A man should weep for himself
But not his fate
When he stands at eternity’s gate
Black lines chart a path
Back to every misdeed
And he should weep for these
But not for his current place
There at eternity’s gate
He can not stand the sight
Of his own face
His rotten gut
And his heart misplaced
He can hide behind tears
Regret every lost year
But it’ll all finally be effaced
Once closes behind him
Eternity’s gate
by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
My literary works, April 10, 1980. Obsessed
with legs in bedrooms where everything is feminine
even I, who killed an air conditioner and mummifies
hounds. No writing in the rhythm of my days
without money, or love, or looks; only dark
bedroom secrets where I'm surrounded by silk
stockings, canaries, and slices of the moon. However
when I write I can say entertaining things
that interest people. Abstract pianos
in silent ambush, my own silence that
surrounds the writing. Maybe only the indiscriminate,
arriving at the terminal where "my talent"
expresses itself through the combustible cracks
of my neck in the snow novel.
by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
Believe me, I'm in the middle of my room
hoping for rain. I'm alone. I do not care
to finish or not my poem. Hoping for rain,
drinking coffee and seeing out the window a beautiful landscape
of courtyards, hanging clothes and quiet,
the silent marble clothes of the city, where there is no
wind and one only hears the distant hum
of a color television, watched by a family
that is, at this moment, gathered around
a coffee table: believe me: yellow plastic tables
are divided up the line of the horizon and beyond:
to the suburbs where they build apartment
complexes, and a 16 year old boy sitting on
red bricks contemplates the movement of machines.
The sky in the boy’s hour is an enormous
hollow screw where the breeze plays. And the boy
plays with ideas. With ideas and arrested scenes.
Immobility is a hard and transparent mist
that comes from your eyes.
Believe me: love is not gonna come,
for beauty has been stolen from the dead dawns.
by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
Hoping the anxiety disappears
While it rains on the strange highway
Where you are
Rain: My only hope
To erase anxiety
I'm betting everything on my part
by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
Rejections from Anagrama, Grijalbo, Planeta, certainly also from Alfaguara, Mondadori. A ‘no’ from Muchnik, Seix Barral, Destino... All the editors... All the readers...
All the sales managers...
Under the bridge, in the rain, a golden opportunity to see myself:
like a snake at the North Pole, but writing.
Writing poetry in the country of imbeciles.
Writing with my son on my knee
Writing until night falls
With a roar from a thousand demons.
The demons that must take me to hell, but writing.
October 1990.
Trapped in the belly of the whale
Where the pigeons fly like doves
All left of women a few stray hairs
Orange warning lights
And pinocchio's faded grafitti
This belly where sequined walls
Catch the gleam of torches
That men use to read tales of Nazi heroics
Before consigning them to flame
Watch
Their shadows are the words that write themselves
At night they whisper of lost continents
Of bones that lie in fur and pine
Those Men who live inside the whale
Safe from the ever rising
Only the sea is chaste
Only the creeks, the stones
Never the alleys or streets
Never the laughter or sighs.
Only the sky is chaste
Only the clouds, the rain
Never the houses or shops
Never the talk or songs.
Only the land is chaste
Only the dirt, the grass
Never the wants or needs
Never you, never me.
