Ahora
a busca pajaros!
Las altas ramas ferreas
en el bosque,
la espesa
fecundiadad del suelo
esta mojado
el mundo,
brilla
lluvia o rocio, un astro
diminuto
em las hojas:
fresca
es la matutina
tierra madre,
el aire
es como un rio
que sacude
el silencio,
huele a romero,
a espacio
y a raices.
Arriba
un canto loco,
una cascada,
es un pajaro.
Como
de su garganta
mas pequena que un dedo
puedem caer las aguas
de su canto?
Facultad luminosa!
poderio
invisible,
torrente
de la musica
en las hojas,
conversacion sagrada!
Limpio, lavado, fresco
en este dia,
sonoro
como citara verde,
yo entierro
las zapatos
en el lodo,
salto los manantiales,
una espina
me muerde y una rafaga
de aire como una ola
cristalina
se divide en mi pecho.
Donde
estan los pajaros?
Fue tal vez
ese
sussurro em el follage
o esa huidiza bola
de pardo terciopelo,
o ese desplazmiento
de perfume? Esa hoja
que desprendio el canelo
fue un pajaro? Ese polvo
de magnolia irritada
o esa fruta
que cayo resonando,
eso fue un vuelo?
Oh pequenas cretinos
invisibles,
pajaros del demonio,
vayanse
al diable
con su sonajera,
con su plumas inutiles?
Yo que solo queria
acariciarlos,
verlos resplandeciendo,
no quiero
en la vitrina
ver los relampagos embalsamados,
quiero verlos vivientes,
quiero tocar sus guantes,
de legitmo cuero,
que mumca olvidan en las ramas,
y conversar con ellos
aunque me dejem como a ciertas estatuas
inmerecidamente blanqueado.
Impossible.
Mo se tocan,
se oyen
como un celeste
sussurro o movimiento,
conversan
con precision,
repiten
sus observaciones,
se jactan
de cuanto hacen,
comentan
cuamto existe,
dominan
ciertas ciecias
comola hidrografia,
y a ciecia cierta sabe
donde estan cosechando
cereals.
Ahora bien,
pajaros
invisibles
de la selva, del bosque,
de la enramada pura,
pajaros de la acacia
y de la emcima,
pajaros
locos, enamorados,
sorpresivos,
catantes
vanidosos,
musicos migratorios,
uma palabra
ultima
de volver,
con zapatos, mojados, espinas
y hojas secas
a mi casa:
vagabundos,
os amo
libres,
lejos de la escopeta y de la jaula,
corolas
fugitivas,
asi
os amo,
inasibles,
solidaria y Sonora
sociedad de la altura,
hojas
en libertad,
campeones
del aire,
libres,
alegres
voladores y cantores,
aereos y terrestres,
navegantes del viento,
felices
constructores
de suavisimos nidos,
incesantes
inensajeros del polen,
casamenteros
de la flor, tios
de la semilla,
os amo,
ingratos:
vuelvo
feliz de haber vivido con vosotros
un minito
en el viento.
ODE TO BIRDWATCHING
Now
to look for birds!
The high iron branches
In the woods,
the thick fertility
of the soil,
it’s wet
from the world,
rain or spray,
a diminutive star
shines
on the leaves;
fresh
is the morning,
mother earth,
the air
like a river
shakes
the silence,
smells like rosemary,
to space
and to roots.
Above
a wild song,
a waterfall,
it’s a bird.
What
may fall
from its throat
no smaller than a finger
are the waters of its song.
Luminous faculty!
Invisible
power,
torrent:
of the music
in the leaves,
sacred conversation!
Clean, fresh, washed
on this day,
sonorous
as a green zither,
I sink
my shoes
in the mud,
leaping the springs,
a thorn
scratches me and a gust
of air
like a crystalline wave
breaks against my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe
it was
that whisper in the foliage
or that elusive ball
of brown velvet,
or that scroll
of perfume. That leaf
that exudes cinnamon,
was it a bird? The pollen
dust brushed from the magnolia,
or the fruit that dropped
with a resounding fall,
was that flight?
Oh small cretins,
bedeviled birds,
go
to hell
with your rattle,
and your useless feathers!
I only wanted
to pet them,
to see them glistening,
I don’t want
to observe them in a showcase,
to see their embalmed lightning,
I want to see them alive,
I want to touch their
legitimate leather gloves
that they never forget in the branches,
and converse with them
on my shoulders
even if they leave me
like certain statues
undeservedly bleached.
Impossible.
They’re not to be touched,
only heard
as a light blue whisper
or movement,
they converse
with precision,
they repeat
their observations,
they boast
of just how much they do,
they comment
on existence,
dominate
certain sciences
such as hydrography,
and with scientific certainty
they know for sure
where grain
is harvested.
Now, then,
invisible birds,
birds
of the jungle,
of pure bower,
birds of acacia
and from the oak,
birds
crazy, lovestruck,
vain
singers,
migratory musicians,
one last
word
before returning
with wet shoes, thorns
and dried leaves
back home:
vagabonds,
I love you
free,
away from the shotgun and the cage,
fugitive
corollas,
so I love you,
invisibles,
solitary and sonorous
society of the heights,
leaves
at liberty,
champions
of the air,
petals
of smoke,
free,
joyful
flyers and signers,
air and land
sailors of the wind,
happy
builders of soft nests,
incessant
messengers of pollen,
matchmakers
of the flower, uncles
of the seed,
I love you,
ungrateful:
happy to have lived with you
for just a moment
in the wind.
Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012), Evanescence: Selected Poems, and Taking Residence (2021), with Shanti Arts. Recent poetry and translations have or will appear in Asymptote, Chicago Quarterly Review, Commonweal, The Montreal Review, Poetry London, and Rattle.
