Sorrowful and Wandering
Tell me, does your heart sometimes fly away,
far from the black of the squalid city
towards a sea of exploded splendour,
blue, bright, profound, deep as virginity?
Tell me, does your heart sometimes fly away?
The sea, the vast sea, consoles our labours.
What was it made the singing sea’s voice hoarse,
accompanied by immense groaning winds,
with the sublime function of cradling us?
The sea, the vast sea, consoles our labours.
Transport me, wagon, carry me, frigate.
Far, far, for here mud is made of our tears.
– Is it true that sometimes your sad heart
says: Far from remorse, crimes, suffering, fears,
transport me, wagon, carry me, frigate?
How distant you are, perfumed paradise,
where love and joy grow under azure light;
where all of those worthy of love are loved;
where pure hearts drown in sensual delight.
How distant you are, perfumed paradise?
But that green paradise of childish loves;
its rides, its songs, its kisses, its bouquets,
the violins vibrant amongst the hills,
with the jugs of wine, at evening, in the glades,
– yes, that green paradise of childish loves.
Innocent place, full of furtive pleasures,
how far beyond India and China?
Can we recall it with our plaintive cries,
bring it to life with a voice of silver,
that innocent place of furtive pleasures?
Translation © R J Dent (2006)
First published in Acumen Literary Journal (Issue 50)
The Metamorphosis of the Vampire
The woman, with her strawberry flavoured lips,
twisted and writhed her graceful, snake-like hips,
slipped off her silver top, thrust her breasts near,
and let her musk-soaked words flow in my ear:
“I have the warmest mouth, and know the skills
to make all men renege on their own wills.
I dry their tears on my triumphant breasts,
and help the old ones find their inner beast.
Naked, I am Salome without veils;
I am the moon, the sun, stars, comet’s tails,
and am so learned in voluptuousness,
that when I entwine men between my thighs,
or else let them frenziedly bite my breasts,
the impotent, the virile, and the rest,
while in this bed, collapse contentedly,
for those poor angels give their best to me.”
After she’d sucked the marrow out of me
and I had turned my body lazily,
to give her a long, probing and deep kiss,
a flask full of disease was suddenly
right there instead of her! I closed my eyes
and kept them shut until it grew quite light,
and then I looked, but she had gone for good;
no vampire lying next to me in bed,
instead, there were a skeleton’s old bones,
that rattled like a metal weathervane,
or some old creaking sign, or sheets of tin,
throughout the day, blown roughly by the wind.
Translation © R J Dent (2006)
First published in Inclement September Issue
