Yolanda Castaño

الجاليكية

Carys Evans-Corrales

الانجليزية

*QUE É DOR/ A DOR QUE DE VERAS SENTE

Teño cara de gustarme
as cousas que non me gustan.

Os labios de toda a xente
falan sen despegarse.

Isto tamén é así.
As paredes dunha gruta na que alguén, hai dez mil anos,
desdoura o natural da pedra.
Moedas, corrente alterna,
unha rapaza nada cos xenes da beleza,
toda picada de complexos.
Coma un orgasmo de Hedy Lamarr, os ollos de Nikola Tesla.
Un país onde non ser,
onde só cómpre
parecelo.
Luvas desenfundadas, sal, a máis prestixiosa
de todas as escolas de dobraxe.

O capital é o pesadelo
de quedarmos atoados na nosa capacidade simbólica.
A máis favorecedora de todas:
maquillaxe tanatoestética.
Anos de traballo voltos un pedazo de granito ecuestre.
Unha industria da miseria, as leiras do volframio.
Coma un corpo ardente que sabe, e
disimula.
Pestanas postizas de marca barata, unha imaxe
idéntica a si mesma.

Coma poesía política que se confunde
cunha autofoto fronte o espello do baño.
A metonimia do mal,
normativo dislocado.
Escenificación, menú, a escaleira de incendios do discurso.
Algo ao que lle medran raíces aéreas
e devece por volver á terra en canto hai tempo que saíu á luz;
coma os ollos das patacas.

A ollada do poema é tamén así:
filas de formigas obreiras
esmagadas para permanecer,

restos de acenos
que parecen

outra cousa.

© Yolanda Castaño
الإنتاج المسموع: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2015

PRETENDING THAT THE PAIN SHE FEELS IS PAIN

My looks suggest I like
things that I do not.

Everyone speaks through
closed lips.

As does this.
The walls of a grotto where, ten thousand years ago,
someone sullies the natural essence of the stone.
Coins, alternating current,
a girl born with beauty in her genes,
pock-marked by hang-ups.
Like an orgasm in Hedy Lamarr, like Nikola Tesla’s eyes.
A country where one needn’t be,
but can merely
appear to.
A peeling away of gloves,
a touch of spice, the most prestigious
of all dubbing schools.

Capital is the nightmare
of being caught in our symbolic capacity.
The most flattering of all: mortuary makeup.
Years of work turned into equestrian granite.
An industry of poverty, wolfram in kitchen gardens.
Like an ardent body, aware but
feigning innocence.
Cheap false eyelashes, an image
identical to itself.

Like political poetry confused
with a selfie in the bathroom mirror.
The metonymy of evil.
The normative wrenched.
A set stage, a menu, an emergency escape from the fires of discourse.
Something whose roots stretch out to the air and longs
to return to the soil, once time
has elapsed since it burst into light--
like the eyes in potatoes.

The poem’s gaze is like this too:
worker ants in single file,
flattened forever
in timeless lines,

shreds of gestures
that look like
something else.

Translation by Carys Evans-Corrales