Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Antonio Gamoneda

THIS is the age of iron in the throat

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.

You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart

while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and

you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth

fall black syllables.


You make your way toward the invisible

and know that what does not exist is real.

Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams

(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),

they feed your rage and piety.

Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails

and shadows of memories.

You think of disappearance. You caress

the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.


Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now

nothing can be understood. And even so,

you love as much as you have lost.

DIT IS de tijd van het ijzer in de keel

DIT IS de tijd van het ijzer in de keel. Reeds.
 
Je woont in jezelf maar je kent je niet; je leeft in een verlaten gewelf waarin je je eigen hart hoort
 
terwijl vet en vergeten zich door je aders verspreiden en
 
je verkalkt in de pijn en uit je mond
 
vallen zwarte lettergrepen.
 
 
Je loopt naar het onzichtbare
 
en je weet dat reëel is wat niet bestaat.
 
Je herinnert je vaag je beweegredenen en je dromen
 
(nog bezwaar je de geur van de zelfmoordenaars),
 
woede en erbarmen voeden je.
 
Van jou blijft weinig over: duizeling, vingernagels
 
en schaduwen van herinneringen.
 
Je denkt de verdwijning. Je streelt
 
de cerebrale duisternis, je daalt af naar de lever die verschroeid is door de droefheid.
 
 
Zo is de tijd van het ijzer in de keel. Reeds
 
is alles onverklaarbaar. Toch
 
bemin je nog alles wat je verloor.

ÉSTA es la edad del hierro en la garganta. Ya.

Te habitas a ti mismo pero te desconoces; vives en una bóveda abandonada en la que escuchas tu propio corazón

mientras la grasa y el olvido se extienden por tus venas y

te calcificas en el dolor y de tu boca

caen sílabas negras.


Vas hacia lo invisible

y sabes que es real lo que no existe.

Retienes vagamente tus causas y tus sueños

(aún conservas el olor de los suicidas),

te alimentan la ira y la piedad.

Queda poco de ti: vértigo, uñas

y sombras de recuerdos.

Piensas la desaparición. Acaricias

la tiniebla cerebral, bajas al hígado calcinado por la tristeza.


Así es la edad del hierro en la garganta. Ya

todo es incompresible. Sin embargo,

amas aún cuanto has perdido.
Close

THIS is the age of iron in the throat

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.

You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart

while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and

you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth

fall black syllables.


You make your way toward the invisible

and know that what does not exist is real.

Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams

(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),

they feed your rage and piety.

Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails

and shadows of memories.

You think of disappearance. You caress

the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.


Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now

nothing can be understood. And even so,

you love as much as you have lost.

THIS is the age of iron in the throat

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.

You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart

while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and

you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth

fall black syllables.


You make your way toward the invisible

and know that what does not exist is real.

Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams

(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),

they feed your rage and piety.

Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails

and shadows of memories.

You think of disappearance. You caress

the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.


Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now

nothing can be understood. And even so,

you love as much as you have lost.
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