from Sonetos a dos by Horacio Cavallo and Francisco Tomsich, translated by Geoffrey Brock. Photography by Diego Vidart.
Hermes
I.
Crickets are errors in the silence, or so
thinks sleepless Hermes, in his boxer shorts.
Chin on his fist, packet of cigarettes
beneath the portrait of Florencio.
The moon, the window: up and down his street
populations of neighbors and of crickets.
The night is hung from clothespins like a blanket
and Hermes dreams of a long silent retreat.
He flops back on the bed, lets one hand stray
across the mattress toward the empty half,
hoping for company (pleasure held at bay)
that never comes. He spends his night like this:
hearing the chirps, smoking, and putting off
the mythic founding of his moodiness.
Hermes
I.
Los grillos son errores del silencio
se dice Hermes insomne, en calzoncillos.
El puño en el mentón, los cigarrillos
debajo del cuadrito de Florencio.
La luna, la ventana: calle Ascencio,
poblada de vecinos y de grillos;
la noche está colgada con palillos
y él sueña con gestores del silencio.
Se tira así vestido, tienta el lado
vacío de la cama de dos plazas,
y espera, conteniendo la garufa
visitas impensables. Trasnochado,
oyendo el cricriquear, fuma y aplaza
la Fundación Tercera de la mufa.
Hermes
V.
The cricket’s saying terrifying things
to the boy regarding it with a kind stare,
who quickly but not without a certain care
places it in a little jar with rings
of air-holes in the lid. Hermes looks on,
thinking about Toquinho’s “Testament,”
the tune the insect strums in the event
its jar is shaken. Later he puts his own
repository in their little pasture,
meaning to gather cricket after cricket
into a tiny funerary pyre.
The boy, appalled, can’t bear to look at it;
he hurtles from the scene like an aria
as Hermes nervously rolls a cigarette.
Hermes
V.
El grillo dice cosas pavorosas
al niño que lo mira con cariño
y sin vacilación ni desaliño,
lo mete en un frasquito de curiosas
ranuras. Hermes mira, piensa cosas
sobre ese Testamento de Toquinho
que improvisa el insecto cuando el niño
agita y bate el frasco; luego posa
su propio recipiente en el pastito;
propone unir allí grillo con grillo
en una mini pira funeraria.
El niño horrorizado mira ahíto
y sale disparado como un aria
cuando Hermes arma ansioso un cigarrillo.
Icarus
III.
Poor Daedalus advised his only son:
follow me, child, but keep to the middle sky,
for the sun ruins things that go too high.
Your path, my dear, must be a level one…
But Icarus, tired of warnings, hasn’t heard.
He launches into the air to test his wings,
and from on high, where heat does ruin things,
an object can be seen to fall, a blurred
bundle of cords and feathers. A boatman,
smoking a cigarette on deck, looks up
as absentmindedly he fills his cup
and says to his invisible companion:
I made a wish, old pal, seeing as I
just saw a shooting star fall from the sky.
Ícaro
III.
Dédalo, desgraciado, dijo al hijo:
seguí por donde voy, no tan arriba,
que allá el calor del sol todo derriba,
mantén querido mío un punto fijo.
Pero Ícaro no escucha ese prolijo
concepto y se lanza a la deriva.
De allá donde el calor todo derriba
se ha visto caer algo, un amasijo
de plumas y tendones. Un barquero
que fuma un cigarrillo en plena popa
mirando sin mirar llena una copa
y dice al invisible compañero:
pedí un deseo, hermano, que estoy viendo
una estrella fugaz que va cayendo.
Icarus
V.
As soon as he hits the water’s icy surface
he looks around, expecting a life-boat.
But water’s all he sees. Time’s running out:
the sun is going down. Poor Icarus
then understands and smiles, but wearily.
With a beneficent revenge in mind,
he launches himself at once across the sea,
and when the day star sinks into the stunned
horizon, he fills again with a sudden joy—
in the sea’s mirror he finds what he’s been seeking:
the blood-drenched sun, and at its heart a boy.
Now he feels sad again, and he can’t think.
The boat has not yet come for him, and something
is tugging him down. Now he starts to sink.
Ícaro
V.
Apenas en el agua resfriado,
Ícaro espera balsa salvadora.
Ya solo el agua pasa; se hace hora:
el sol se viene abajo. El desgraciado
comprende y se sonríe adormilado.
Pensando una venganza bienhechora
se lanza mar arriba sin demora
y cuando el astro se hunde en el helado
horizonte se renueva de alegría;
en el reflejo está lo que quería:
el sol ensangrentado, y él su centro.
Entonces entristece, se confunde.
La balsa no aparece, y algo dentro
del mar lo tironea. Ya se hunde.
Games
V.
The house feels empty. Faucets can be heard
doing poor impressions of a second-hand.
One windowpane is broken, and the wind
hangs plaintive whistles on a standing shard.
Two men regard each other. One feels hope.
The other’s brooding over an old saddle:
lost in thought, his thumb and finger fiddle
with leather straps. He’s mulling his escape,
how he might disappear without a trace
then reappear again in some far-off place
with death clinging quietly to his chest.
But none will see him on the roadway, since
the pull of evening is stronger, of indolence
and willow shadows, and of the need to rest.
Juegos
V.
La casa está vacía. La gotera
imita un impreciso segundero.
El viento cuelga un silbo lastimero
del rastro del cristal en la madera.
Los dos hombres se miran. Uno espera.
El otro le da vueltas al apero;
ensimismado juega con el cuero
rumiando la evasión, una manera
de desaparecer sin dejar rastro
y aparecerse así a campo traviesa
con una silenciosa muerte a cuestas.
Pero no lo verán sobre el balastro:
más fuertes son la tarde y la pereza,
las sombras de los sauces y las siestas.
Horacio Cavallo was born in Montevideo, Uruguay in 1977. He is writer and poet, among his books are the poetry collections *Descendencia* and *Sonetos a dos*, co-authored with Francisco Tomsich. Five of his poems are included in *América invertida: an anthology of younger Uruguayan poets* which is forthcoming from the University of New Mexico Press.
Francisco Tomsich was born in Rosario, Uruguay in 1981. He is a visual artist, musician and writer and is the co-author, along with Horacio Cavallo, of the poetry collection *Sonetos a dos*. Five of his poems are included in *América invertida: an anthology of younger Uruguayan poets* which is forthcoming from the University of New Mexico Press.
Geoffrey Brock is author of *Voices Bright Flags*, editor of *The FSG Book of 20th-Century Italian Poetry*, and translator of Cesare Pavese’s *Disaffections: Complete Poems 1930-1950*. He teaches in the MFA program in Creative Writing and Translation at the University of Arkansas.