Chez Jane
La jarra blanca de chocolate llena de pétalos
traga trastos alrededor en un ojo mareante
de cuatros en punto de ahora y por venir. El tigre,
maravillosamente rayado e irritable, salta
sobre la mesa y sin perturbar un pelo
de la atención sin aliento de las flores, mea
en la maceta, justo por su delicado surtidor
Un susurro de vapor sube de la uretra
de porcelana. “Saint-Säens!” parece susurrar,
rizándose infaliblemente alrededor de las pelotas peludas
del terrible minino, que está sacando músculo mentalmente.
Ah! Estate conmigo siempre, espíritu de ruidosa
contemplación en el estudio, el Jardín
de los Zoos, las tardes eternamente fijadas!
Allí, mientras la música araña su escrofuloso
estómago, la ruda bestia emerge y se yergue
clara y cuidadosa, conociendo siempre el peligro exacto
en este momento acariciando sus colmillos con
una lengua dada enteramente a usos lujuriosos;
que solo hace un momento dejó caer aspirina
en este atardecer de rosas, y ahora tira una silla
en el aire, para agravar lo realmente amenazante.
A un paso de distancia de ellos
Es mi hora del almuerzo, así que me voy
a dar un paseo, entre los taxis
coloreados de bullicio. Primero, por la acera
donde los trabajadores alimentan sus sucios y
brillantes torsos con sándwiches
y Coca-Cola, con los cascos amarillos
puestos. Les protegen de los ladrillos que caen,
supongo. Luego hacia la
avenida donde las faldas dan vueltas
sobre tacones y se inflan sobre
rejillas. El sol calienta, pero
los taxis agitan el aire. Miro
las ofertas en relojes de pulsera. Hay
gatos jugando en el serrín.
Hacia Times Square , donde la señal
desparrama humo sobre mi cabeza, y más arriba
la cascada cae suavemente. Un
negro está de pie en la puerta con un
palillo, agitándose lánguidamente.
Una corista rubia taconea: él se sonríe
y se frota la barbilla. Todo
de repente da un bocinazo: son las 12:40 de un jueves.
El neón de día es
un gran placer, como Edwin Denby escribiría,
como lo son las bombillas de día.
Me paro a por una hamburguesa con queso en JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, mujer de Federico Fellini, è bell’attrice.
Y chocolate malteado. Una mujer
en zorros en un día así mete su caniche
en un taxi.
Hay varios puertorriqueños
en la avenida hoy, lo que
la hace bella y cálida. Primero
murió Bunny después John Latouche,
después Jackson Pollock. Pero, está
la tierra tan llena como la vida estaba llena, de ellos?
Y uno ha comido y uno camina,
pasando las tiendas con desnudos
y los posters de TOREO y
el Manhattan Storage Warehouse
que pronto demolerán. Antes
pensaba que tenían el Armory
Show allí.
Un vaso de zumo de papaya
y vuelta al trabajo. Mi corazón está
en mi bolsillo, es “Poemas” por Pierre Reverdy.
Otros poemas de FRANK O'HARA aquí
Traducción: Isabel Berzal Ayuso
Fuente: Ibioculus
Imagen: Poetry Foundation
Chez Jane
The white chocolate jar full of petals
swills odds and ends around in a dizzying eye
of four o’clocks now and to come. The tiger,
marvellously striped and irritable, leaps
on the table and without disturbing a hair
of the flowers’ breathless attention, pisses
into the pot, right down its delicate spout.
A whisper of steam goes up from that porcelain
urethra. “Saint-Saëns!” it seems to be whispering,
curling unerringly around the furry nuts
of the terrible puss, who is mentally flexing.
Ah be with me always, spirit of noisy
contemplation in the studio, the Garden
of Zoos, the eternally fixed afternoons!
There, while music scratches its scrofulous
stomach, the brute beast emerges and stands,
clear and careful, knowing always the exact peril
at this moment caressing his fangs with
a tongue given wholly to luxurious usages;
which only a moment before dropped aspirin
in this sunset of roses, and now throws a chair
in the air to aggravate the truly menacing.
A Step Away from them
It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating.
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of
Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,
which they’ll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating.
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of
Federico Fellini, è bell’ attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,
which they’ll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy
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