Escribiendo
en el más allá
Imaginaba
la atmósfera estaría despejada,
inyectada
con la luz prístina,
no
con esta bruma sulfurosa,
el
aire ionizado como antes de una tormenta.
Muchos
han imaginado un río aquí,
pero
nadie mencionó todos los barcos,
sus
bancos llenos de pasajeros desnudos,
cada
uno inclinado sobre un bloc de hojas.
Yo
sabía que no siempre sería un niño
con
un tren en miniatura y un túnel,
y
yo sabía que no viviría para siempre,
todo
el día pasando las de Caín.
Había
escuchado sobre el viaje al otro lado
y
el tintineo de la moneda final
en
el monedero de cuero del hombre que sostiene el remo,
pero
¿cómo podría alguien adivinar
que
tan pronto como llegamos
nos
pedirían que describiéramos este lugar
e
incluyéramos tantos detalles como sea posible—
no
solo el agua, él insiste,
más
bien la aceitosa, insondable, dichosa agua tramposa,
no
tan solo los grilletes, sino el oxidado,
hierro,
grilletes trituradores de tobillo—
y
que nuestra próxima tarea sería
tomar
nota, sin pensarlo demasiado,
de
nuestros pensamientos y sentimientos acerca de estar muertos,
no
una tarea en verdad,
el
hombre moviendo el remo sigue diciéndonos—
piénsenlo
más como un ejercicio, se queja,
pensar
en escribir como un proceso,
sin
fin, un proceso infernal,
y
ahora los botes se han amontonado,
pro
contra popa, popa bloqueada con proa,
y
nada se mueve, solo nuestras plumas diligentes.
Billy
Collins, Manhattan, New York, 1941
Versión
© Silvia Camerotto
imagen de Alexander Litovchenko
Writing In The Afterlife
I imagined the
atmosphere would be clear,
shot with pristine light,
not this sulphurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.
Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.
I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day through the hoop of myself.
I had heard about the journey to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed
that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe this place
and to include as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,
rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles, but the rusty,
iron, ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment would be
to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—
think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,
bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.
shot with pristine light,
not this sulphurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.
Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.
I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day through the hoop of myself.
I had heard about the journey to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed
that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe this place
and to include as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,
rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles, but the rusty,
iron, ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment would be
to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—
think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,
bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.
