Entonces mi kimera, Faviola negra
entonces mi kimera, Faviola negra, la pauta gaita
melodica cerpiente de fuego a cecas, en su cuerpo entrada
se fue al baron, no floresio, no estaba en la lus, no desia
mi kimera, Faviola, mar de cantos de paganos
india y linda;
y hojos a porro, y oquedades a puertas
esta junto a mi, peremne, esta junto a jaulas
que aprisionan su sangre inmaculada, su bellesa descocida
de la obscuridad del onbro; fiera libertad el sacrilegio:
de alli no tornaste, mi cielo, te lo abia dicho
que comiensa el amor en el mar, jurabas
que la llubia lesbia no es mas languida
que el agua en una jaula es la lejania, que
entre tiniebla y una sonbra
a los alientos de tu noche en bela a los ba ladros
dabas de comer del arbol incensato
y «tan cibilizsados estos tipos», dijiste
«de la sienaga del mundo duros ermanos», llore
«de Asia furiosos lobos biolentos», insistias
mas contra Corinto el berbo confirma, tremulo por Cristo
que de la traision Eva sola se salba, Faviola
Eva sola se salba, mi amor
Psicobilly, el desvuelo, I
3 de mayo, no salí de Múnich, ni llegué
a Viena a la mañana siguiente con voz entrecortada
ni temprano, ni tarde, ni nunca
ahí donde había flores, aún hay flores, Apolo
maldición, sortilegio, ronda, muerte, espantajo
nadie ataja la ternura del alba en un avión al Bucureşti
de las cosas sin guardianes, las cosas sin fuego
de los hilos volantes, del soundtrack infinito
del mundo sin agua, desnudo, infértil
¿qué es del mundo sin agua, desnudo, infértil?
caballos abajo chillantes, trepadores, flexibles
mi imagen sangrante, jamás la batalla mía, jamás
el lipstick, la ventanilla, lo desconocido, intermitente
la fatalidad que no ovaciona, la fatalidad que no comulga
en la figura de las víctimas uno encuentra
huellas fulgurantes, oscuras, espacios ceñidos
puentes espléndidos, brazos despojados, ritmo
Europa mueve el universo interior del yermo dentro
y ahí está mi sangre, ahí flores negras muertas, ahí
yo
doppelgänger de un mundo radioactivo
Yellowstone mental o el romance suprimido en toda lengua
mi patria usual es extremo de la tierra
dormir hasta media noche
a medias entre sintaxis
de piel que pelea contra comarca
y varios agujeros cosidos
al preciso silencio
de cine a mediodía
de domingo
mi patria usual es serie de televisión
ojos de película de luis buñuel
rehecha en axilas de monstruoso fantasma rural
ojos de caída en picada salto del ángel
ojos de bocas verdes
numerología clásica pequeña
ojos de estallido dentro del
vaso mal cortado santo a machete moneda arrítmica larga reflexión
sobre la cama versículo de eclesiastés botella de sangre al mar impalpable
tratado de casimir d’arpentigny
la oscuridad repentina de la sala
la poesía callejera año nuevo
vidrio puesto de control
nada que decir
con estas palabras nada
que decir
vistazo
a las cosas que quisieran
dejarse de mirar:
difumina
en ojo concreto
una realidad dispersa
[turistas esperando salir del paraíso]
esconder las tertulias en Vía Oro
esconder pájaros y exhalar tifones de otoño
siendo niños muertos todo es posible:
cinesríos callesríos
Marlene, parcelas, verdad y milenios de flores
cubiertas de escarcha, piedrecillas, memoria
brutalmente, baobab
niños cinesríos
escribimos al poeta porque quiera o no otras guerras nos/
nos anidan/ ASÍ QUE VEN DESNUDA
porque otras guerras nos/ ASÍ QUE VEN
adiós diosecillos, reptil, maniquíes de discoteca
rota la lengua
bonita
me he de resistir siempre a que la muerte me diga
amanecí y mi nombre es el que ya todos en este bar saben
he nacido poco antes del silencio de los mares/ CELOFÁN
viento purga
feto y cuentas contrapoder
lengua inocua del himen latino
nuestra madrugada
he nacido poco antes de sus diocesitos
infinito Muhammad arañaba el Nirvana y en su casa de huéspedes
mis compañeras transgredían las reglas
fumando, impúdicamente vestidas, sí
fumando, en espera de la ausencia, ¿de qué más? carajo
niñitos derruidos, sabelotodo; boleto en mano
pulmones pardos, charlestón, boleto en mano, marca el vuelo
cuatro quince
cinco y diez marca el reloj
Cuatro poemas
Wingston González
Listen to "Psicobilly, the Unflight, I" read in the original Spanish by the poet:
The first time I saw Wingston González perform was during a reading at the Mexican embassy in Guatemala City, in 2012. I say “perform” because Wingston’s delivery was nothing short of a theatrical happening. He lengthens the words, he breaks the words, he sings, raps, and prays them. It is as if the unusual architecture of his poetry, its themes, and musicality, can only be expressed through diversity, and with the combination of the ritualistic cadence of a shaman and the swagger of a rapper.
