Poem
Juan Manuel Roca
The Foreign Woman’s Circle Dance
At times we didn’t know who was the one whisked away from the dancing ring, but between the air and the partner a gap was left. And we all kept dancing.In the whirling of the dance like in the rapids of a river – spiral, spin, and twirl – the flight of faces we knew.
The fighters who went off to the mess in the mountains left the party before No One.
The suicidal took the emergency exit and plunged the air into mourning.
None of them asked the foreigner to dance, a gothic woman dressed in white.
She, however, chose her partner and at once their footsteps were erased. And we all kept dancing.
Those who were ambushed in the dance were marked by inaudible music, sometimes waking up at the edge of an abyss.
Those who practised their spins and capers before a black mirror. Those who turned to the drug and found miracle crumbs. Those who went off to war whistling the song of dead time. They all announced the eclipse of man, while the music grew louder and the dancing was lighter.
© Translation: 2008, Julie Wark
RONDA DE LA EXTRANJERA
RONDA DE LA EXTRANJERA
A veces no sabíamos quién era el escamoteado en una vuelta del baile, pero quedaba un vacío entre el aire y su pareja. Y todos seguíamos bailando.En los giros del baile como en los rápidos de un río – espiral, trompo, torbellino – la fuga de rostros conocidos.
Los guerreros que se fueron al jaleo en las montañas abandonaron la fiesta antes que Nadie.
Los suicidas salieron por la puerta de emergencia y enlutaron el aire.
Ninguno sacaba a bailar a la extranjera, una mujer gótica vestida de blanco.
Ella, en cambio, elegía su pareja y al momento sus huellas se borraban. Y todos seguíamos bailando.
Los emboscados en el baile eran jalonados por una música inaudible, a veces despertaban al borde de un abismo.
Los que ensayaron sus giros y cabriolas frente a un espejo negro. Los que acudieron a la droga y encontraron migajas de milagro. Los que se fueron a la guerra silbando la canción del tiempo muerto. Todos anunciaban el eclipse del hombre, mientras subía la música y se hacía más ligero el baile.
© 2005, Juan Manuel Roca
From: Las Hipotesis de Nadie
Publisher: Colección de poesía Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Bogotá
This poem is published here because it was specially selected by Juan Manuel Roca to be read at the Poetry International Festival Rotterdam 2008.
From: Las Hipotesis de Nadie
Publisher: Colección de poesía Universidad Nacional de Colombia, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Juan Manuel Roca
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The Foreign Woman’s Circle Dance
At times we didn’t know who was the one whisked away from the dancing ring, but between the air and the partner a gap was left. And we all kept dancing.In the whirling of the dance like in the rapids of a river – spiral, spin, and twirl – the flight of faces we knew.
The fighters who went off to the mess in the mountains left the party before No One.
The suicidal took the emergency exit and plunged the air into mourning.
None of them asked the foreigner to dance, a gothic woman dressed in white.
She, however, chose her partner and at once their footsteps were erased. And we all kept dancing.
Those who were ambushed in the dance were marked by inaudible music, sometimes waking up at the edge of an abyss.
Those who practised their spins and capers before a black mirror. Those who turned to the drug and found miracle crumbs. Those who went off to war whistling the song of dead time. They all announced the eclipse of man, while the music grew louder and the dancing was lighter.
© 2008, Julie Wark
From: Las Hipotesis de Nadie
This poem is published here because it was specially selected by Juan Manuel Roca to be read at the Poetry International Festival Rotterdam 2008.
From: Las Hipotesis de Nadie
The Foreign Woman’s Circle Dance
At times we didn’t know who was the one whisked away from the dancing ring, but between the air and the partner a gap was left. And we all kept dancing.In the whirling of the dance like in the rapids of a river – spiral, spin, and twirl – the flight of faces we knew.
The fighters who went off to the mess in the mountains left the party before No One.
The suicidal took the emergency exit and plunged the air into mourning.
None of them asked the foreigner to dance, a gothic woman dressed in white.
She, however, chose her partner and at once their footsteps were erased. And we all kept dancing.
Those who were ambushed in the dance were marked by inaudible music, sometimes waking up at the edge of an abyss.
Those who practised their spins and capers before a black mirror. Those who turned to the drug and found miracle crumbs. Those who went off to war whistling the song of dead time. They all announced the eclipse of man, while the music grew louder and the dancing was lighter.
© 2008, Julie Wark
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