Around the corner, Lushness ends and the stones begin. There is nothing, you have nothing to give to the desert: neither a drop of water nor a drop of blood. You move with bandaged eyes through corridors, plazas, alleyways where three despicable stars conspire. The river speaks in a low voice. To your left and right, in front of you and behind, whispers and cruel laughter. The monologue traps you at every step with its exclamations, its question marks, its noble sentiments, its dots over the i’s in the middle of a kiss, its mill of laments, and its repertory of broken mirrors. Go on: you have nothing to say to yourself.
Plain
The anthill erupts. The open wound gushes, foams, expands, contracts. The sun at these times never stops pumping blood, temples swollen, face red. A boy—unaware that, in some corner of puberty, fevers and a problem of conscience await him—carefully places a small stone on the flayed mouth of the anthill. The sun buries its lances in the humps of the plain, humbling promontories of garbage. Splendor unsheathed, the reflections from an empty can—high on a pyramid of scraps—pierce every point of space. Treasure-hunting children and stray dogs poke in the yellow radiance of the rot. A thousand feet away, the church of San Lorenzo calls the twelve o’clock Mass. Inside, on the altar to the right, there is a saint painted blue and pink. From his left eye stream gray-winged insects that fly in a straight line to the dome and fall, turned to dust, a silent landslide of armor touched by the sun’s hand. Whistles blow in the towers of the factories. Decapitated pricks. A bird, dressed in black, flies in circles and rests on the only living tree on the plain. And then . . . There is no then. I move forward, I pierce great rocks of years, great masses of compacted light, I go down into galleries of mines of sand, I travel corridors that close on themselves like granite lips. And I return to the plain, to the plain where it is always noon, where an identical sun shines relentlessly on an unmoving landscape. And the ringing of the twelve bells never stops, nor the buzzing of the flies, nor the explosion of this minute that never passes, that only burns and never passes.
Obsidian Butterfly
They killed my brothers, my children, my uncles. On the banks of Lake Texcoco I began to weep. Whirlwinds of saltpeter rose from Peñon hill, gently picked me up, and left me in the courtyard of the Cathedral. I made myself so small and gray that many mistook me for a pile of dust. Yes, I, mother of flint and star, I, bearer of the ray, am now but a blue feather that a bird loses in the brambles. Once, I would dance, my breasts high and turning, turning, turning until I became still, and then I would sprout leaves, flowers, fruit. The eagle throbbed in my belly. I was the mountain that creates you as it dreams, the house of fire, the primordial pot where man is cooked and becomes man. In the night of the decapitated words my sisters and I, hand in hand, leapt and sang around the I, the only standing tower in the razed alphabet. I still remember my songs:
Light, headless light
Golden-throated light
Sings in the thicket green
They told us: the straight path never leads to winter. And now my hands tremble, the words are caught in my throat. Give me a chair and a little sun.
In other times, every hour was born from the vapor of my breath, danced awhile on the point of my dagger, and disappeared through the shining door of my hand mirror. I was the tattooed noon and naked midnight, the little jade insect that sings in the grass at dawn, and the clay nightingale that summons the dead. I bathed in the sun’s waterfall, I bathed in myself, soaked in my own splendor. I was the flint that scrapes the storm clouds of night and opens the doors of the showers. I planted gardens of fire, gardens of blood, in the Southern sky. Its coral branches still graze the foreheads of lovers. There, love is the meeting of two meteors in the middle of space, and not this obstinacy of rocks rubbing each other to ignite a sparking kiss.
Each night is an eyelid the thorns never stop piercing. And the day never ends, never stops counting itself, broken into copper coins. I am tired of so many stone beads scattered in the dust. I am tired of this unfinished solitaire. Lucky the mother scorpion who devours her young. Lucky the spider. Lucky the snake that sheds its skin. Lucky the water that drinks itself. When will these images stop devouring me? When will I stop failing in those empty eyes?
I am alone and fallen, a kernel of corn pulled from the ear of time. Sow me among the battle dead. I will be born in the captain’s eye. Rain down on me, give me sun. My body, plowed by your body, will turn into a field where one is sown and a hundred reaped. Wait for me on the other side of the year: you will meet me like a lightning flash stretched out on the bank of autumn. Touch my grass breasts. Kiss my belly, sacrificial stone. In my navel the whirlwind grows calm: I am the fixed center that moves the dance. Burn, fall into me: I am the pit of living lime that cures the bones of their afflictions. Die in my lips. Rise from my eyes. Images gush from my body: drink in these waters and remember what you forgot at birth. I am the wound that does not heal, the small solar stone: if you strike me, the world will go up in flames.
