears.
When will it be that free of dungeons
And of sordid, misty passages
I can define the landscape I saw for the first time?
When will I be rid of this inferno of colors?
At this time my feet burn, my entrails hurt,
I am scared by the horror created by my brushes.
From: El vino rojo de las sílabas
Interior Landscape
Aged in the barracks of memory,
In the infernos of Piranesi,
I meditate on the colors that light
The skylights and the windows.
After visiting this enormous, dark palace,
The dream, awakened in a language that has
Forgotten my name,
I feel the odor of the ashes of dawn,
I think about my grandsons playing on the plain
When the train passes by with rusty music
On the rails. At this hour colors dream they are already colors.
At this hour the soul of the god of colors aches,
I look at the sky petrifying a blue villain
And a grey of portentous mane,
Of luminous eyes amid dark clouds.
I know I will die soon and to the pupils of my eyes
Will come these paintings, these pure frescoes where love is,
The love I knew in America.
And at my back, a landscape I no longer know.
The cold bolt of lightning on these wet walls
Draws shadows of scorpions feeding on light.
I lift the blind weight of this strange
Bloodied body
To go up the iron steps and go down a thousand times
Until tired I try to fall asleep,
I open again my mortal eyes
And again the incredulous firmament of gold
Is magnified under my eyelids of glass,
My steps leave colored footprints on the slanting staircase,
Invisible colors hit against the void of time
And infinitely madden the man in chains.
The unfortunate, the one tortured forever
(An old shakesperean, a vanishing Lear)
Feels my repeated steps on the cold iron
Of the stairs, shouts with unhampered frenzy,
Utters insults,
Trembles like a wounded animal.
Has vertigo. Burns in furies and tears.
Under the dirty light of the skylights his chains
Emit splendors.
There are whole days in which the dramatist
Shows himself unconscious,
And in the dawn outraged by yellow birds
Pronounces between sighs the name of a woman.
\'Ophelia,\' he says, \'Ophelia\'.
Then he remains rigid,
He seems a statue of stone
And his strong body of stone perspires with the heavy
Sweat of the chains.
Now he begins to whistle an old Caribbean melody,
A curious sharp whistle repeated at sunset
By the demon when lashing the sea with chains.
I can no longer bear that melody in my ears,
The strange sound of his bloodied lips terrifies me.
With uncommon rage I go up and down the stairs,
I let my shoes hit the iron
With more violence, but my effort is useless,
The horrible whistle persists.
I must run through dark passages leading
Nowhere, I go through doors of color,
I despair because of the suspending bridges of ropes
About to break,
Of bridges leading to corridors where ancient voices
Read ancient books,
Of bridges from where I see the blind marble lions.
Sometimes I throw myself into the well of mirrors
Where I find the pain of an image.
Oh god of the mind’s labyrinths,
Show me your face!
Come and erase from the mirrors the cruel tears.
When will it be that free of dungeons
And of sordid, misty passages
I can define the landscape I saw for the first time?
When will I be rid of this inferno of colors?
At this time my feet burn, my entrails hurt,
I am scared by the horror created by my brushes.
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