Cofre Translates José María Lima

I had decided a long time ago, maybe a few months ago, to put back up all the JML translations that I had put up done by Alfredo "Cofre" Perezjurado and myself. Sorry it took so long for that decision to go in effect. I just got a laptop. I saw a major translator, Richard Zenith, who's been translating Pessoa. I asked about a hypothetical situation which was based off my current JML situation regarding publishing rights. He said I was doing the writer a favor. Another person had told me this. This person runs a blog. I found some Salvador Villanueva poems there. I've een working on those myself lately. I like him a lot, Villanueva. Check out Neftali's blog here.

So here are all the translations I have of José María Lima I have done by Cofre. I have also included a translations of JML prose, but this on does not include a type-up of the original Spanish version. I will work on that soon. Thanks for reading!

- Gustavo Rivera 11/26/10


"If I resolve to forget your cheekbones"

If I resolve, I think, at any moment now to forget your cheekbones, how many forgotten things would stumble with each other, and how many –I don’t even dare to imagine- mistakes will resort to inadvertently congest my organism!

If I attempt at that moment to maintain my even temper and the habit of always keeping myself a little to the borders of my sounds and fog, which is this opaque and worn out platform of mine, maybe there would be a celebration of unnecessary things that I could observe from a distance, with my quiet side, unruffled, but I confess, my indifference wouldn’t be complete. I’d carry another pain, although small and insignificant that might be desired. But there are also other matters. It happens that different stumbles, scabs, deranged constellations of disarray and joys, and even necessities will dispute a certain portion of my bones and devour them like hungry dogs all the way to the medulla.

I recognize that it is necessary to distribute myself and avoid fainting even if exhaustion bites ferociously, even if it hurts to find oneself lost within the totality of circumstances, to which, some say, everything is in debt or almost everything.

Although it would be necessary to remember with the least possible effort your cheekbones, to give purpose to this maze, a caravan of losses big and small, a procession of lies would suddenly accumulate in my widest veins. This would happen, and I doubt it reasonable. Maybe I could recover, put in order, and clean forgotten signs and, place together stairs with stairways, take naps, sleep and rouse specific coals in need of burning; I could knot one day with another in a proper manner, like certain books at certain hours advice in certain libraries or waiting rooms, presided by specific orangutans – may I say yes, developed to their fullest expression, which would mean they’d have their claws within, and their pockets exposed.

But your cheekbones oscillate – that isn’t the right word but it landed on my paper- and it’s also true; Maybe I will tell you afterwards that I have your cheekbones inside my cells or hanging form the corneas – Also I’ve noticed that they treasure pieces of forgotten comets, maybe it’s my imagination, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not my fault that the moon is the one eye of a stray giant, like it wouldn’t be my fault that if it wasn’t. This I have noticed though, that some days the numbers in calendars are smaller and even change colors. That depending on the situation, there could be more or less traffic on main streets, and albeit your cheekbones are indifferent, it seems, to the conditions of weather and to certain fears that dwell within the most potent telescopes or in certain ideas that transit ear to ear and leave behind traces of tickles on the cartilages and nothing left inside.

There are still those who swear to bear light within them to such an extent that pains in the gut rise to their skin… They can’t even illuminate the narrowest of paths, but it worries me not, because there are also crossroads within your cheekbones and I could invent riddles, or play head and tails or ask myself questions with no answers. And bite my nails, the keychain…

That’s why forgetting your cheekbones would be as easy as it would be absurd, because: How am I going to glare at the moon? And, to what projects would I commission my lips and vocal chords? Without mentioning my pinky, which in more than one occasion attended the pillows and light fest.

- Translated by Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado



"I turn my face and the designated star trembles"

I turn my face and the designated star trembles
in a random place, at the border of forgetfulness
that branch that for centuries treasured rumors
and even winged fishes ever since humidity and the word walked together,
detaches, falls, and closes the path.

This detachment lingered in my dreams
and will continue to roll from now on through the dark alleys that inhabit me.

Before each awakening I’ll become
heat and leaf, fish and cloud.
Once the trails have been multiplied, I’ll be mist again;
I’ll be an immaculate wall,
a virgin cave, and unnamed sting,
a promise of pleasures,
a pain so eager to jump in variant directions
that it will bring about blushing sails.
The wind-rose will burst when there is no more horizons
and each path will become a loving,
fragile proportionate
mosaic, net, abyss, labyrinth;
the bells are always ready to say “now,” or “dream, my brother,”
or “curse!” that there will be diapasons
and death doesn’t exist for it is too long.