Take my necklace of tears. I wait for you on this side of time where light has inaugurated a joyous reign: the covenant of the enemy twins, water, that escapes between our fingers, and ice, petrified like a king in his pride. There you will split my body in two and read the inscription of your fate.
The Fig Tree
In Mixcoac, village of burnt lips, only the fig tree marked the year’s changes. The fig tree, six months dressed in sonorous green, the other six a charred ruin of the summer sun.
Enclosed by four walls (to the north: the crystal of ignorance, a landscape to invent; to the south: quartered memory; to the east: the mirror; to the west: the stone masonry of silence) I wrote answerless messages, barely signed before they were destroyed. Ferocious adolescence: the man who wants to be still does not fit in that elongated body, and strangles the child we are. (Still, after all the years, he who I will be and who I will never be pillages the he who I was, destroys my being, depopulates it, squanders riches, trades with Death.) But in those days the fig tree reached to my cell and insistently tapped on my windowpane, calling me. I would go out and penetrate its center: lethargy visited by birds, elytra vibrations, entrails of fruit dripping plenty.
On calm days the fig tree was a petrified caravel of jade, imperceptibly balancing itself, tied to the black wall, splashed with green from the tide of spring. But when the March wind blew, a path would open between the light and the clouds, swelling the green sails. I would climb to the top, my head sticking out from the big leaves, pecked by birds, crowned with divination.
To read my fate in the lines of a fig leaf palm! I see combat and a great solitary battle with a bodiless being. I see an afternoon of bulls, a goring, and an ovation. I see a choir of friends, the fall of the tyrant, and the collapse of the horizon. I see exile and the desert, thirst and the lightning ray that splits the rock in two: I see the spout of water. I see the wound and the lips, a body and a vision. I see a flotilla sailing up a turquoise river, flags, and a free people on the bank. I see giant eyes beneath whose light you must lie down like a tired tree. I see the ax and the plow, the grain and the song, I see great clouds, quarries for the eye, and a world to make.
Today the fig tree knocks on my door, inviting me. Should I grab my ax, or go out dancing with that fool?
Huastec Lady
She walks along the riverbank, naked, healthy, newly bathed, newly born from the night. On her breast burn jewels wrenched from summer. Covering her sex, the withered grass, the blue, almost black grass that grows on the rim of the volcano. On her belly an eagle spreads its wings, two enemy flags entwine, and water rests. She comes from afar, from the humid country. Few have seen her. I will tell her secret: by day, she is a stone on the side of the road; by night, a river that flows to the side of man.
Toward the Poem
(Starting-points)
I
Words, the profits of a quarter-hour wrenched from the charred tree of lang
uage, between the good mornings and the good nights, doors that enter and exit and enter on a corridor that goes from noplace to nowhere.
We turn and turn in the animal belly, in the mineral belly, in the belly of time. To find the way out: the poem.
Stubbornness of that face where my glances are broken. Armed mind, unconquered before a countryside in ruins, after the secret assault. The melancholy of the volcano.
The benevolent papier-mâché pout of the Chief; the Leader, fetish of the century: the I, you, he, spinners of spider webs, pronouns armed with fingernails; faceless, abstract gods. He and we, We and He, nobody and no one. God the Father avenges himself in all these idols.
The moment freezes, compact whiteness that blinds and does not answer and dissolves, iceberg pushed by circular currents. It must return.
To rip off the masks of fantasy, to drive a spike into the sensitive center: to provoke the eruption.
To cut the umbilical cord, to kill the Mother: the crime that the modern poet has committed for all, in the name of all. The young poet must discover Woman.
To speak for speaking, to wrench sounds from the desperate, to take dictation from the flight of a fly, to blacken. Time splits in two: hour of the somersault.
II
Words, phrases, syllables, stars that turn around a fixed center. Two bodies, many beings that meet in a word. The paper is covered with indelible letters that no one spoke, that no one dictated, that have fallen there and ignite and burn and go out. This is how poetry exists, how love exists. And if I don’t exist, you do.
Everywhere solitary prisoners begin to create the words of the new dialogue.
The spring of water. The mouthful of health. A girl reclining on her past. The wine, the fire, the guitar, the tablecloth. A red velvet wall in a village square. The cheers, the shining cavalry entering the city, the citizens in flight: hymns! Eruption of the white, the green, the flaming. Poetry: the easiest thing, that which writes itself.
The poem creates a loving order. I foresee a sun-man and a moon-woman, he free of his power, she of her slavery, and unyielding loves flashing through black space. Everything must yield to those incandescent eagles.
Song dawns on the turrets of your head. Poetic justice burns fields of shame: there is no room for nostalgia, for the I, for proper nouns.
