By Ana Nuño. Translated by Lawrence Schimel.

 

More free than you of not growing confused

under the luminous foliage of that garden of berries,

risking her amorous past to the whims of fate;

innocent, you claim, as she watches without

ever touching and you find yourself opening

like an inverted blossom.

 

Mendacious with the same desperate

urgency of some unpublished poet,

reproducing feigned melancholies or sudden

inspirations, surrendered to the

effervescence of this moment,

lustful and so languid, and morningless.

 

Meted out carefully (that fact is

undeniable), you told me a

raceme of clichés that first night,

implicit in our eloquent differences

(even though it wasn’t a Monday),

long removed from the flesh of the caress.

 

Make your choice carefully, I come

undone in warnings every time you

return and I take up your thread, decrying as

improper your ravings, don’t let lust

eclipse once again the clear

light that shines from deep within you.

 

Memories yoke me to my dead

(unnoticed by you, I too am dead):

rabid, keen and smiling.

I am dead in life, and my dead

erupt on this blue night in a hotel,

launching lace down the Rambla.

 

Mortal danger overtakes all who cross the

unseen thresholds of water and shadow,

radiant sea, of your Celtic name.

improper to pronounce it without wings,

even on this rainy May afternoon,

lacking hateful rhyme, far from free flight.

6 Muriel 6: Acrósticos

 

Mira sin tocar y verás abrirse

una flor inversa en el luminoso

ramaje del jardín de las grosellas,

inocente dices, cuando ya ella

echó a suertes su pasado amoroso,

libre más que tú de no confundirse.

 

Mientes con la misma desesperada

urgencia que una poeta inédita

recelando de sus dones, fingiendo

inspiraciones o tristezas súbitas,

entregada al fulgor de esta hora

lujuriosa y tan lacia, sin mañana.

 

Me dijiste, aquella primera noche,

una ristra de lugares comunes

—razonados, eso sí, con prudencia—

implícitos en nuestras diferencias

elocuentes (y eso que no era lunes),

lejos, muy lejos de la piel del roce.

 

Me deshago en advertencias cada vez,

una y otra vez que vuelves a mí:

retoma tu hilo, piensa y declara

impropio este desvarío de ti.

Elige bien, no sea que esta vez

la lujuria te eclipse la luz clara.

 

Muerta estoy y no lo ves, muerta en vida,

uncida a la memoria de mis muertos

rabiosos, entusiastas y risueños.

Irrumpen tras la noche de hotel

en este marzo azul de Barcelona,

lanzando bolillos a la avenida.

 

Mar brillante, tu nombre celta esconde

umbrales de agua y sombra que nadie

rebasa sin peligro terminante.

Impropio decir sin alas tu nombre

en esta tarde de mayo lluviosa,

lejos del vuelo libre, sin rima odiosa.

 

 

Ana Nuño

(20-28 de mayo, 2014)

 

Ana Nuño (Caracas, 1957) is a writer and editor. She has published various poetry collections (*Las voces encontradas*, *Sextinario*) and essays (*Lezama Lima*), alongside other work. Her poetry has been translated into French, Italian, Portuguesa and English. During the last twenty years she has regularly published in different media in Spain, Mexico and Venezuela.

Lawrence Schimel (New York, 1971) lives in Madrid, Spain where he writes in both Spanish and English. He has published over 100 books as author or anthologist, including: *Una barba para dos* (Dos Bigotes), *Desayuno en la cama* (Egales), *Deleted Names* (A Midsummer Night’s Press), *¡Vamos a ver a Papá!* (Ekaré), and *Just Like Them/Igual que ellos* (Ediciones del Viento). Recent titles he has translated include: graphic novel *EuroNightmare* by Aleix Saló (Penguin Random House), sci-fi novella *Memory* by Teresa P. Mira de Echeverría (Upper Rubber Boot), and poetry collections *Titanic” by Mario Heredia (Mantis) and *Dissection* by Care Santos (A Midsummer Night’s Press). He tweets in English at @lawrenceschimel and in Spanish at @1barbax2