Ste’laq Yichkan
A b’aytu
max ajkantoq hinmuxuk
schon jun te’ chulul.
A b’aytu maxin kuy hinb’a hinb’eyi
yin k’am xanab’il xol tz’otz’ew
yul smaqb’ej CPR.
A b’aytu, yetoq sk’ixal tz’ununk’ix,
maxin ch’e’ajteq
k’ix chukantoq
yul waqan.
A b’aytu, maxin kuy hinb’a
hinjohon k’ay yechel waqan yul b’e
yuj k’amoq chin maq’lay kamoq.
Yuj xan toqwal maxin ek’jab’ ek’
waq’onkan yechel waqan yul b’e
maxin ek’jab’I, tzetb’aloq chi kan yechel
b’e tu yul waqan.
Selva del Ixcán
Allí quedó mi ombligo
subido en la punta
de un árbol.
Allí empecé mis andares
con los pies desnudos
en lodazales de las CPR.
Allí, con espinas biscoyol,
yo sacaba espinas sembradas
en las plantas de los pies.
Allí aprendí a ser perseguido
borrando mis huellas
como medida de sobrevivencia.
Por eso allí no anduve
para dejar huellas en el camino
sino para que las veredas
dejaran huellas en mis pies.
Sb’i konob’laq
YICHKAN:
B’ay yich kan.
Q’AN TX’OTX’:
B’ay q’an tx’otx tx’otx’.
XACHAN:
B’ay xachanyayij tx’otx’ tx’otx’.
TE’MUX:
Te’ej b’ay aq’b’il ajtoq muxukej.
KOJ KAN:
Koj lekanteq kan.
CHI’IB’LAQ:
B’ay ch’ib’laq.
NUB’IL HA’:
B’ay chi nub’ sb’a a’ej.
Nombres de poblados
YICHKAN:
Asiento de lo alto.
Q’AN TX’OTX’:
Donde es tierra amarilla.
XACHAN:
Donde la tierratiene forma de horqueta.
TE’MUX:
Árbol con ombligo.
KOJ KAN:
León parado desde lo alto.
CHI’IB’LAQ:
Donde abundan las pacayas.
NUB’IL HA’:
Donde se une el agua.
Xol te te’
Xol owal mayal ek’toq,
a yet max al yaw
heb’unin aj CPR
xolaq te te’,
q’ap xa’max tx’aplay oktoq
yul sti’heb’
kax k’amoq chi ab’layi
yul heb’cham tz’ib’ib’i yin.
Junjun unin max b’uq’yaw
koch tam spat max turu’.
Xiwil to aw chi taq’wi kantoq
juyuyoq wajil xol yet chi eli.
Entre los árboles
En Plan de Emergencia
del conflicto armado,
de hambre gritaban
los niños en las CPR:
un trapo
en la boca se les metía
para cerrarles el grito
ante los pintos.
En vez de tortilla
tragaron su grito.
Hoy el grito de muchos
aún tiene eco de hambre.
Hintzu
Max waq’ noj hintzu
yetoq sat kan pihan aytoq
yul job’elaq najat eloq.
Max witeq ayach
yuj tol sxumakil witz hach
kax hojtaq k’apaxoq
tol chi pib’aj sb’a sat kan
yul job’elaq.
A hintzu ti
lajan kan axka hinpixan
a yul chi je’ kuk’en masanil
hinkamk’ulal ayin aj xol te’laq hin ti.
Mi tecomate
Llené mi tecomate
con cielo empozado
en barrancos lejanos.
Lo traje para ti
porque eres flor de loma
y sabes que el cielo
usa los barrancos
para empozarse.
Mi tecomate es figura
de mi corazón
en él puedes beber
mi amor de montaña.
Hin txutx
Hin txutx
tz’isb’il ay
yab’ilal
yib’an sat sq’ab’.
Ech wal
chi kan yechel
yab’ilal
yin junjun spat
chi tz’aqa’.
Junjun k’al el
yet chin lohon spat
chi wab’k’apax
sumumihal loji yab’ilal.
Mi madre
Mi madre
tiene sus años bordados
en la palma de sus manos.
Y bien quedan marcados
en cada pixtón que tortea.
Es de comer sus pixtones
para aprender el sabor de sus arrugas.
de Xik'ej K'al Xe'ej/Alas y raíces
Sabino Esteban
Editor’s Note: The translator worked primarily from the Spanish and consulted with the poet, as described in the translator’s note.
Listen to the poems read in the original Q’anjob’al by the poet:
Sabino Esteban’s work, though minimal, is earthy, otherworldly, mystical, and profoundly human. Much like a branch cracking underfoot, his poetry is a musical, memorable, and seismic snap. And that snap, he’s quick to point out, comes from his forefathers and foremothers. “Whenever our elder people give us any advice, the message is clear and unadorned,” he says. I wanted to respect that brevity, not just to mimic the structure of the poem, but also to bring out that potency—trust solely in the language used and the images.