Every poem is finished at the poet’s expense.
Future noon, huge tree of invisible leaves. In the plazas, men and women sing the solar song, fountain of transparencies. The yellow surf covers me: nothing that is mine will speak through my mouth.
When History sleeps, it speaks in dreams: on the forehead of the sleeping people, the poem is a constellation of blood. When History wakes, image becomes act, the poem happens: poetry moves into action.
Deserve your dream.
* * * *
de Trabajos del poeta
III
Todos habían salido de casa. A eso de las once advertí que me había fumado el último cigarrillo. Como no deseaba exponerme al viento y al frío, busqué por todos los rincones una cajetilla, sin encontrarla. No tuve más remedio que ponerme el abrigo y descender la escalera (vivo en un quinto piso). La calle, una hermosa calle de altos edificios de piedra gris y dos hileras de castaños desnudos, estaba desierta. Caminé unos trescientos metros contra el viento helado y la niebla amarillenta, sólo para encontrar cerrado el estanco. Dirigí mis pasos hacia un café próximo, en donde estaba seguro de hallar un poco de calor, de música y sobre todo los cigarrillos, objeto de mi salida. Recorrí dos calles más, tiritando, cuando de pronto sentí—no, no sentí: pasó, rauda, la Palabra. Lo inesperado del encuentro me paralizó por un segundo, que fue suficiente para darle tiempo de volver a la noche. Repuesto, alcancé a cogerla por las puntas del pelo flotante. Tiré desesperadamente de esas hebras que se alargaban hacia el infinito, hilos de telégrafo que se alejan irremediablemente con un paisaje entrevisto, nota que sube, se adelgaza, se estira, se estira . . . Me quedé solo en mitad de la calle, con una pluma roja entre las manos amoratadas.
IV
Echado en la cama, pido el sueño bruto, el sueño de la momia. Cierro los ojos y procuro no oír el tam-tam que suena en no sé qué rincón de la pieza. «El silencio está lleno de ruidos—me digo—y lo que oyes, no lo oyes de verdad. Oyes al silencio.» Y el tam-tam continúa, cada vez más fuerte: es un ruido de cascos de caballo galopando en un campo de piedra; es una hacha que no acaba de derribar un árbol gigante; una prensa de imprenta imprimiendo un solo verso inmenso, hecho nada más de una sílaba, que rima con el golpe de mi corazón; es mi corazón que golpea la roca y la cubre con una andrajosa túnica de espuma; es el mar, la resaca del mar encadenado, que cae y se levanta, que se levanta y cae, que cae y se levanta; son las grandes paletadas del silencio cayendo en el silencio.
VII
Escribo sobre la mesa crepuscular, apoyando fuerte la pluma sobre su pecho casi vivo, que gime y recuerda al bosque natal. La tinta negra abre sus grandes alas. La lámpara estalla y cubre mis palabras una capa de cristales rotos. Un fragmento afilado de luz me corta la mano derecha. Continúo escribiendo con ese muñón que mana sombra. La noche entra en el cuarto, el muro de enfrente adelanta su jeta de piedra, grandes témpanos de aire se interponen entre la pluma y el papel. Ah, un simple monosílabo bastaría para hacer saltar al mundo. Pero esta noche no hay sitio para una sola palabra más.
XI
Ronda, se insinúa, se acerca, se aleja, vuelve de puntillas y, si alargo la mano, desaparece, una Palabra. Sólo distingo su cresta orgullosa: Cri. ¿Cristo, cristal, crimen, Crimea, crítica, Cristina, criterio? Y zarpa de mi frente una piragua, con un hombre armado de una lanza. La leve y frágil embarcación corta veloz las olas negras, las oleadas de sangre negra de mis sienes. Y se aleja hacia dentro. El cazador-pescador escruta la masa sombría y anubarrada del horizonte, henchido de amenazas; hunde los ojos sagaces en la rencorosa espuma, aguza el oído, olfatea. A veces cruza la obscuridad un destello vivaz, un aletazo verde y escamado. Es el Cri, que sale un momento al aire, respira y se sumerge de nuevo en las profundidades. El cazador sopla el cuerno que lleva atado al pecho, pero su enlutado mugido se pierde en el desierto de agua. No hay nadie en el inmenso lago salado. Y está muy lejos ya la playa rocallosa, muy lejos las débiles luces de las casuchas de sus compañeros. De cuando en cuando el Cri reaparece, deja ver su aleta nefasta y se hunde. El remero fascinado lo sigue, hacia dentro, cada vez más hacia dentro.