- Translated by Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado


Vuelvo el rostro y tiembla la estrella designada.
En un lugar cualquiera al borde del olvido
se desprende, cae, cierra el paso además
aquella rama que por siglos atesoró rumores y hasta peces alados cuando aún humedad y palabra andaban juntas.
Anduvo por los sueños este desprendimiento
y seguirá rodando de ahora en adelante
por los senderos oscuros que me habitan.
Antes de cada despertar seré calor y hoja,
pez y nube.
Multiplicados los caminos, seré de nuevo
niebla,
pared inmaculada,
caverna virgen,
innombrado escozor,
promesa de placeres,
dolor dispuesto al salto en tantas direcciones
que asomara el rubor a las veletas.
Estallará la rosa de los vientos cuando ya no haya horizonte
y cada senda sea en frágil armoniosa proporción
mosaico, res, abismo y laberinto;
las campanas siempre dispuestas a decir
“ahora” o “sueña hermano,” o “maldice”
que diapasones hay y no existe la muerte
porque es larga.

- José María Lima


"The Roaring Butterfly"

I know important things are dangling from books,
and acute truths are galloping on papers,
but the butterfly roaring amidst the trails
is wider—and a kiss can do more
than any dictionary.
Sometimes, a rock smiles more
than all the coffee shop ads.
If the rivers bloom,
and the cloud hardens,
it’s not because those who tie up realities
with precise symbols
to form charts say so.
Underneath, there will always remain a trembling leaf,
and a pregnant silence running through the tunnels;
underneath, the tender, shrunken children of the night
are always lifting mountains,
commencing footprints that will eventually land on paper.

- Translated by Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado


Yo sé que hay importancias colgando de los libros
y verdades agudas cabalgando en papeles,
pero la mariposa rugiendo en las veredas
es más ancha—y un beso puede más
que cualquier diccionario.
Una piedra tiene más sonrisas a veces,
que todos los anuncios en las cafeterías.
Si los ríos florecen
y si estalla la nube y deja de ser blanda
no es porque lo dijeran los que atan realidades
poco a poco con símbolos precisos
para formar escalas.
Abajo queda siempre el temblor de la hoja
y el silencio preñado corriendo por los túneles;
abajo quedan siempre levantando montañas
los hijos de la noche, diminutos y tiernos,
comenzando la huella que termina en papel.

- José María Lima


"Today I dreamt a fish"

Today I dreamt of a fish
and was lucky its back cursed the mirror;
it was a motionless fish, sustained,
an arrow of scales, a humid, blue, trail
master of his distance,
of the water that shelters and kills him
because it denies him foam, shore, trunk.


It’s been known that:

i) The blind speak from another place.
ii) In every bankbook there is a pheasant.
iii) On top of every clock there’s an angel, but it doesn’t matter because the short hand moves more slowly.
iv) In the End, when the trumpet plays, the teacher will open his money-box and there will be surprises for everyone.
v) Pandora’s Box was never closed. The myth of Pandora was created by a Greek pharmacist acquainted with Homer.
vi) Bees know the neighboring flower.
vii) Canaries resuscitate.
viii) The wind doesn’t rest.
ix) Each question mark is an abstract thorn.
x) Ants gather at art galleries to discuss homework.

- Translated by Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado


Hoy soñe con un pez
y tuve suerte,
la espalda maldecía el espejo;
érase un pez inmóvil, sostenido,
flecha de escamas,
húmedo rumbo azul
señor de su distancia,
del agua que lo alberga
y lo asesina
porque le niega espuma, orilla, tronco.


Se ha sabido que:

i) Los ciegos hablan desde otro lugar.
ii) En cada libreta de banco hay un faisán.
iii) Sobre cada reloj hay un ángel, pero no importa porque la manecilla pequeña se mueve más despacio.
iv) Cuando la trompeta suene para el fin el maestro abrirá su alcancía y habrá sorpresas para todos.
v) La caja de Pandora nunca estuvo cerrada. El mito de Pandora lo inventó un farmacéutico griego conocido de Homero.
vi) Las abejas conocen su próxima flor.
vii) Los canarios resucitan.
viii) El viento no descansa.
ix) Cada signo de interrogación es una espina abstracta.
x) Las hormigas se reúnen en las galerías para discutir la tarea.

- José María Lima