Three Poems about Houses by José Emilio Pacheco translated by Cynthia Steele

 

 


 

José Emilio Pacheco (1939-2014) was the leading Mexican poet of the second half of the twentieth century who, In his later years, was visiting Professor of Literature at the University of Essex. Also a distinguished translator, essayist, novelist and short-story writer, he received all of the major literary prizes given in the Spanish-speaking world, including the Premio Cervantes (2009), Premio Reina Sofía (2009), Premio Federico García Lorca (2005), Premio Octavio Paz (2003), Premio Pablo Neruda (2004), Premio Ramón López Velarde (2003), Premio Alfonso Reyes (2004), Premio Nacional de Literatura José Fuentes Mares (2000), National José Asunción Silva Poetry Award (1996), and Premio Xavier Villaurrutia. Collections of his work in English translation include: Selected Poems, trans. George McWhirter (New Directions, 1987), Battles in the Desert and Other Stories, trans. Katherine Silver (New Directions, 1987), and City of Memory and Other Poems, trans. Cynthia Steele and David Lauer (City Lights, 2001). His collected poems are available in Spanish as Tarde o temprano (Poemas 1958-2009) (Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2009). Pacheco’s poetry is characterized by its precision, understatement, erudition, and preoccupation with humanity’s destructive tendencies toward both the natural world and itself.

 


 

 

 


 

Cynthia Steele is Professor Emerita of Comparative Literature at the University of Washington, Seattle. Her translations include Inés Arredondo, Underground Rivers and Other Stories (U of Nebraska P, 1996), José Emilio Pacheco, City of Memory and Other Poems (City Lights, 2001, with David Lauer), and María Gudín, Open Sea (Amazon Crossings, 2018). Her versions of other poems by Pacheco have been published in TriQuarterly, Delos, Agni and Prism. Those of other Latin American poets have appeared in various journals, including Michigan Quarterly Review, Washington Square Review, Southern Review, New England Review, and ANMLY.

 


 

 

             

             

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

  1. Blockbuster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old family house has a sign: “For sale

as a vacant lot.” Before long

it will be another Burger King, Domino’s Pizza or Blockbuster.

 

The parents built it as newlyweds, so young.

Their daughters and sons were born and grew up.

Later they moved away. Because the essence

of family life is final dispersion.

Once the home was dissolved, the old parents died

and the house is for sale as a vacant lot.

 

Within a few weeks

they’ll rent videos about love and horror in this Blockbuster.

No one will notice the other drama:

the families coming together and falling apart,

being born, dying, and in between

immense life, always wounding and leaving so soon.

And the dust into which all houses turn.

 

 

José Emilio Pacheco

translated by Cynthia Steele

 

 

 

2.  Limbo

 

 

 

 

It’s impossible to open the window.

It’s sealed. It has a device

to prevent suicides and keep the chaos out.

The climate control regulates the tired air

purified by another machine.

The picture window functions as a magnifying glass.

 

It all looks flawless.

But today the power went out

so there is no air and the water won’t rise.

 

The fishbowl of the thirtieth floor

(or the twentyninth: there is no thirteenth),

up near heaven,

was limbo.

 

The heat generated

has turned it into a third-world shack,

into an oil drum

where hell is boiling over.

 

José Emilio Pacheco

translated by Cynthia Steele

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3.  Demolition

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 They’re tearing down the house in ruins,

and when it’s too late to save it, it turns out

to have been a colonial jewel, crushed

by the profit motive. They added on

“modern,” “functional” absurdities.

 

 

The most poignant or alarming part,

depending on how you look at it,

is finding under the patio where they kept

the delivery trucks

another patio, this one ancient,

with a fountain in pieces

and shards of vases and plates.

 

 

And thus everyday objects

are not always destroyed or transformed.

A few remain in some place

where no one looks again or remembers.

 

 

Perhaps on a third level

(in the ancient city, it wouldn’t surprise me)

they’ll find the shattered bones

of those who ate off these plates

and listened to time being liquefied

in the fountain’s waters.

 

 

If I pause for an instant on them,

on those forever undiscovered, anonymous lives,

I realize that this day, too, must someday be

remote prehistory.

 

 

And in the future Pompey,

our city of right now,

another excavation team

will rescue the humble things

that we spent our sad lives using up

–without stopping to think–

that, in the long run, they too will be remnants,

ruins of the inconceivable immemorial.

 

 

José Emilio Pacheco

translated by Cynthia Steele

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Blockbuster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La vieja casa familiar tiene un letrero: “Se vende

como terreno.” Dentro de poco

será otro Burger King, Domino’s Pizza o Blockbuster.

 

La edificaron los padres, recién casados, muy jóvenes.

Nacieron y crecieron las hijas y los hijos.

Más tarde se apartaron. Porque la esencia

de la vida en familia es la final dispersión.

Ya disuelto el hogar, los viejos padres se mueren

y la casa se vende como terreno.

 

Dentro de pocas semanas

alquilarán videos de amor y terror en este Blockbuster.

Nadie reparará en el otro drama:

las familias que se hacen y se deshacen,

el nacer, el morir y en medio

la inmensa vida que hiere siempre y se va muy pronto.

Y el polvo en que terminan todas las casas.

 

José Emilio Pacheco

 

 

2. Limbo

 

 

 

Es imposible abrir la ventana.

Está sellada. Contiene un dispositivo

contra el suicidio y contra el caos de afuera.

El clima artificial regula el aire cansado

que purifica otra máquina.

El ventanal funciona como vidrio de aumento.

 

Todo parece impecable.

Pero hoy se fue la electricidad

y por tanto no hay aire ni sube el agua.

 

La pecera del piso treinta

(o veintinueve: no hay trece)

cerca del cielo,

fue el limbo.

 

Con el calor generado

se ha convertido en choza del tercer mundo.

Se ha vuelto paila de aceite

en la que hierve el infierno.

 

 

José Emilio Pacheco

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3.  Demolition

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Están echando abajo la casa en ruinas.

Y cuando ya es muy tarde para salvarla resulta

que era una joya colonial, aplastada

por el afán de lucro. Añadieron

adefesios “modernos” y “funcionales.”

 

Lo más conmovedor o lo más alarmante,

según sea vea,

es hallar bajo el patio en donde guardaban

las camionetas de reparto

otro patio, esta vez antiguo,

con una fuente en pedazos

y fragmentos de platos y de vasijas.

 

Así pues, los objetos diarios

no siempre se destruyen ni se transforman.

Unos cuantos se quedan en un lugar

que nadie vuelve a ver ni recuerda.

 

Quizá en un tercer nivel

(en la antigua ciudad no es raro)

estarán los huesos deshechos

de quienes comieron en estos platos

y escucharon el tiempo que se licuaba

entre las aguas de la fuente.

 

Si me detengo un instante en ellos,

en para siempre ignotas vidas anónimas,

advierto que también este día se ha de volver algún día

la más remota prehistoria.

 

Y en la Pompeya futura,

nuestra ciudad de ahora mismo,

otro equipo de excavación

rescatará las cosas humildes

que gastamos gastando la triste vida

–sin pensar nunca

en que también serán a largo plazo vestigio,

ruinas de lo impensable inmemoriable.

 

 

José Emilio Pacheco

 

 

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