XII
Luego de haber cortado todos los brazos que se tendían hacia mí; luego de haber tapiado todas las ventanas y puertas; luego de haber inundado con agua envenenada los fosos; luego de haber edificado mi casa en la roca de un No inaccesible a los halagos y al miedo; luego de haberme cortado la lengua y luego de haberla devorado; luego de haber arrojado puñados de silencio y monosílabos de desprecio a mis amores; luego de haber olvidado mi nombre y el nombre de mi lugar natal y el nombre de mi estirpe; luego de haberme juzgado y haberme sentenciado a perpetua espera y a soledad perpetua, oí contra las piedras de mi calabozo de silogismos la embestida húmeda, tierna, insistente, de la primavera.
XIV
Difícilmente, avanzando milímetros por año, me hago un camino entre la roca. Desde hace milenios mis dientes se gastan y mis uñas se rompen para llegar allá, al otro lado, a la luz y el aire libre. Y ahora que mis manos sangran y mis dientes tiemblan, inseguros, en una cavidad rajada por la sed y el polvo, me detengo y contemplo mi obra: he pasado la segunda parte de mi vida rompiendo las piedras, perforando las murallas, taladrando las puertas y apartando los obstáculos que interpuse entre la luz y yo durante la primera parte de mi vida.
Paseo nocturno
La noche extrae de su cuerpo una hora y otra. Todas diversas y solemnes. Uvas, higos, dulces gotas de negrura pausada. Fuentes: cuerpos. Entre las piedras del jardín en ruinas el viento toca el piano. El faro alarga el cuello, gira, se apaga, exclama. Cristales que empaña un pensamiento, suavidades, invitaciones: oh no
che, hoja inmensa y luciente, desprendida del árbol invisible que crece en el centro del mundo.
Y al dar la vuelta, las Apariciones: la muchacha que se vuelve un montón de hojas secas si la tocas; el desconocido que se arranca la máscara y se queda sin rostro, viéndote fijamente; la bailarina que da vueltas sobre la punta de un grito; el ¿quién vive?, el ¿quién eres?, el ¿dónde estoy?; la joven que avanza como un rumor de pájaros; el torreón derruido de ese pensamiento inconcluso, abierto contra el cielo como un poema partido en dos . . . No, ninguna es la que esperas, la dormida, la que te espera en los repliegues de su sueño.
Y al dar la vuelta, terminan los Verdores y empiezan las piedras. No hay nada, no tienes nada que darle al desierto: ni una gota de agua ni una gota de sangre. Con los ojos vendados avanzas por corredores, plazas, callejas donde conspiran tres estrellas astrosas. El río habla en voz baja. A tu izquierda y derecha, atrás y adelante, cuchicheos y risas innobles. El monólogo te acecha a cada paso, con sus exclamaciones, sus signos de interrogación, sus nobles sentimientos, sus puntos sobre las íes en mitad de un beso, su molino de lamentos y su repertorio de espejos rotos. Prosigue: nada tienes que decirte a ti mismo.
Llano
El hormiguero hace erupción. La herida abierta borbotea, espumea, se expande, se contrae. El sol a estas horas no deja nunca de bombear sangre, con las sienes hinchadas, la cara roja. Un niño—ignorante de que en un recodo de la pubertad lo esperan unas fiebres y un problema de conciencia—coloca con cuidado una piedrecita en la boca despellejada del hormiguero. El sol hunde sus picas en las jorobas del llano, humilla promontorios de basura. Resplandor desenvainado, los reflejos de una lata vacía—erguida sobre una pirámide de piltrafas—acuchillan todos los puntos del espacio. Los niños buscadores de tesoros y los perros sin dueño escarban en el amarillo esplendor del pudridero. A trescientos metros la iglesia de San Lorenzo llama a misa de doce. Adentro, en el altar de la derecha, hay un santo pintado de azul y rosa. De su ojo izquierdo brota un enjambre de insectos de alas grises, que vuelan en línea recta hacia la cúpula y caen, hechos polvo, silencioso derrumbe de armaduras tocadas por la mano del sol. Silban las sirenas de las torres de las fábricas. Falos decapitados. Un pájaro vestido de negro vuela en círculos y se posa en el único árbol vivo del llano. Después . . . No hay después. Avanzo, perforo grandes rocas de años, grandes masas de luz compacta, desciendo galerías de minas de arena, atravieso corredores que se cierran como labios de granito. Y vuelvo al llano, al llano donde siempre es mediodía, donde un sol idéntico cae fijamente sobre un paisaje detenido. Y no acaban de caer las doce campanadas, ni de zumbar las moscas, ni de estallar en astillas este minuto que no pasa, que sólo arde y no pasa.