Yolanda Castaño

galicijščina

Lawrence Schimel

angleščina

COUSAS QUE COMEZAN POR Y

Esa nostalxia, as violetas,
unha sinatura tan allea ás nosas linguas,
estar de viaxe, Armenia, signos estranxeiros,
a capa carnosa que cobre a miña sensación.
Un país que non existe, a terra rara septuaxésima,
en vastas extensións o mínimo elemento para a cópula.
Todo o varón que hai en min,
ás veces ti, e eu outras,
non teño ningunha palabra de nove letras.
Vítima e verdugo abrazados nunha soa lingua,
horizontes aos que nos guindar: ao mar, a Portugal, a España.
O sendeiro impracticable do tao, gaiolas aladas nos 70,
o vermello das pantallas, algúns metais prateados.
O punto da túa vida no que non sabes que decisión tomar,
tres liñas iguais, soñando un pacto,
a memoria escura da nación terrible.
A violación do meu nome, o último que che escribo.
A xuventude, corréndonos entre os dedos en distintas direccións.
Cando abrimos a porta do cuarto de baño da poesía
atopamos o pai convertido nunha rocha.
A mera ocorrencia de que poida ser un xugo ese sur,
yo-lan-da-cas-ta-ño repetido ata que non significa                nada.
Segundo algúns códigos, o meu número inevitable,
a simultánea prole dunha illa que implora,
o tormento do modisto, os cascallos do medievo.
O respectado capricho dos nacionais patriarcas,
os desvelos do illamento nunha aldea de Suecia,
o bendito sabor das uvas de Corinto,
mercé dos teus labios nunha hora futura
e, entre as pernas, o meu sexo
que tamén comeza
por Y.

© Yolanda Castaño
Iz: A segunda lingua
Santiago de Compostella: PEN Clube de Galicia, 2014
Avdio produkcija: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2015

THINGS THAT BEGIN WITH Y

That nostalgia, the violets,
a rubric so alien to our languages,
being on a trip, Armenia, foreign signs,
the fleshy layer that covers my sensation.
A country that doesn't exist, the seventieth rare earth element,
the smallest copula in broad regions.
All that is male within me,
sometimes you, and others I,
I don't have a nine-letter word.
Victim and executioner embraced in a single language,
horizons to launch ourselves toward: to the sea, to Portugal, to Spain.
The impracticable path of the Tao, winged jails in the seventies,
the red of display screens, some silvery metals.
The point of your life at which you don't know what decision to take,
three equal lines dreaming a pact,
the dark memory of the terrible nation.
The violation of my name, the last thing I write to you.
Youth, running between our fingers in different directions.
When we open the door to poetry's bathroom
and find our father turned into a rock.
The mere idea that that south could be a yoke,
yo-lan-da-cas-ta-ño repeated until it doesn't mean anything.
According to some codes, my inevitable number,
the current generation from an island that begs,
the tailor's torment, debris from the Middle Ages.
The respected whim of the national patriarchs,
the sleepless isolation in a Swedish village,
the blessed taste of the grapes of Corinth,
mercy from your lips at a future time
and, between my legs, my sex
which also begins
with Y.

Translation: Lawrence Schimel