But the idea of transformation has always been something that I romanticize in a work. I’m cautious of it but I also need it to connect my thoughts with the process of making. That’s really important.
Nari Ward
And in the mighty mornings of the earth …
—Dylan Thomas
Freer than no one
on the edge
of this undulating sheet of soft cerulean glass
I let my bare feet wander at their will on the grey sand
Waves beat on the jetty with their whip
while the lone sun
covers my back
Seagulls and sparrows
fly at water level
tear it with their beaks
and snatch away from it
fresh fish thrashing about
in agony
Racket of parrots
a radiating uprising in the kingdoms of the sky
on this morning that shows on its face
the bright disposition of a god
and on the clearness of its forehead
the blessing of the breeze
simultaneously ablaze
beneath my forehead
other mornings
mighty mornings of the earth
with their arboreal power
and their marine uproar
Freer than no one
on the morning of my thirtieth year
I dip the tip of my foot in the warm water
of the simmering marsh
in its froth
and the lobster offspring take off
slitting the water
where my nomad feet
had splashed seconds ago
and the sand where
lie stranded
drooping jellyfish
shells of constellated tattoos
algae circling the ankle
sea-snakes
snails
nautical cloisters
hermit crabs
urchins, the sentinels
of the marsh and everything that the sea with its tide
obstinately pulls away from its vast domain
A fistful of winds punishes my back
in the same way that the gods
would goad
he whose luck it was
to witness the miracle
My kingfisher eyes dive in the virgin water
Startled
soft-shell crabs
flee sideways on the ocean’s green carpet
and translucent
octopuses
take shelter in sordid dens
The wind whistles through the coastal palm groves
this morning
in which the sun
so as to wake itself
plunges into the water
All is open space
when dew climbs a ladder of ivy up to the sky
The light opens slits of gold
in the thick lemongrass bushes and the river bank
canvas sails
and feather rigging
spread out as well
All the brilliance of the sky appears duplicated
in the water’s olive mirror
On moss-covered logs
scab-skinned iguanas
bask in the sun
while foxes scratch the brambly ground
and alongside the woods
one returns
to the ocean
through a trodden path
between the palm trees
On the beach
the royal egret
tidies with its beak
the plumage that yet again
the wind
will ruffle
The starfish marooned
in a puddle
and sand-frosted
shimmers in the sun
and so the tiny crabs
shyly peek out
from the holes of their hideouts
and a new litter of turtles rushes forth in search of water
Heralds of the storm
northern birds
cross the sky
But life is a feast
this morning
in which the sun awakes
daydreaming
Twenty years ago
I was a child
and I remember the sun came out from sunrise to sunset
the sun came out every day
And everywhere
at the river’s edge
in the shade of the guayo shrubs
under the thatches of houses
some complained about the sun
Ah the sun
the uttermost sun
is this sun
our daily sun
the dog days sun
the sun giving street dogs rabies
the sun that smudges the skin
and braises the bones the sun
that delivers free vitamin injections
the one rubbing the lamp of lust
the sun lying Maria and her boyfriend
on a mat
at the foot of the sapodilla tree
and they
covered only
by a soft poplin sheet
spend the whole afternoon
completely entwined
Drop by drop
sweat starts trickling down their legs
and a very penetrating scent
begins to cloud them
and so he
who spies on them hidden behind a star apple tree
stays there for a while
in ecstasy and spastic
even if afterward
he’ll go cool down
in front of the electric fan
or lying on his belly
on the cool tiles
he is well aware that nothing
can save him from contagion
day and night
he thinks of nothing but lying
at Maria’s side
so as to inhale her scent
between the blankets of her zeal
Ay the sun
the sun’s sunniness
who could live without this sun? The sun
warming up the ponds of the frogs
and the coconut water
the sun drawing the lizards from their caves
sun exploding
jugs of mead over our heads
and turning distance
into its magnifying glass
Ay the sun
the sun’s scorching heat
the uttermost sun
is this sun
our daily sun
that which we shuffle along with lottery cards
sun feeding its own hearth
with pages of the Más antiguo Galván calendar
and frosty beer labels
The sun crawling into bed
where very close together
and drowsy
me and my younger sister
toss in bed restlessly
all night long
under the mosquito net
Ay the sun
that gets into bed
shrinks like a gnome
leaps
opens the window
and announces
another day of sun
Translated by Mónica de la Torre.
Mónica de la Torre, coeditor of the anthology Reversible Monuments: Contemporary Mexican Poetry (Cooper Canyon, 2002) is currently working on a book project with Colectiva Taquimecanógrafas, a collective of women artists and writers from Mexico City; a poetry manuscript titled Public Domain; and a volume of poetry titled Acúfenos, forthcoming from Taller Ditoria.
—Though José Luis Rivas’s (b. 1950) poetry has received wide acclaim in Mexico, this occasion marks the first time his poetry will be translated into English. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including the Premio Nacional de Poesia Aguascalientes in 1986 for his book La transparencia del deseo, the Premio Xavier Villaurrutia in 1990 for Brazos de mar and his translation of the Collected Poems of T. S. Eliot; and the 1990 CNCA/National Institute of Fine Arts/Instituto Veracruzano de Cultura for his translations in Poetas metafísicos ingleses (El Tucán de Virginia, 1993). He has also translated works by Robert Lowell and Derek Walcott. This poem appears in Raz de Marea: Obra Poética (1975-1992) (Fondo de Cultura Ecónomica, 1993).
Originally published in
Featuring interviews with Plastilina Mosh, Andy Palacio and Christopher Cozier, Pedro Reyes, Francisco Goldman, Pablo Vargas Lugo and Ruben Gallo, Carlos Brillembourg, Julieta Campos, Jose Castillo, Julieta Campos, Daniel Sada, Jose Luis Rivas, and Beto Gomez.
But the idea of transformation has always been something that I romanticize in a work. I’m cautious of it but I also need it to connect my thoughts with the process of making. That’s really important.
Nari Ward