Water
At the bottom of the well lie the family dead,
a promiscuous play of eel shadows.
Entangled one with another they watch us.
The good died too soon.
They left secrets in the tormented
stillness of things of theirs.
The knife is now a knife,
the scissors are some scissors. Tools
that will no longer slice the mercy
of bread or let down any hem in clothing.
They have turned rebellious;
with their rusty cruelty they ignore us
when we fetch water from this house,
now grown old and about to crumble.
The same door-knob the fingers of the dead
grasped; the same panes of glass
where their images were lost,
in doors throughout the place. Things
full of bitterness forever
escaping from their owners.
At the bottom of the well, this morning,
they’re lustful with the chain’s rattle;
just the galvanized clash of the bucket
brings their spent voices back to life.
We should fear and drink this bitter water,
before it gets any thicker.
Aigua
Al fons de la cisterna hi ha els morts
de la família, un promisciu joc d’ombres
d’anguiles. Ens sotgen, entremesclats.
Els bons van morir massa prest.
Deixaren secrets en la quietud
turmentada dels seus objectes.
Ara el ganivet és un ganivet;
les tisores, unes tisories. Estris
que no han de llescar més la pietat
del pa ni refer cap doblec de roba.
S’han tornat rebels; ens ignoren
amb la seva oxidada crueltat
quan ens enduem aigua d’aquesta casa
envellida, a punt d’esfondrar-se.
El mateix pom de la porta que els dits
dels morts tocaven, els mateixos vidres
on es van perdre les seves imatges,
un aiguavés darrere l’altre. Sempre
les coses plenes de ressentiment
escapant dels seus proprietaris.
Al fons de la cisterna, avui matí,
lascius amb el renou de la cadena,
només l’esclat galvanitzat
reviu les seves veus gastades.
Hem de témer i beure aquesta aigua aspra,
abans que es faci encara més espessa.
Electrophilia
Our first love,
at thirteen, was called Silver
de Luxe. I heard of it through
some mates from tedious classrooms
who had found a remedy
for restless legs, while studying
at home at that dead hour.
It wasn’t in the least complicated,
you just had to let your sex
bask like a lizard
on top of the metal lid
of that gleaming machine.
A minute’s worth of heat
and we were pulsing in a flash
against winter. The buzz,
in the bedroom, like an electric
fever.
Poor heater,
soiled by the trickery
of our bodies. It ended up,
as we ourselves soon will,
fouled, abused, worn out,
alone with the rubbish.
Electrofília
El nostre primer amor,
als tretze anys, es deia Silver
de Luxe. M’en varen parlar
uns companys de tristes aules
que havien posat remei
al tic de moure les cames
a l’hora morta d’estudi.
No era gaire complicat,
tansols reposar el sexe
com si fos un llangardeix
damunt la tapa metàl·lica
d’aquell aparell amb rodes.
Un minut de calentor
i vibràvem en un flaix
contra l’hivern. La remor,
dins la cambra, d’una febre
elèctrica.
Pobra estufa,
embrutida amb les intrigues
dels cossos. Va acabar,
com ben aviat nosaltres,
lletja, ultratjada, cruixida,
tota sola amb les deixalles.
Dead Stars
I’m just thinking now, with my hands gone quiet,
of the shrewd miracle of your bodies,
about the animal passion you invested in it
to attain the little death
– soon smothered –
of the slack and liquid instant
now disintegrating in paper tissues,
on the table of empty hours.
It’s so bizarre,
knowing we no longer breathe
the same air, that some evenings
it’s ridiculous to picture
your everyday lives,
whether shopping at the supermarket
or maybe travelling in a limousine
on your way to some never-ending party.
Dear dead porn stars,
you are now even more alone than before.
Because not one of us wants an elegy
like this one for any of our daughters.
Difuntes Estrelles
ara només pens, amb les mans quietes,
en l’astut miracle dels vostres cossos,
en la passió animal que hi posàveu
per arribar a la petita mort
ofegada
de l’instant esbravat i líquid,
que es desfeia en el paper higiènic,
damunt la taula de les hores buides.
Quina estranyesa,
saber que ja no respiram
el mateix aire, que alguns vespres
és ridícul imaginar
les vostres vides quotidianes,
tant si fèieu la compra al súper
com si anàveu en limusina
cap a qualque festa infinita.
Difuntes estrelles,
estau encara més soles que abans,
perquè ningú volem una elegia
com aquesta per a les nostres filles.
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Francesc Compagne is the author of a poetry trilogy written in Catalan called Eulogy to Bitterness (“Roadkill”, “Gabriel Gris & Other Funeral Poems”, and “Dead Flesh”). He translated Patrick Phillips’ Elegy for a Broken Machine into Spanish and Catalan. He performs his poems with rock bands.
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Anna Crowe was born in Plymouth, U.K, in 1945, spent part of her childhood in France and has lived most of her adult life in Scotland. She was a runner-up in the National Poetry Competition in 1986 and winner of the Peterloo Poetry Competition in 1993 and 1997. Her collections have been published by Peterloo and Arc, and pamphlets published by Mariscat. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and been translated into Catalan, Spanish, Italian and German. In 1998 Anna was involved in establishing the StAnza poetry festival in St Andrews, Scotland, and has been the artistic director for seven years. For fifteen years she ran a poetry workshop in St Andrews. A trained linguist, Anna translates Catalan and Castilian, but also from French, Portuguese and Italian. Her translations have been read at festivals and published in Britain and Catalonia.
✶
nat raum is a disabled artist, writer, and genderless disaster from Baltimore. They’re a current MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore and also hold a BFA in photography and book arts. nat is also the editor in chief of fifth wheel press and managing editor of Welter Journal. They are the author of preparatory school for the end of the world, you stupid slut, and specter dust, among others. Past publishers of their writing include Delicate Friend, perhappened, Corporeal Lit, and trampset.
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