Isles of Firm Ground

Ignacio Ruiz-Pérez, Mike Soto

• Publisher: Phoneme Media
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN: 9781646051304
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

In wondrous, singing translation by Mike Soto, these spare, striking poems by Ignacio Ruiz-Pérez explore the infinite solitude of the universe.

The poems of Ignacio Ruiz-Pérez reflect a world precariously dependent on the word, but also transfixed by the word. They express a metaphysical shift where the laws of heaven and earth are suspended, transformed into a terrain of the journey inward, reflecting a cosmos of the self. The simplicity of these poems never fail to resonate, reflecting a profound investigation of the world on an elemental level. Ruiz-Pérez's poetry very often reads like the discovery of a formula, an algebra of poetic inquiry that draws together references to Edgar Allen Poe, William Blake, and Alejandra Pizarnik. Deftly translated by poet Mike Soto, these poems express a singular vision of the abundance of the world as well as the void, but in these poems even the void is begged to speak.

Para Daniela, Balam, Miranda e Ilya

For Daniela, Balam, Miranda, and Ilya

Litoral

COAST

Apostillas a un poema de William Blake

Tigre, tigre, tu perfil es un horizonte solitario

y tu piel una lenta furia.

El sol parece seguirte como un cuchillo a su presa

pero no, es el aura de un ángel

en tus colmillos de fiero acento.

Basta un rugido y una parvada de tordos

migra en tu cuerpo de rayas verticales.

Tigre, tigre, ¿qué mano osó tornar

de ascua en fuego vivo tus pupilas?

NOTES ON A POEM BY WILLIAM BLAKE

Tiger, Tiger, your profile is a lone horizon

and your flesh a slow fury.

The sun seems to follow you like a knife to its prey

but no, it’s the aura of an angel

in the fierce accents of your fangs.

It takes but one roar and a flock of thrushes

migrate into the vertical stripes of your body

Tiger, Tiger, what hand dared turn

the embers of your pupils into a living fire?

Litoral

Hasta las olas del mar anticipan el viento

que habrá de ondularlas.

El ojo da forma a la orilla y la imagen

revienta el cuerpo en la espesura del iris.

Al fondo, las barcas tiemblan.

Luego, la palabra se sacude como un pez en la red

bajo la vista cansada del pescador

que contempla las evoluciones, los aletazos

y los traspiés de las gaviotas ebrias.

COAST

Even the waves of the sea anticipate the wind

that will make them undulate.

The eye defines the edge and the image

bursts its body in the thicket of the iris.

At the bottom, the boats tremble.

Then, the word beats like a fish in a net

under the tired stare of the fisherman

that contemplates the evolutions, the flapping

and the stumbling of the drunken seagulls.

Edgar Allan Poe agoniza en Washington College Hospital

El agua que va y viene

se cuenta como la fijeza del insecto

antes de morir abrasado.

¿Qué he visto en el horizonte?

Sólo gaviotas,

nubes como islas,

veleros que se bambolean

al pie de los muelles.

(Si digo estas palabras

es para ver el regreso de los barcos

a la sombra de un árbol.)

Vuelvo la vista cansada

y el día llega a su fin.

EDGAR ALLAN POE DYING AT WASHINGTON COLLEGE HOSPITAL

The water that comes and goes

is counted like the fixity of an insect

before it dies consumed in flames.

What have I seen on the horizon?

Only seagulls,

clouds like islands,

sailboats swaying

at the feet of the docks.

(If I say these words

it’s to see the boats returning

to the shade of a tree.)

I look back tired

and the day comes to an end.

Canción del ciervo herido

Un ciervo herido: cuántas veces no he soñado

esa imagen ardiendo. Y siempre que la vi

me dispuse a registrar su cuerpo lacerado,

su cornamenta trazando un tibio resplandor de ramas.

Pero el ciervo huía del fuego

y mis labios sólo pronunciaban la mirra de su paso.

Si vislumbraba sus huellas en la hojarasca,

era su imagen lo que perseguía

y de pronto yo mismo tropezaba con las llamas

intuyendo el zarpazo de un tigre que no era yo

sino mi sombra ardiendo en el bosque.

SONG OF THE WOUNDED DEER

A wounded deer: how many times have I not dreamed

that burning image. And whenever I saw it

I resolved to take stock of its lacerated body,

its antlers tracing a warm spec...

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