However brief his sentences may be, they are often formed by words denser that are in his original language.
The word “wrinkles” at the end of “My Mother,” for example, comes from the Spanish arrugas. This is a pretty straightforward translation. However, arrugas is the distillation of a more complex linguistic construction in Q’anjob’al that does not just refer to the physical aspect found in the skin. When Sabino writes “chi wab’k’apax sumumihal loji yab’ilal,” he’s also writing about his mother’s trajectory through life, he refers to her seniority with respect and admiration. Wrinkles, arrugas, are not just symptoms of old age, but signs of wisdom and experience.
“Other words or phrases also carry some type of spiritual meaning,” he says, via telephone, all the way from Ixcán, merely half an hour away from the Mexican border.
This is, admittedly, a translation of a translation. Though, Sabino doesn’t see it that way. He told me that as soon as he finishes a poem in Q’anjob’al, he works on the Spanish version, making them “extensions of each other” or “the result of the same feeling.” And that his books come out in both languages making no mention of a traducción, because he feels there is no separation between the two. But since I don’t speak any Mayan language, I had to trust on the Spanish version and asked Sabino to fish out some of those dense words.
While tackling these Siamese poems, I briefly considered trying to replicate Q’anjob’al’s idiomatic vastness. But that meant betraying the rhythm and succinctness which, I feel, are more important in Sabino’s work than complete accuracy. To bring these poems into English, I toiled around that seismic snap I mentioned earlier. Even when English is completely unequipped to imitate Q’anjob’al’s immensity, it wraps around perfectly to the brevity needed for these poems.
I chose cadence and tradition over complexity. I followed the tremors and ignored the aftershocks. Those belong to Sabino.
However brief his sentences may be, they are often formed by words denser that are in his original language.
The word “wrinkles” at the end of “My Mother,” for example, comes from the Spanish arrugas. This is a pretty straightforward translation. However, arrugas is the distillation of a more complex linguistic construction in Q’anjob’al that does not just refer to the physical aspect found in the skin. When Sabino writes “chi wab’k’apax sumumihal loji yab’ilal,” he’s also writing about his mother’s trajectory through life, he refers to her seniority with respect and admiration. Wrinkles, arrugas, are not just symptoms of old age, but signs of wisdom and experience.
“Other words or phrases also carry some type of spiritual meaning,” he says, via telephone, all the way from Ixcán, merely half an hour away from the Mexican border.
This is, admittedly, a translation of a translation. Though, Sabino doesn’t see it that way. He told me that as soon as he finishes a poem in Q’anjob’al, he works on the Spanish version, making them “extensions of each other” or “the result of the same feeling.” And that his books come out in both languages making no mention of a traducción, because he feels there is no separation between the two. But since I don’t speak any Mayan language, I had to trust on the Spanish version and asked Sabino to fish out some of those dense words.
While tackling these Siamese poems, I briefly considered trying to replicate Q’anjob’al’s idiomatic vastness. But that meant betraying the rhythm and succinctness which, I feel, are more important in Sabino’s work than complete accuracy. To bring these poems into English, I toiled around that seismic snap I mentioned earlier. Even when English is completely unequipped to imitate Q’anjob’al’s immensity, it wraps around perfectly to the brevity needed for these poems.
I chose cadence and tradition over complexity. I followed the tremors and ignored the aftershocks. Those belong to Sabino.
Sabino Esteban (b. 1981) is a Guatemalan poet of Mayan Q’anjob’al descent. For two years, during the Guatemalan Civil War, his family hid in Chiapas, Mexico. In 1984 they made their way to Guatemala and joined the Los Limones refugee camp that was part of Ixcán’s Comunidades de Población en Resistencia (CPR)—communities that provided, among other things, shelter and education to its members. Esteban grew up and went to school in the CPRs. He has published the books of poetry Sq’aqaw yechel aqanej/Gemido de huellas (2007), Yetoq’ junjun b’ijan aq’al/Con de pedazo de carbon (2001), Xik’ej K’al Xe’ej/Alas y Raíces (2013) and Sq’och Xajaw/La escalera de la luna (2017). He has been invited to poetry festivals in Guatemala, Spain, Mexico, and the United States. His poetry has been featured in anthologies in Guatemala and abroad.
José García Escobar is a journalist, fiction writer, translator, and former Fulbright scholar from Guatemala. He received his M.F.A. in creative writing from The New School in New York City. His writing has appeared in The Evergreen Review, Guernica, and Words Without Borders. He is Asymptote’s editor-at-large for the Central American region and currently works as a journalist in Plaza Pública.
