José Manuel Arango / XLVIII

Scarlett Johansson

XLVIII

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

in what arduous countries
in what obscure war
without knowing it

have I fought and triumphed
to have you

while you
secluded in your adolescence
evading the trials of a resplendent
solitude

were preparing for me

José Manuel Arango / Writing

WRITING

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

night, like an animal
left its breath on my window

between the needles of the cold
I look at the trees

and in the misty glass
with my index finger, I write
this ephemeral word

José Manuel Arango / Mountains / 3

MOUNTAINS / 3

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

1

With a glass in my hand, looking at the mountains,
I caress the back of my dog.

These mountains of ours
in the interior,
so familiar they are almost forgotten,
seen so much they are almost invisible,
it is not even sure that they are not
the furniture of a dream.

These sullen mountains
that become thinner,
that engross us.

Now perhaps only a manner
of the voice,
of the step,
of the gesture.


2

I like to caress them slowly following
with  my eyes
their rugged lines,
while on their backs light
imperceptibly
changes from green to blue
to violet.

I like to caress them with my eyes,
as I caress
the back of my dog with my free
hand.

José Manuel Arango / Two Poems

Cold Feet
by Krikit Haiku

TWO POEMS

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

I

men rush out on the streets
to celebrate the coming of night

the sound of a flute goes thinly into the ear
and the plazas are again places of festivity

where girls with bare backs that meet
the eyes of adolescent tellers

repeat the movements of an ancient
sacred dance

and in the clamor
of the fruit vendors
forgotten gods speak


II

the repeated shipwreck of the parks
at nightfall

the hour in which closed
by the graze of a somber
wing
the heart descends to cold abodes

José Manuel Arango / Whose whose job it is to wash the streets

THOSE WHOSE JOB IT IS

TO WASH THE STREETS

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

LOS QUE TIENEN POR OFICIO LAVAR LAS CALLES

Those whose job it is to wash the streets
(they get up early, so God helps them)
find on the stones, every other day, puddles of blood

And they also wash them: it is their job
Fast
so that the first passers-by don’t step on them

José Manuel Arango / Hölderlin



Deangel
On A Blue Cross



HÖLDERLIN

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

perhaps madness
is the punishment

for he who violates a secret precinct
and looks in the eyes of a terrible
animal

José Manuel Arango / Dance With Me, Girl

Shadow Dancer
by Michon

DANCE WITH ME, GIRL

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

                                 (after Anacreon)

DANZA CONMIGO, MUCHACHA

The girl, with the hair almost blue
and large, sparkling eyes
waves, excited by the music.

She spins round her slender hips,
she shakes her bare arms,
she wiggles her bosom.

I have been, with a glass in my hand,
lingeringly watching her dance.

Until I make up my mind and get up
and stretch out my arm inviting her,
and muttering, in the uproar of the music,
under my breath:

Dance with me, girl.
I will not let you see my loose
and brittle teeth,
or notice my hoary temples.

And she turns her smiling eyes
and comes dancing in my direction
and passes by my side and

goes to embrace an adolescent
with splendid teeth.

José Manuel Arango / As if crossing a river

Starry Night Body Painting

X

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

as if crossing a river
I undress beside her body

risky
like a river at night

José Manuel Arango / About the Boy Born in The Whorehouse

Nicoleta Tomás Caravia

ABOUT THE BOY BORN

IN THE WHOREHOUSE

By José Manuel Arango

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

ACERCA DEL NIÑO NACIDO EN LA CASA DE PUTAS

About the boy born
in the whorehouse

And if in the whorehouse a child is born

And if the men
when they finish undressing
to fornicate at night

hear him cry at the back of the house
or of their empty heart