Poems from the Insane Asylum: by Leopoldo María Panero Ü
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Cuatro Poemas/Four Poems en traducción/translated por/by Arturo Mantecón
El loco
He vivido entre los arrabales, pareciendo
un mono, he vivido en la alcantarilla
transportando las heces,
he vivido dos años en el Pueblo de las Moscas
y aprendido a nutrirme de lo que suelto.
Fui una culebra deslizándose
por la ruina del hombre, gritando
aforismos en pie sobre los muertos,
atravesando mares de carne desconocida
con mis logaritmos.
Y sólo pude pensar una alucinante batalla
y que mis padres me sedujeron para
ejecutar el sacrilegio, entre ancianos y muertos.
He enseñado a moverse a las larvas
sobre los cuerpos, y a las mujeres a oir
cómo cantan los árboles al crepúsculo, y lloran.
Y los hombres manchaban mi cara con cieno, al hablar,
y decían con los ojos «fuera de la vida», o bien
«no hay nada que pueda ser
menos todavía que tu alma», o bien
«¿cómo te llamas?»
y «qué oscuro es tu nombre».
He vivido los blancos de la vida,
sus equivocaciones, sus olvidos, su
torpeza incesante y recuerdo su
misterio brutal, y el tentáculo
suyo acariciarme el vientre y las nalgas y los pies
frenéticos de huida.
He vivido su tentación, y he vivido el pecado
del que nadie cabe nunca nos absuelva.
The Madman
I have lived, ape-like, in the slums
I have lived in the sewer drain, carrying off the feces
I have lived two years in the City of the Flies
and learned to nourish myself with what I discharge.
I was a serpent slithering by the ruins of man
shouting out aphorisms, standing atop the dead
crossing oceans of unknown flesh with my logarithms.
And all I could think of was an hallucinatory battle
and that my parents seduced me
in order to execute the sacrilege
between the elderly and the dead.
I have taught the maggots how to move upon corpses
and women to hear how trees sing to the twilight
and how they weep.
And men dirtied my face with mud when I spoke
and they would say with their eyes: “Get out of life!”
or else would say: “There is nothing that could ever
be less than your soul”
or else: “What is your name?” and: “How dark your name is!”
I have lived the blanks of life
its equivocations, its oblivions, its incessant oafishness
and I remember its brutal mystery
and its tentacle caressing my belly and my buttocks
and my feet frenetic for flight.
I have lived its temptation, and I have lived the sin
of which no one will ever absolve us.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A book launch will be held at the Bonnafont Gallery,
946-A Greenwich Street, in San Francisco on May 8,
at 7 p.m. with readings of Panero by his translator,
Arturo Mantecón, and dramatic performances of Panero
by dithyrambic poet Gilberto Rodríguez. The book is
available from Editions Michel Eyquem, and the usual
other sources for books. For more readings, go to:
Parábola del diccionario
Una palabra reenvía a otra palabra, un sentido a
otro sentido: el sentido se extiende como la
cabellera de una dama rubia, en la orilla,
tocando el mar y los barcos.
Es así que la palabra, para no morir en otra
palabra, se disuelve en ceniza.
Y un hombre muere: un hermano mío, un semejante
que reenvía a otro semejante, ya que la categoría
de hombre es universal, y se extiende como una
larga cabellera, hasta tocar las estrellas
Pero la luna resplandece en las tumbas, y un
perro ladra en la hora en que un hombre muere.
Preguntadle a un perro: ¿qué es la locura?
y ladrará tres veces.
Pero volviendo a la pregunta sobre sentido,
éste, como el Tao supo, escapa al decir, esto es que el
sentido no es una figura del discursco.
El único significante es la muerte, que es,
al decir del estructuralismo, la mayor figura del
discurso, porque es palabra de Dios.
Un pelicano escupe sobre mi boca, y un pez ansía
en mi mano: como dice el diccionario: «ansiar: desear
con ansia», como cuando el perro ladra.
Pero recuerdo una vez Antonio me llamó
Humphrey Bogart: «con su gabardina hueca», como dice
él en uno de los poemas de su libro dedicado a su
amor, Olga, cuya cabellera se extiende sobre el papel.
Parable of the Dictionary
One word leads to another word
one meaning to another meaning:
meaning extends itself
like the tresses of a blonde lady at the seaside
touching the sea and the ships.
Thus it is that the word
so as to not die in another word
disintegrates into ashes.
And a man dies: a brother of mine
a fellow man leading to another fellow man
since the category of man is universal
and it extends itself like long tresses
until it touches the stars.
But the moon shines resplendent upon the graves
and a dog barks in the hour in which a man dies.
Go ask a dog: What is madness?
and it will bark three times.
But getting back to the question concerning meaning
this, as the Tao knew, eludes expression
this is because meaning is not a figure of discourse.
The only signifier is death, which is
according to structuralism
the main figure of discourse
because it is the word of God.
A pelican spits on my mouth
a fish lusts in my hand:
as the dictionary says: “to lust: to yearn with desire”
like when the dog barks.
But I remember that one time
Antonio called me Humphrey Bogart: “with his empty trenchcoat”
like he says in one of the poems of his book
dedicated to his love, Olga
whose tresses extend themselves over the page.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Inédito de el último hombre
Valdivia tiene más hombres, más caballos
y árboles que escupen fuego y sangre:
ante la bestia de Valdivia el indio
tiene sangre hembra.
Valdivia tiene dioses para los que no cuenta
nada la sangre del hombre,
dioses como árboles sin savia
que llevan colgando de su cuello:
pero era la noche de Lautaro.
Y en la noche de Lautaro tras el árbol hay perros
y la luna ilumina el camino a los lobos.
