Mercedes Roffé
Three Poems from Situations: Events and Spells
translated from the Spanish by Judith Filc
SITUATION TO HEAL THE SICK
invite people. invite them all. to a party. a big party.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to leave his bed, let him; he shouldn’t.
and have music and dance, and song and cake.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to dance, let him; he shouldn’t.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to sing, let him; he shouldn’t.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to eat, let him; he shouldn’t.
but have noise in the house, and lots of people.
and have them tell stories and memories, and fables and riddles
and if the sick one cannot or will not say anything, let him
–he shouldn’t talk, or laugh, or remember.
but bring people to the house, to the backyard, to the inn, to the town
there must be noise, lots of noise in the house. lots and lots of people.
and once the party ends, two or three days later women must
throw all the feast leftovers in the hollow of a sheet
big, embroidered sheets. preferably white, very white.
preferably embroidered.
throw there the cakes, almonds, figs, walnuts, chestnuts,
the mulberries and petit fours, the pastries and breads, the juice and the wine
six, four must take them to the river
the sheet must be taken to the river with its goods, its fruits, its cakes
down the avenue they must go the four, the six to the river, several times,
and throw it all into the current, the feast leftovers, the wine, the water, the juice
the almonds, the figs
and throw it all into the river, into the current
SITUATION TO BREAK A SPELL
Lie down
–on your back
as if you were to die
or give birth to yourself.
Climb up
the slope of the years
in the dark.
Reach the threshold
traverse it / dive into
the deep, narrow scale of oblivion.
Tell me what you see.
Confront it / confront
the one you were even before memory.
Do you recognize yourself?
Keep going.
Yes, now you recognize the road
that brought you here.
Its sharpness betrays it
–a blue dream projected on the blue screen of time
gradually acquires meaning.
Can you see yourself?
Ask why and accept it
–whatever the answer
–I’ve come to say good-bye –answer.
Just that
with no spite
violence
or resentment.
It will try to keep you
to answer once again what you already know
what you have already heard it say
perhaps differently.
Lower your eyes and create
–with your gaze only–
a trail on the ground
a track of moist dirt and ashes.
You will see fire rise
a wall of fire
–cold fire–
between you and your failure.
Say good-bye.
Turn your back to it.
Take the road again
–the same one:
the blue dream on the blue of time.
Climb the steps of the deep, narrow scale.
Reach the threshold
traverse it and climb down
the dark incline of the years.
Go back to your body
can you feel it? a pain in the belly or the chest
as though something had been torn from you
tells you that you have prevailed.
Pain will leave
you will remain with yourself.
(The memory of the tear
will unfailingly follow you.)
SITUATION TO STOKE THE SILENCE
Take a snippet of artaud, any one.
For instance when he says,
to dilate the body of my internal night,
the inner nothingness
of myself
Or:
man has fallen from his magnetized rock.
Start spinning.
Start, from silence, to spin.
It is not an image.
Take a thread of cotton,
of wool, silk, esparto, red-hot metal.
Embroider, warp, weave.
Think of the thread as a voice.
The voice of a bird.
Embroider, weave.
Pay attention.
Listen to the rhythm.
Listen to the rhythm of the song following you.
Let it inhabit the thread
woven in your hands, the loom.
Translate it.
The rhythm, the song, the thread of esparto
or silk or cotton –maybe of fright,
the thread of cold, unruly metal.
The already-started, cut-off weft.
Can you hear it?
It is your voice now.
Not the voice you speak with, but
the voice spoken inside you.
Now take a snippet of one
of those who went mad with their voices.
For instance:
The white cold howls
like the frozen cries of a mirror.
Or:
But who is speaking in the room full of eyes. Who is nibbling
with a paper mouth.
Join them with the threads.
Weave them.
Is the fabric slowly being settled?
Is night starting to bloom
in it?
Go in. Make a home of it. Start a fire
in a corner
and sit there.
Keep weaving, warping, translating
the crackling flames.
The rhythm
don’t forget it; the song
–overtone of the fire.
Let it burn.
All of it. Let it burn.
Until the voice of the last ember
has gone out.
Gather a fistful of warm ashes.
Store them in a nutshell.
–you will find it
on the back of the fabric.
Bring it with you.
Set a foot on the door, the frame,
the framework of the night.
Go out. Come back.
Take the nut and plant it
in the hollow of the closest tree,
the one with the strong, twisted branches.
No longer will there be silence
save where you seek it.
The rest is the bird.
Birds
trilling on the top.
Three Poems from Situations: Events and Spells
translated from the Spanish by Judith Filc
SITUATION TO HEAL THE SICK
invite people. invite them all. to a party. a big party.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to leave his bed, let him; he shouldn’t.
and have music and dance, and song and cake.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to dance, let him; he shouldn’t.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to sing, let him; he shouldn’t.
and if the sick one doesn’t want to eat, let him; he shouldn’t.
but have noise in the house, and lots of people.
and have them tell stories and memories, and fables and riddles
and if the sick one cannot or will not say anything, let him
–he shouldn’t talk, or laugh, or remember.
but bring people to the house, to the backyard, to the inn, to the town
there must be noise, lots of noise in the house. lots and lots of people.
and once the party ends, two or three days later women must
throw all the feast leftovers in the hollow of a sheet
big, embroidered sheets. preferably white, very white.
preferably embroidered.
throw there the cakes, almonds, figs, walnuts, chestnuts,
the mulberries and petit fours, the pastries and breads, the juice and the wine
six, four must take them to the river
the sheet must be taken to the river with its goods, its fruits, its cakes
down the avenue they must go the four, the six to the river, several times,
and throw it all into the current, the feast leftovers, the wine, the water, the juice
the almonds, the figs
and throw it all into the river, into the current
SITUATION TO BREAK A SPELL
Lie down
–on your back
as if you were to die
or give birth to yourself.
Climb up
the slope of the years
in the dark.
Reach the threshold
traverse it / dive into
the deep, narrow scale of oblivion.
Tell me what you see.
Confront it / confront
the one you were even before memory.
Do you recognize yourself?
Keep going.
Yes, now you recognize the road
that brought you here.
Its sharpness betrays it
–a blue dream projected on the blue screen of time
gradually acquires meaning.
Can you see yourself?
Ask why and accept it
–whatever the answer
–I’ve come to say good-bye –answer.
Just that
with no spite
violence
or resentment.
It will try to keep you
to answer once again what you already know
what you have already heard it say
perhaps differently.
Lower your eyes and create
–with your gaze only–
a trail on the ground
a track of moist dirt and ashes.
You will see fire rise
a wall of fire
–cold fire–
between you and your failure.
Say good-bye.
Turn your back to it.
Take the road again
–the same one:
the blue dream on the blue of time.
Climb the steps of the deep, narrow scale.
Reach the threshold
traverse it and climb down
the dark incline of the years.
Go back to your body
can you feel it? a pain in the belly or the chest
as though something had been torn from you
tells you that you have prevailed.
Pain will leave
you will remain with yourself.
(The memory of the tear
will unfailingly follow you.)
SITUATION TO STOKE THE SILENCE
Take a snippet of artaud, any one.
For instance when he says,
to dilate the body of my internal night,
the inner nothingness
of myself
Or:
man has fallen from his magnetized rock.
Start spinning.
Start, from silence, to spin.
It is not an image.
Take a thread of cotton,
of wool, silk, esparto, red-hot metal.
Embroider, warp, weave.
Think of the thread as a voice.
The voice of a bird.
Embroider, weave.
Pay attention.
Listen to the rhythm.
Listen to the rhythm of the song following you.
Let it inhabit the thread
woven in your hands, the loom.
Translate it.
The rhythm, the song, the thread of esparto
or silk or cotton –maybe of fright,
the thread of cold, unruly metal.
The already-started, cut-off weft.
Can you hear it?
It is your voice now.
Not the voice you speak with, but
the voice spoken inside you.
Now take a snippet of one
of those who went mad with their voices.
For instance:
The white cold howls
like the frozen cries of a mirror.
Or:
But who is speaking in the room full of eyes. Who is nibbling
with a paper mouth.
Join them with the threads.
Weave them.
Is the fabric slowly being settled?
Is night starting to bloom
in it?
Go in. Make a home of it. Start a fire
in a corner
and sit there.
Keep weaving, warping, translating
the crackling flames.
The rhythm
don’t forget it; the song
–overtone of the fire.
Let it burn.
All of it. Let it burn.
Until the voice of the last ember
has gone out.
Gather a fistful of warm ashes.
Store them in a nutshell.
–you will find it
on the back of the fabric.
Bring it with you.
Set a foot on the door, the frame,
the framework of the night.
Go out. Come back.
Take the nut and plant it
in the hollow of the closest tree,
the one with the strong, twisted branches.
No longer will there be silence
save where you seek it.
The rest is the bird.
Birds
trilling on the top.