Mary Ann Newman
englisch
SALM I PARÀBOLA DE LA MEMÒRIA PRÒDIGA
pare meu que ja no ets al poble,
pare meu que potser algun dia jo distretament estimava,
pare meu que te’n vas anar pel carrer sense ganes,
pare meu que potser algun dia molt discret m’estimaves,
per la sang que ens corria tan brava per les venes,
per les faccions de la teva cara que se m’esborren,
com el crit que ofega el meu pit,
pare meu!,
per la cicatriu que et partia sencera el ventre,
pare meu!,
pels tels secrets de la ceba als dits de la mare,
per les tardes tan pàl·lides a la cuina de casa,
pare meu!,
per les veus tan confuses del vespre,
pels crits i pels plors i les terrasses en ràtzia,
pare meu!,
per l'olor de gasoil de la teva roba en tornant de la feina, pare meu,
pels somnis que devien ser teus escolant-se per la pica, pare meu,
pels germans meus escolant-se per la pica,
oh pare meu!,
que retrobi la memòria, la memòria del pare i del fill,
la memòria, la gata vella,
la memòria, oh pare meu!,
el fil que em lliga als teus noms, a les teves mans, al teu crani rotund,
al teu riure que no m’agradava,
al teu ventre partit per la cicatriu del destí,
pare meu!,
que no hagi de cremar mai més la meva memòria, pare meu,
i que no me l’hagi de trobar d’improvís mai més,
disfressada de dona escabellada en gavardina i plors
en una cantonada ventosa de manhattan
quan jo només volia anar a collir fonoll passat el pont dels vermells,
oh pare meu!
pare meu, que trobi tota la memòria, pare meu!,
que trobi intactes les meves condemnes de nena de set anys,
que trobi intactes el fonoll i els gallarets vermells
—gall, gallina o poll, pare meu?—,
que trobi intactes la teva història i la meva, juntes, volent-se, pare meu,
com mai no van poder ser,
com mai no podran ser, ara,
oh pare meu,
pare meu que ja no ets al poble.
Aus: La matinada clara
Accent Editorial, 2010
Audioproduktion: Catalunya Ràdio
Psalm and Parable of the Prodigal Memory
My father, who art no longer in town,
my father, whom I may once have loved somehow,
my father, who walked off listlessly down the street,
my father, who may once have sort of vaguely loved me,
for the blood that ran so wildly through our veins,
for the features of your face that are fading to me,
like the cry that weighs on my breast,
my father!,
for the scar that cut across your whole belly,
my father!,
for the secret membranes of onion on my mother’s fingers,
for the pallid afternoons in the kitchen,
my father!,
for the baffling night voices,
for the shouting and crying and terrace battles,
father mine!
for the smell of gas oil on your clothes when you came home from work, my father,
for the dreams you must have had trickling down the drain, my father,
for my siblings trickling down the drain,
oh my father!,
may I retrieve the memory, the memory of father and child,
memory, that wise old cat,
memory, oh my father!,
the thread that ties me to your names, to your hands, to your emphatic skull,
to the way you laughed, which I didn’t like,
to your belly cleaved by the scar of destiny,
my father!,
may I never have to rifle through my memory again, my father,
nor run into it unexpectedly, ever again,
disguised as a disheveled lady in a raincoat and sobs
on a windy Manhattan corner
when all I wanted was to go and pick fennel beyond the bridge of the Reds,
oh my father!
My father, may I retrieve the whole memory, my father!
may I find my seven-year-old girl’s accusations,
may I find the fennel and the red poppies intact,
—“Red, pink or white? Rooster, chicken, or chick?,” my father,
may I find your story and mine intact, in tune, in love, my father,
as they never could be before,
as they never will be any more,
oh my father,
my father, who art no longer in town.