Another Conjectural Poem. (Two Poems).

Fernandez Retamar, Roberto ; Clark, David Draper

Another
Conjectural Poem

(Jorge Luis Borges, 1899-1999)

 Just as I doubted fame (at least that's what I've stated
 repeatedly),
 I also doubted immortality,
 And it is clear, now that I am deceased, that I cannot be the
 one who traces or dictates these falsely posthumous
 lines,
 Still, it is no less clear that they would not exist without my
 having actually produced them,
 That is, of course, if these verses and I truly have meaning
 in this strangest of universes
 (Any curious soul will have noted that such a superlative
 could not be mine,
 But to claim as much does not lend authenticity to the
 remaining words).

 I affirmed that the long existence of the arbitrary soul is
 assured in other lives,
 And there is nothing I can do to keep from becoming the
 author who attributes this text to me,
 And from becoming many other irreconcilable authors.
 But perhaps the faces, the styles I assumed, were
 irreconcilable in me as well,
 And, still, the vain dictionaries
 The vain literary histories
 Have long ago brought them together under three words,
 within two dates,
 Of which I am the oppressed, the imaginary prisoner, not
 reality.

 How poorly I've been read with all too much frequency.
 How they did not notice that labyrinths, libraries, tigers,
 swords, occidental and oriental knowledge
 Were but transparent metaphors for the poor heart of
 that boy
 Who simply wanted to be happy with a girl
 Like his ordinary friends in Buenos Aires or Geneva.
 Upon evoking my ancestors, I presented them in marble or
 bronze, and I feigned to ignore
 That they mixed tears, sorrows, and loves with their battles.
 Sadness, solitude, desolation gave rise to the existence of my
 perfect pages,
 But I would have traded so many of those pages
 Just to have kissed the lips I never kissed.
 I claimed to abhor mirrors, and it was not understood that
 what I wanted was to see myself reflected
 In dark clear eyes under the great golden moon
 Or in the bedroom's twilight.
 They have attributed to me the undesirable paternity
 Of vociferous literary factions or erudite literary types,
 When all I wanted was to be a father to daughters and sons
 of flesh and blood.

 Let no one be amazed at where I decided to be buried
 If previously no one understood me or helped me leave my
 celebrated prison cell.
 I regretted not having had the courage of my elders,
 But now that no one can censor me for being a braggart
 I proclaim that I was no less
 Brave in confronting such atrocious adversity.
 I would have preferred much more a bullet to the chest or a
 silent knife to the throat
 To the terror that I contemplated in myself
 While I was still able to contemplate.

 Do not forget that I am not the one who writes these verses.
 No one writes them.

Otro poema conjetural

(J.L.B., 1899-1999)

 Asi como descrei (al menos eso he repetido) de la fama,
 Descrei tambien de la inmortalidad,
 Y es claro que hoy finado no puedo ser quien traza o dicta
 estas lineas falsamente postumas,
 Pero no es menos claro que ellas no existirian sin las que yo
 produje de veras,
 Si es que yo y de veras tienen sentido en el extranisimo universo
 (Algun curioso habra reparado en que ese superlativo no
 podria ser mio,
 Pero eso no da autenticidad a las restantes palabras).

 Afirme que la duracion del alma arbitraria esta asegurada
 en vidas ajenas,
 Y nada puedo hacer para impedir quedar en el autor que
 me atribuye este texto,
 Y en muchos otros autores inconciliables.
 Acaso en mi tambien fueron inconciliables los rostros, los
 estilos que asumi,
 Y sin embargo hace tiempo los vanos diccionarios, las vanas
 historias de la literatura
 Los han reunido bajo tres palabras, entre dos fechas,
 De las cuales soy el abrumado, el imaginario prisionero, no
 la realidad.

 Que mal he sido leido con demasiada frecuencia.
 Como no repararon en que laberintos, bibliotecas, tigres,
 espadas, saberes occidentales y orientales
 Eran transparentes metaforas del pobre corazon de aquel
 muchacho
 Que simplemente queria ser feliz con una muchacha
 Como sus amigos corrientes en Buenos Aires o en Ginebra.
 Al evocar mis antepasados, los presente en marmol o
 bronce, y fingi ignorar
 Que ellos mezclaron con sus batallas lagrimas, ayes y
 amores.

 La tristeza, la soledad, la desolacion contribuyeron a que
 existieran mis paginas perfectas,
 Pero yo habria cambiado tantas de esas paginas
 Por haber besado labios que nunca bese.
 Dije abominar de los espejos, y no se entendio que lo que
 queria era verme reflejado
 En ojos oscuros y claros bajo la gran luna de oro
 O en la penumbra de la alcoba.
 Me han atribuido la indeseable paternidad
 De vocingleras sectas literarias y cenaculos de eruditos,
 Cuando yo queria ser padre de hijas e hijos de carne y
 hueso.

 Nadie extrane donde decidi quedar enterrado
 Si antes no me entendio ni me ayudo a salir de mi celebrada
 carcel.
 Lamente no haber tenido el valor de mis mayores,
 Pero ahora que nadie puede censurarmelo como jactancia
 Proclamo que no fui menos valiente al afrontar una adversidad
 atroz.
 Hubiera preferido muchas veces la bala en el pecho o el intimo
 cuchillo en la garganta
 Antes que el espanto que contemple en mi
 Mientras pude contemplar.

 No se olvide que no soy quien escribe estos versos.
 No los escribe nadie.

From Aqui by Roberto Fernandez Retamar (Collecion Visor, 2000). Authorized translations from the Spanish by David Draper Clark. First publication in English.