Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Juan Manuel Roca

A Letter Heading for Wales

You ask me sweet lady
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.



You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of  a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.



And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.



I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer’s treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.



Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don’t even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don’t even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.  

Una carta rumbo a Gales

Una carta rumbo a Gales

Me pregunta usted dulce  señora
Qué veo en estos días a este lado del mar.
Me habitan las calles de este país
Para usted desconocido,
Estas calles donde pasear es hacer un
Largo viaje por la llaga,
Donde ir a limpia luz
Es llenarse los ojos de vendas y murmullos.



Me pregunta
Qué siento en estos días a este lado del mar.
Un alfileteo en el cuerpo,
La luz de un frenocomio
Que llega serena a entibiar
Las más profundas heridas
Nacidas de un poblado de días incoloros.



¿Y el sol ?
El sol, un viejo drogo que ha lamido esas heridas.
Porque sabe usted, dulce señora,
Es este país una confusión de calles y de heridas.



La entero a usted:
Aquí hay palmeras cantoras
Pero también hay hombres torturados.
Aquí hay cielos absolutamente desnudos
Y mujeres encorvadas al pedal de la singer
Que hubieran podido llegar en su loco pedaleo
Hasta Java y Burdeos,
Hasta el Nepal y su pueblito de Gales,
Donde supongo que bebía sombras su querido Dylan Thomas.
Las mujeres de este país son capaces
De coserle un botón al viento,
De vestirlo de organista.



Aquí crecen la rabia y las orquídeas por parejo,
No sospecha usted lo que es un país
Como un viejo animal conservado
En los más variados alcoholes,
No sospecha usted lo que es vivir
Entre lunas de ayer, muertos y despojos.
Close

A Letter Heading for Wales

You ask me sweet lady
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.



You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of  a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.



And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.



I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer’s treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.



Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don’t even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don’t even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.  

A Letter Heading for Wales

You ask me sweet lady
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.



You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of  a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.



And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.



I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer’s treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.



Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don’t even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don’t even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.  
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère