ALCATRACES
Estoy observando a los blancos alcatraces
hundiéndose como llamaradas en el agua
con el poder de lanzas filosas
y una puntería que aturde-
aunque el mar esté irritado e hirviendo
y gris por la niebla
y los peces
no se vean por ningún lado,
ellos caen, explotan contra el agua
como guantes blancos,
luego desaparecen,
y después salen de nuevo
de la cima de la ola,
como blancas flores-
y quieta, pienso
que nada en este mundo se mueve
sino como una fuerza positiva-
incluso los peces, aleteando en la corriente
o colapsando
en la roja cartera del pico,
son interrumpidos en sus propias persecuciones
de lo que sea
que llena sus estómagos-
y digo:
la vida es real,
y el dolor es real,
pero la muerte es una impostora
y si yo pudiera ser lo que una vez fui,
como el lobo o el oso
parados en la fría orilla,
todavía lo podría ver-
cómo los peces escapan simplemente esta vez
o cómo se hunden en un fuego negro
por un momento,
y salen del agua, inseparables
de las alas de los alcatraces.
Versión de Tom Maver
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Gannets
I am watching the white gannets
blaze down into the water
with the power of blunt spears
and a stunning accuracy–
even though the sea is riled and boiling
and gray with fog
and the fish
are nowhere to be seen,
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
then they climb out again,
from the cliff of the wave,
like white flowers–
and still I think
that nothing in this world moves
but as a positive power–
even the fish, finning down into the current
or collapsing
in the red purse of the beak,
are only interrupted from their own pursuit
of whatever it is
that fills their bellies–
and I say:
life is real,
and pain is real,
but death is an imposter,
and if I could be what once I was,
like the wolf or the bear
standing on the cold shore,
I would still see it–
how the fish simply escape, this time,
or how they slide down into a black fire
for a moment,
then rise from the water inseparable
from the gannets’ wings.
blaze down into the water
with the power of blunt spears
and a stunning accuracy–
even though the sea is riled and boiling
and gray with fog
and the fish
are nowhere to be seen,
they fall, they explode into the water
like white gloves,
then they vanish,
then they climb out again,
from the cliff of the wave,
like white flowers–
and still I think
that nothing in this world moves
but as a positive power–
even the fish, finning down into the current
or collapsing
in the red purse of the beak,
are only interrupted from their own pursuit
of whatever it is
that fills their bellies–
and I say:
life is real,
and pain is real,
but death is an imposter,
and if I could be what once I was,
like the wolf or the bear
standing on the cold shore,
I would still see it–
how the fish simply escape, this time,
or how they slide down into a black fire
for a moment,
then rise from the water inseparable
from the gannets’ wings.
from New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press, New York, 1992.
