Five Poems byLUIS BENÍTEZ
English versions by Araceli del Luján Lacore
Ants
This living path
crossing the garden
comes from a land
that isn’t ours
though we constantly
traverse the surface of another kingdom.
We know nothing of its tiny jungles
the desolate desert of a tile
the fleeting waterfall of an open tap
the consecutive holes a staircase unfolds.
Below and around us
another infinite world lives.
It disturbs us that this domain
resembles so closely to what we see
from the window of the twentieth floor
far below and at our feet;
murderers heroes and villains
have their time and occupy their spaces
in a manner we consider mechanical.
The meaning of those days so different
is an enigma,
we quickly dismiss it
so we feel terrified
when we watch a child
paying the ants
his deepest attention:
he’ll forget as he grows the times
he fixed his eyes on a different kingdom
though our kingdoms
began on the same day
Haute couture
There’s no worse profession
than being a fashion designer
who decrees
that for this season
the length of verses
must reach the knee
or fall to the ankles.
Their sour mannequins then parade
across every available runway
resembling oversized strawberries
a massive salmon
teetering on huge high heels
or absurd pots flipped upside down
ready for the promised applause
of the repetitive
tedious news.
Whether the “how” should be half-naked
or if it’s proper to show the “what ”
their creators assure that if invited
Homer and T.S. Eliot would say ‘’It’s fine’’
and nearly no one would hesitate to agree.
In every matter the edict of fashion
is the worst thing in this world.
Procrastination
From my window I see a tree
hanging stubbornly to the abyss
he grew as it could
amid the ruins of the building across
because one night his seed thought this city
was a mountain range.
Like for our desires
the frail tree pays the price
he will always fear the fury
of an unexpected storm
the sadism of capricious rain
the ferocity of sudden winds.
His aging roots cling to the vertical wall
with the strength of a remorse.
This year to be prudent
he will not bear a single fruit,
for any bird is foolish enough
to nest in him.
In distance it’s clear what the fate
of the stubborn is:
neither falling nor giving up.
Almost dry
he feeds on its own pride
and postpones everything to keep on living
On the foolishness of fairy tales
The good ones almost never win.
Love is weak
usually, neither late nor early,
justice is done
and time
cannot heal
even the smallest wound
but what would become of us
(understand value and cherish)
without fairy tales?
The blinds
Every night you tell me
to pay the greatest attention
to make sure the blinds are properly closed.
The pleasant aroma of dinner
has not faded yet
our eyes are still closed
inside this dream.
But before that
it is necessary
to repeat that daily precaution
not because of the sporadic attack
of the wind and the rain
or because of the next sun.
The blinds must be properly closed
so that nothing stands in our way
like an insect carrying on its legs a foreign poison
something that cuts or obstructs the bridges
we have so carefully built
over all these years together.
English Translations by Araceli del Luján Lacore
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