Entra el hombre barbado, el español a saco
en nuestras casas y muestra su verga a las mujeres:
pero en la selva se pierde, en el laberinto
oscuro de Eldorado.
Hacen pues un camino con la sangre
entre los más oscuros árboles:
y que el hombre ahí se pierda;
porque era la noche de Lautaro.
En la noche de Lautaro el dios castellano
es menos que una víbora, y su cuerpo
es un pálido dibujo en la nieve.
Allí donde te dije que estaba Eldorado
está un artífice para labrar tu muerte:
En el tobillo desnudo están
las joyas que preguntas:
búscalas en la noche de Lautaro.
Unpublished Poem from the Last Man
Valdivia has more men, more horses
and trees that spit fire and blood—
faced with the beast Valdivia, the Indian
possesses female blood.
Valdivia has Gods for whom
the blood of man counts for nothing
gods like sapless trees
that he wears hanging from his neck
but it was Lautaro’s night.
And in Lautaro’s night there are dogs behind the tree
and the moon lights the way for the wolves.
Enter the bearded man, the Spaniard sacking
our homes and showing his cock to the women
but he loses himself in the forest, in the dark
labyrinth of Eldorado.
They make, then, a path with blood
between the darkest of the trees
so that the man will lose himself there
because it was Lautaro’s night.
In Lautaro’s night the Castilian god
is less than a viper, and his body
is a pale tracing in the snow.
There, where I told you Eldorado was
is a craftsman to carve out your death
on his bare ankle are
the jewels you ask about
search for them in the night of Lautaro.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A mi madre
(Reivindicación de una hermosura)
Escucha en las noches cómo se rasga la seda
y cae sin ruido la taza de té al suelo
como una magia
tú que sólo palabras dulces tienes para los muertos
y un manojo de flores llevas en la mano
para esperar a la Muerte
que cae de su corcel, herida
por un caballero que la apresa con sus labios brillantes
y llora por las noches pensando que le amabas,
y dice sal al jardín y contempla cómo caen las estrellas
y hablemos quedamente para que nadie nos escuche
ven, escúchame hablemos de nuestros muebles
tengo una rosa tatuada en la mejilla y un bastón con
empuñadura en forma de pato
y dicen que llueve por nosotros y que la nieve es nuestra
y ahora que el poema expira
te digo como un niño, ven
he construido una diadema
(sal al jardín y verás cómo la noche nos envuelve)
To my Mother
(A reclaiming of a thing of beauty)
Listen in the nights to how the silk rends itself
and how the cup of tea falls to the floor
without a sound
like magic
you who have only sweet words for the dead
and who carry a handful of flowers
to wait for Death who falls from her steed
wounded by a knight
who seizes her with his shining lips
and who weeps at night
at the thought that you loved him
and he says:
“Come out to the garden
and contemplate how the stars fall so,
let us speak softly, so that no one shall hear us
come here, listen to me, let’s talk about our furniture.
I have a rose tattooed on my cheek
and a walking stick with a handle the shape of a duck
and they say it rains just for us
and that the snow is our very own.”
And now that this poem is breathing its last
I say to you, like a little boy,
“Come here, I have fashioned a diadem
(come out to the garden, and you will see how the night will enfold us).”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A brief life of Leopoldo María Panero by his translator
Leopoldo María Panero is a poet and madman. He believes himself to be the reincarnation of Charles Baudelaire. He is, in his own words, as intelligent as Nietzsche, and he writes with the same sort of prophetic vehemence as did that great German philosopher.
Born in Madrid in 1948, the second of three sons born to the prominent poet Leopoldo Panero and Felicidad Blanc, his family was one of prestige and privilege, and he grew up in luxury.
When he was four years of age, little Leopoldo manifested an eerily precocious talent for performance poetry. His parents hosted regular soirées that were attended by some of the literary elite of Spain. One evening, Leopoldo emerged from his room and descended the stairs as though in a trance, in full view of the astonished company, dressed in a cape and tricorn hat and carrying a toy sword. In a voice so deep and sonorous that no one present could believe it was his, he announced that he was “Capitán Marciales” and recited a poem well beyond the capabilities of a child of four.
His rather frightened mother, at the urging of her guests, began to write his entranced recitals down. The following is his first recorded poem, created before he had begun to read and write:
The stars
The sea
a deep voice
a clear voice
Everything had awakened:
the trains, the houses...
a mysterious head
the mysterious hand
that appeared
in all the gardens...
This mysterious thing
appeared in every place.
His mother had him committed to an insane asylum in his late teens and ordered electroshock treatments to "cure" him of his paranoia and increasingly obvious homosexuality.
In spite of alcoholism and drug and addiction and having spent most of his life in mental institutions, he has amassed an astounding quantity of work: poetry, novellas, short stories, essays on psychiatry and translations. An anglophile, he has translated Edward Lear, J.M. Barrie and Lewis Carroll--a translation of "The Hunting of the Snark" into Spanish being one of his most striking accomplishments.
Paneo is currently an inmate in the psychiatric hospital in the city of Las Palmas, Isla Gran Canaria of the Canary Islands.
Arturo Mantecón, a graduate of UC Davis with a masters in philosophy, is a poet and fiction writer. His short stories have been published in The Americas Review, Café Bellas Artes, Bliss, and the Dunes Review and in various anthologies. His translations have been published in Poetry Now, Left Curve, and Skidrow Penthouse. As a translator of Panero’s work, he has published two books of selected poems by Panero: My Naked Brain (Swan Scythe Press, 2011) and the just-released Like an eye in the hand of a beggar (Editions Michel Eyquem, 2013).