Undoubtedly part of that uniqueness comes from the relationship between the poet and his birthplace: Livingston—a town known for its unusual mix of Maya, Ladino, Garífuna, and Afro-Caribbean people. The first poem of this selection, “So My Kimera, Black Faviola,” is one of the finest examples of the Caribbean energy and idiosyncrasies of Wingston’s poetry.
The unconventional spelling—as he put it—and punctuation found in “Kimera” is, according to Wingston, meant to depict the tone, rhythm, and unusual delivery of the people he met in Livingston. They were loud, extroverted, fast-paced, and at times uneducated—yet linguistically inventive—characters that captured his imagination. For the translation, I first tried to creatively misspell the words he had modified in Spanish. My first intention was to mimic the sounds in Spanish. If melodic similarity was completely unavailable, I went for structure. Additionally, to accurately capture the musicality of the poem, Wingston and I, separated by five thousand kilometers, exchanged WhatsApp voice notes.
“First line of the second paragraph,” I’d say. “Is there a pause before the second line?”
“Ah, yes,” he’d say. And he would send me a recording of said line, taking me back to that reading at the Mexican embassy.
The remaining poems, although untouched by Wingston’s linguistic experimentation, retain much of his intonation. In “Mental Yellowstone or the Suppressed Silence in Every Tongue” and “[Tourists Waiting to Leave Paradise]” Wingston placed special emphasis on the frantic and furious essence of the poem and on the narrator’s hindered voice—a result of the dramatic context.
Wingston’s poems and his delivery, I thought during the translation process, are a mix between Rakim, Robert Johnson, Easy E., Langston Hughes, Coltrane’s sax, Miles’s trumpet, and Derek Walcott. His wordplay is utterly unique, artistic and journalistic, personal and ethereal, quotidian and epic. At times his work drifts subtly like an imploration, at times it breaks and stumbles as if affected by some imperceptible tremor, and sometimes it drops punishingly, heavily, rhythmically, and repeatedly.
Undoubtedly part of that uniqueness comes from the relationship between the poet and his birthplace: Livingston—a town known for its unusual mix of Maya, Ladino, Garífuna, and Afro-Caribbean people. The first poem of this selection, “So My Kimera, Black Faviola,” is one of the finest examples of the Caribbean energy and idiosyncrasies of Wingston’s poetry.
The unconventional spelling—as he put it—and punctuation found in “Kimera” is, according to Wingston, meant to depict the tone, rhythm, and unusual delivery of the people he met in Livingston. They were loud, extroverted, fast-paced, and at times uneducated—yet linguistically inventive—characters that captured his imagination. For the translation, I first tried to creatively misspell the words he had modified in Spanish. My first intention was to mimic the sounds in Spanish. If melodic similarity was completely unavailable, I went for structure. Additionally, to accurately capture the musicality of the poem, Wingston and I, separated by five thousand kilometers, exchanged WhatsApp voice notes.
“First line of the second paragraph,” I’d say. “Is there a pause before the second line?”
“Ah, yes,” he’d say. And he would send me a recording of said line, taking me back to that reading at the Mexican embassy.
The remaining poems, although untouched by Wingston’s linguistic experimentation, retain much of his intonation. In “Mental Yellowstone or the Suppressed Silence in Every Tongue” and “[Tourists Waiting to Leave Paradise]” Wingston placed special emphasis on the frantic and furious essence of the poem and on the narrator’s hindered voice—a result of the dramatic context.
Wingston’s poems and his delivery, I thought during the translation process, are a mix between Rakim, Robert Johnson, Easy E., Langston Hughes, Coltrane’s sax, Miles’s trumpet, and Derek Walcott. His wordplay is utterly unique, artistic and journalistic, personal and ethereal, quotidian and epic. At times his work drifts subtly like an imploration, at times it breaks and stumbles as if affected by some imperceptible tremor, and sometimes it drops punishingly, heavily, rhythmically, and repeatedly.
Wingston González (b. 1986) is a Garífuna poet from Guatemala. His poetry collection Translaciones won the prestigious Luis Cardoza y Aragón Mesoamerican Poetry Prize in 2015. His other books include Los magos del crepúsculo (y blues otra vez) (2005), CafeínaMC: segunda parte, la fiesta y sus habitantes (2010), CafeínaMC: primera parte, la anunciación de la fiesta (2011), san juan—la esperanza (2013, 2015), Miss muñecas vudu (2013), Espuma sobre las piedras (a documentation of Alejandra Garavito’s choreography and the author’s poems, 2014), ¡Hola Gravedad! (translation into the German by Timo Berger, 2016), and Nuevo manual para una educación sentimental (with artwork by Bernabé Arévalo, 2017). He has collaborated on performatic poems with Naufus Ramírez Figueroa: lugar de consuelo, which was commissioned for the Coração do espantalho play (2016), part of the 32nd São Paulo Art Biennial; A Universal History of Infamy, for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art; and la playa espera por vos for the Linnæus in Tenebris expo for the CAPC musée d’art contemporain de Bordeaux (2017). He is an editor and translator for Waníchugu, a Garífuna-based publishing house. He is a member of La Retaguardia, an independent art collective based on Guatemala City.
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.
