Translator’s Note
These poems are selected from Esther Ramón’s book Morada (Dwelling), published by Calambur (Barcelona) in 2015. In Dwelling, Ramón organizes the poems in three sections, and does not title the individual poems. I have used the first lines of the poems to function as titles for convenience. The section titles in the book are Excavation, Speed, and Water Stone. The poems included here are from the first section, Excavation.
BENEATH THE TILES
the spiders nest,
the sandy beds of the partridges
are still warm,
their parasites still scurrying,
the root of the hawthorn
that recovers its voice
in the murmur
of invading bees,
and no one else listens.
We can’t forget
the subfloor
we can’t explore
its domes of earth
riding on ants
at a gallop
sucked in by the landing,
accelerated suddenly,
speed in the hind quarters
of the dark.
In its windows,
in its submerged
lagoons,
looking at eyes
without opening them,
in the sudden swerve
in the whistle of flute,
of snake,
someone walks
and eyelids cover us,
someone spreads
sheets,
folds them again,
and in the drawers
only mouths
that open,
that shift the weight
of empty trays,
right here, under
these tiles
so then— how do we walk
around the house,
with what slowness,
with what boots
(with nails
that pierce
both the earth and the foot
that hits it)
how do we recognize
the thin track of seeds,
and not step on it,
how can we reach the end of the hall
a row of closets stacked with linens, so white,
without staining them,
how can one clutch
the knife and not tear
the veils and curtains,
how could you see
that hare ambushed
and fire with such
precision
we forget,
it’s cold,
we leave the windows
open, the walls
open
perhaps the memory
of the marble table,
the doves strung up
no, it was the vapor,
its hare’s breath
sending signals
palpitating
how can we walk
without damaging
the foundations
how to skin it,
how to bury it.
THEIR WOOL HEADS
disperse the stones
of the refuge.
Growing holes,
lengthening in the tunnel
a white moss
takes over a blossom,
takes the weight of snow
upon that
blossom,
its color of dirty sheep
pushing stones,
without reading the signs,
the date falling off,
the sickly green
of the creek,
the blue separated
from the water
in the erroneous
execution of the drawing.
Solitary sheep
like wolves,
hungry,
like wolves,
trying to drive them away
they get lost,
there is no shelter,
there is no flock,
one for every
stone.
TO FIND IT,
follow the signs,
you make them out of firewood,
the limestone ropes,
the cuts on the
trunks,
the tarnished loins,
the steaming dung,
the verses, the rocks
spread out,
tune it,
without the chorus of voices
you must imagine it opened,
imagine the partitions
without edges,
the still-straight angle
of the living
upon the flexible floor
of the dead, feel
the needle plunging
in the flesh,
like water,
then be that
needle
and the fragments
it reunites
in order to go in,
wearing only one shape,
one piece,
in the advancing
or passing of thread,
say yes,
be one of the heads
that nods shaved,
and an aroma that spreads
through the hair
through the buckets of rice
through the musical carpet
through the flasks,
inside the bedroom
and nothing burns
proceed to the corral
of desire that fulfills
and desire it,
bodyless since it trembles,
desire it.
THE PULSE STARTS UP AGAIN
and no one understands it,
the edges stretch
again
the shape that delays
in presence,
the slowed purpose
of the species,
not understanding
this vertical fasting,
inverted legs,
head down, arms
behind the back
the sections of wire
with such brief balance,
with the mouth open,
slack
don’t light the candles
yet,
difficult to breathe in this
swollen body,
the pavement is strewn
with flour and berries
so round,
some gather them
and take photos,
they can only leave,
where no one enters
they domesticate
their landslides,
twisting beyond reality,
the red marks
on the face,
on the lips,
they chewed on an insect
and in doing so
they are covered with
a blanket of moss,
a grainy skin,
someone demands
they cut the sail,
it tumbles,
growing cold over
another shape,
in the absence,
as it falls.
About the Translator
Emma Ferguson is a poet and translator, and teaches Spanish in Seattle, Washington. Her poems appear in the River Heron Review and The Bookends Review. She has translations forthcoming from Los Angeles Review.
About the Author
Esther Ramón is the author of nine volumes of poetry and is a professor of comparative literature and literary criticism at Universidad Carlos III in Madrid. She has been coordinating editor of Minerva literary magazine and has directed audio poetry programming at Radio Círculo, among other projects.
