Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jordi Doce

JOY

I

I open the door, and the scent of water
piercing the earth enters the room:
slow vapor that thickens the air and leaves
a seed of joy
on the skin:
        the hours pass,
the rain doesn't let up,
the seed has grown a stalk
which tangles round my body;
outside it rains, but a sun rises up
before my eyes, which already forget
the rain's defeated gray:

tree that offers light, not shadow,
beneath its branches
I smile, without knowing why.



II

Blake wrote that death
was simply going from one room to another:
you leave, you go back in, the house
is the same, this space
open in the morning
by the scent of cut
grass, by this furtive
freshness that the air
brings to one's eyes,
just like that boy on the train
who held his breath
as if saying, look, look,
and then laughed,
I can stop time.

ALEGRÍA

ALEGRÍA

I

Abro la puerta, y el olor del agua
al horadar la tierra entra en el cuarto:
lento vapor que liga el aire y deja
una semilla de alegría
en la piel:
pasan las horas,
la lluvia no remite,
la semilla se ha vuelto tallo
y se enrosca en torno a mi cuerpo;
afuera llueve, pero un sol se alza
ante mis ojos, que ya olvidan
el gris vencido de la lluvia:

árbol que ofrece luz, no sombra,
bajo sus ramas
sonrío, sin saber por qué sonrío.


II

Blake dejó escrito que la muerte
era un simple cambio de habitación:
sales, entras, la casa
es la misma, el espacio
abierto en la mañana
por este olor a hierba
cortada, por este frescor
clandestino que el aire
pone en los ojos,
igual que aquel niño del tren
contenía el aliento
como diciendo, mira, mira,
y se reía,
puedo parar el tiempo.
Close

JOY

I

I open the door, and the scent of water
piercing the earth enters the room:
slow vapor that thickens the air and leaves
a seed of joy
on the skin:
        the hours pass,
the rain doesn't let up,
the seed has grown a stalk
which tangles round my body;
outside it rains, but a sun rises up
before my eyes, which already forget
the rain's defeated gray:

tree that offers light, not shadow,
beneath its branches
I smile, without knowing why.



II

Blake wrote that death
was simply going from one room to another:
you leave, you go back in, the house
is the same, this space
open in the morning
by the scent of cut
grass, by this furtive
freshness that the air
brings to one's eyes,
just like that boy on the train
who held his breath
as if saying, look, look,
and then laughed,
I can stop time.

JOY

I

I open the door, and the scent of water
piercing the earth enters the room:
slow vapor that thickens the air and leaves
a seed of joy
on the skin:
        the hours pass,
the rain doesn't let up,
the seed has grown a stalk
which tangles round my body;
outside it rains, but a sun rises up
before my eyes, which already forget
the rain's defeated gray:

tree that offers light, not shadow,
beneath its branches
I smile, without knowing why.



II

Blake wrote that death
was simply going from one room to another:
you leave, you go back in, the house
is the same, this space
open in the morning
by the scent of cut
grass, by this furtive
freshness that the air
brings to one's eyes,
just like that boy on the train
who held his breath
as if saying, look, look,
and then laughed,
I can stop time.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère