El silencio de los muros
tanto para escuchar
y nada para decir
Llegaste tarde con esos dulces
ya regalé la comida
nada a los pobres
todo a los ricos
El humo subiendo en mi cuerpo
el dinero agotado en pornografía
una mujer más y ya basta
Sólo me enamoro una vez
poca juventud para gastar
una tonelada de monedas
brillando en el silencio del muro
MANIFESTÁNDOME COMO PUEDO, EL LUNES COMENZO LA DIETA
Cagarse en García Márquez y en toda la trova latinoamericana. Decir: Conocí a Dylan gracias a Pavement. Masturbarse mucho en todos lados. En todos los baños que encuentres. Pero siempre dejarlos limpios.
Yo no tengo la culpa que tu ídolo no haya nacido en tu país.
Odiar los celulares, los timbres, los porteros eléctricos. No viajar nunca. Salir con chicas de tu ciudad y escuchar a la tía que siempre recomienda poner voluntad en el amor.
Siempre trajes negros. Escuchar a los Beatles y pronunciar en un santafesino inteligente: "lo' bitel". Caminar y tomar agua. No seguirle más la carrera a Tarantino.
Odiar a los viejos y tocarles bocina desde el auto. Qué feo que Bolaño se volvió popular. Volverse puto por una noche en una fiesta cool y con mucho punchi punchi. Vender arte. Volverte aburrido.
Tener 25 y ni puta idea. Convertirse a muchas religiones y terminar en Córdoba convencido que los ovnis existen. Ser bien resentido. Leer el Código Da Vinci (total todos lo hacen).
Tomar cervezas calientes en las plazas. Hablar con los taxistas. No morirse a los 27. Aguantar un poquito más. Volverse vegetariano un mes y depositarle platita a Greenpeace en su verde cuenta.
Prenderse fuego y buscar el puesto de Coca-Cola más cercano para apagarse. No conocer Bolivia pero sí Marruecos (y traerse una túnica horrible a casa). Buscar un héroe una imagen, algo... (siempre se recomienda a la Virgen de Guadalupe).
(Bonus Track: comprarse todos los discos de Elton John. Sonreír como un Sharon Stone. Homenaje. Estoy de onda en la vida, dijo un amigo. Crecer entre grandes siempre es importante).
CANCION DE NAVIDAD PARA GENTE TRISTE
casas vacías y coches de plástico
tu mundo chocando contra nada
así
santa te pedí más amor
no que coquetearas con mi hermana
santa te pedí más amor
no que le vendieras un coche a papá
Navidad roja y verde como un partido de fútbol por televisión
LA ESCALERA NO VA AL CIELO
Ese oro de folleto no llega jamás Hay que men-
tirle al cartel para llegar al amante perfecto Te
creíste esa cerveza? No espabilemos todos juntos
Me da miedo No pensemos todos juntos Ten-
go más miedo Me nada engaños Y surfea obras
baratas para no esclarecer... Ese milagro no se va
a cumplir y ese es el peor pecado de un milagro.
Mambos Religiosos
Max Lichtenstein
The following selection of poems is taken from the book Mambos Religiosos, by Max Lichtenstein, published in 2005 by Juan Malasuerte Editores. I came across these poems thanks to Francisco Fenton, head editor of Juan Malasuerte, a small press based in Mexico City specializing in letterpress printed editions of poetry and prose by up-and-coming Latin American authors.
These poems in particular present a unique challenge to the translator despite their apparent simplicity because they are rooted in the informal, referential discourse of conversation and its consequent class associations and geographic references.The specificity of who is speaking may not be translated. Argentine Spanish is instantly identifiable as such even in print, not just because of the particular "Vos" form of address, but also for a series of small divergences from the hotly disputed norm as far as vocabulary, slang and diction are concerned. To anyone reading them in Spanish, the "Argentine" nature of these poems is undeniable; lest the author were making an affected joke. In written English, the nationality of an author is not generally so inextricably tied into their words.
In the background, a small radio plays a loop of peppered with rock music, giving rise to titles like "The Stairway doesn't go to Heaven;" these references become perhaps more visible in English than in the original. Artists like Pavement, the Pixies and El Mato a un Policia Motorizado (an Argentine Indie rock group whose first EP, Navidad de Reserva, came out in 2005, the same year Mambos Religiosos was published) could form an accompanying playlist. Musical discourse is an important aspect in Lichtenstein's work. One could say music marks the time, influencing the rhythmic structure of the poems, and in a larger sense, serving as a generational marker.
When I first read the book, I was perhaps most struck by the way it seems to reflect a very particular moment and demographic, people coming of age in the wake of the Argentine economic crisis of 2001. Many left to look for luck elsewhere, echoes of sun-dappled afternoons of foreign pop songs churning with revulsion and longing for what was abandoned, and for a future which had abandoned them.
NB: Juan Malasuerte is a small publisher in Mexico City dedicated to printing the works of up and coming avante garde poetry on archival quality stock, run by Francisco Fenton and Eugenio Martinez. Mambos Religiosos was published in 2005, typeset by hand and printed on a 1927 Chandler & Price platen press.
These poems in particular present a unique challenge to the translator despite their apparent simplicity because they are rooted in the informal, referential discourse of conversation and its consequent class associations and geographic references.The specificity of who is speaking may not be translated. Argentine Spanish is instantly identifiable as such even in print, not just because of the particular "Vos" form of address, but also for a series of small divergences from the hotly disputed norm as far as vocabulary, slang and diction are concerned. To anyone reading them in Spanish, the "Argentine" nature of these poems is undeniable; lest the author were making an affected joke. In written English, the nationality of an author is not generally so inextricably tied into their words.
In the background, a small radio plays a loop of peppered with rock music, giving rise to titles like "The Stairway doesn't go to Heaven;" these references become perhaps more visible in English than in the original. Artists like Pavement, the Pixies and El Mato a un Policia Motorizado (an Argentine Indie rock group whose first EP, Navidad de Reserva, came out in 2005, the same year Mambos Religiosos was published) could form an accompanying playlist. Musical discourse is an important aspect in Lichtenstein's work. One could say music marks the time, influencing the rhythmic structure of the poems, and in a larger sense, serving as a generational marker.
When I first read the book, I was perhaps most struck by the way it seems to reflect a very particular moment and demographic, people coming of age in the wake of the Argentine economic crisis of 2001. Many left to look for luck elsewhere, echoes of sun-dappled afternoons of foreign pop songs churning with revulsion and longing for what was abandoned, and for a future which had abandoned them.
NB: Juan Malasuerte is a small publisher in Mexico City dedicated to printing the works of up and coming avante garde poetry on archival quality stock, run by Francisco Fenton and Eugenio Martinez. Mambos Religiosos was published in 2005, typeset by hand and printed on a 1927 Chandler & Price platen press.
Max Lichtenstein is the author of numerous volumes of poetry perfumed with the bitter flowers of Miles Davis, Bob Dylan and Classic Rock, both new and old. He has resided in Mexico City since 2004, where he listens to jazz, smokes unapologetically, walks his dogs and works as a waiter. He currently has several multidisciplinary poetic and visual projects in the works.
Cordelia Brodsky is a graphic artist and translator based in Spain since 2005. She is currently tattooing her way across Mexico. Her translations, essays and interviews have appeared in TattooArte Magazine, Black Warrior Review, Sphera, and Mondo Sonoro. You can find a selection of her visual work here.
