By Martín Cerisola, translated by Keith Ekiss. Photography by Diego Vidart.
from Something Naked
“All the beautiful phrases spoken about transcending nature prove ineffectual in the face of the primordial forces of life.”
—Frank Kafka, Diaries
I
A cemetery of elephants.
A vast territory of immense, white bones.
Suddenly, in a corner, the gentle movements
of a baby elephant. The innocent trembling of its
trunk, its swinging feet; a look, cheerful
among the bones.
Fragile bud among the rigid forms.
New-born word.
II
His eyes were wild.
The movements of his body seemed broken, without
continuity, panting. Also, the grimaces of his
face, like tics in the eyes and mouth, fingers
stiff as dissected insects.
With one hand he squeezed his bulge and shook it
inside his pants.
He looked at us each in turn, giving us
a stare, soaked with greed and alcohol.
None of us wanted to be that man.
III
Enter into life. Like spending a force
that won’t stop struggling.
Without any film. Completely naked.
To gain access.
Without evading the space all around. Without scenarios in
mind. (Always the same voices saying the
same things).
Step aside.
Purify.
Exit.
Continue without a self.
IV
Long ago (or as children) the body crossed
the day with the force put there. Graceful.
Consciousness and the energy that consumed
the consciousness that followed.
At first it was the body. The fight, the delivery,
throughout the day and throughout the night.
We lost the adventure, became civilized.
We cannot stray more than over geometric
roads others have laid out. We long
for rituals like exorcisms; we are that scream
in the painting that puts fear on our faces
resigned to what is coming.
Life calls us to undo. But we inhabit the fear.
Resign ourselves to this and that. We spawn, incom-
plete buds. We see in others, life, and we applaud.
And we clench our teeth.
Every night.
Each suicide is as if we are not born.
V
Something was speaking in that minimal light.
It was silent and trembling on the wall as an
animal with cold.
Something opened that minute, and it stopped me
its imperceptible movement.
Its seed.
de Algo se desnuda
“Todas las bellas palabras que hablan de trascender la naturaleza se demuestran ineficaces frente a los poderes primordiales de la vida.”
—Franz Kafka. Diarios.
I
Un cementerio de elefantes.
Un vasto territorio de huesos blancos, inmensos.
De pronto, en un rincón, los movimientos mansos
de un elefante niño. El temblor inocente de su
trompa, sus patas oscilantes; la mirada, alegre
entre los huesos.
Frágil brote entre la rigidez de las formas.
Palabra naciente.
II
Tenía los ojos desencajados.
Los movimientos del cuerpo parecían rotos, sin
continuidad, jadeantes. También los gestos de la
cara, como tics en la mirada y en la boca; los dedos
tiesos como insectos disecados.
Con una mano se apretaba el bulto y lo sacudía
por adentro del pantalón.
Nos miraba a todos, daba vueltas y nos recorría
con la mirada, húmeda de avidez y alcohol.
Todos queríamos no ser ese hombre.
III
Ir entrando en la vida. Como gastando una fuerza
que no acaba de pujar.
Sin ninguna película. Todo desnudez.
Acceder.
Sin evadir el espacio, alrededor. Sin escenarios de la
mente. (Son siempre las mismas voces diciendo las
mismas cosas).
Apartarse.
Afinar.
Salir.
Seguir sin uno mismo.
IV
Antiguamente (o de niños) el cuerpo atravesaba
el día con la fuerza puesta allí. Desenvuelta.
La conciencia, y la energía que consume la conciencia,
vino después.
Al principio era el cuerpo. La lucha, la entrega, a
lo largo del día y a lo largo de la noche.
Hemos perdido la aventura civilizándonos.
No podemos errar más que sobre caminos
geométricos que otros dispusieron. Anhelamos
rituales como exorcismos; somos ese grito en la
pintura que harán de nuestras caras de espanto
resignado los venideros.
La vida llama a deshacer. Pero habitamos el miedo.
Resignamos esto y aquello. Incubamos brotes truncos.
Vemos, en otros, la vida, y la aplaudimos.
Y apretamos los dientes.
Cada noche.
Cada suicidio de lo que no nacemos.
V
Algo estaba diciendo aquella mínima luz.
Era silencio y temblaba en la pared como un
animal con frío.
Algo abría ese minuto, y me detuvo
su imperceptible movimiento.
Su semilla.
Martín Cerisola was born in Porto Alegre, Brazil in 1979. He is a poet, performer, essayist and teacher and the author of the poetry collection *Perseguir*. Five of his poems will appear in *América invertida: An Anthology of Younger Uruguayan poets* which is forthcoming from the University of New Mexico Press.
Keith Ekiss is the author of the poetry collection *Pima Road Notebook* and translator of *The Fire’s Journey* by the Costa Rican poet Eunice Odio. He is a Jones Lecturer in Creative Writing at Stanford University.