TALKING TO MY WALL

Aste honetako harrikada poema honekin egin dut. Beste behin ere New Yorkerrera poema bat bidali dut. Atzo. But this time thw whole thing has been different. This time I have been helped. Not only helped. I have been kept warm by Elizabeth's words. I decided that I had to translate the poem that I wrote for my aita. I decided that this time I was not going to send a crappy five minute translation, so I gave it a shoot and sent Elizabeth Macklin an email.

Some of you may know her, since her collaborative work with Kirmen Uribe, especially her English translation of "Bitartean Heldu Eskutik", that many of you have received as a gift from me, in its English version. To me the best Kirmen has written up to date. You know I did not like his acclaimed first novel. But that is just me. It does seem just me, since Kirmen's success is gigantic.

Anyway, back to the poem and back to Elizabeth.

I sent my poem to her and few hours later she had not only worked the grammar and edited the text looking at the original version, but also guided me through some of the senses and directions I should explore and follow to keep looking forward.

Elizabeth, I have no words to thank you enough. Your impact in my work is certainly going to be important and long-lasting. I was absolutely not expecting such a careful and attentive devotion to my words. You have made the difference. I sent the poem yesterday and don't have high expectations, but nobody can steal the great excitation when I was about to click on "send" to The New Yorker. More importantly, I really consider myself paid because of having exchanged a couple of emails with you and because of all the kind words you had for me. I value considerably all your efforts and your suggestions.

Hemen Elizabeth Macklinen itzulpena. Enjoy it:

It was 18:18 on an 8th like today,
though ten times 365 back,
when the red of the alarm clock
marked your goodbye
beside Aunt Marisa
who kept your last breath.

When she came from your room
with the trace of death
still caught in her eyes
the rest of us ran to your side,
to accompany you
though you were gone,
to hold your hand
though you couldn’t feel it.
I remember that silence
into which you were changed
once and for all right then.

Even if I believe
that after the silence
there is nothing more,
for you
I have to make an exception;

I could tell you
lately I’ve often written messages
with only a few words in each line
which I don’t call stanzas
although they look like poems
even if actually they aren’t.

I could tell you
I got my doctorate,
I’ve lived in Brussels,
after that in New York,
and that I’ve just sent
everything to the devil
because I want to be a writer.

I could tell you
even if it seems
I’m talking to a wall,
I found the woman of my life,
you’ve got two darling grandkids,
that the three of them
are all in all to me;
it is hard for me to know
they’ll never hear you laugh,
never see themselves reflected
in your green mirrors.

I could tell you
that Mom is better than ever
though it’s hard to go on without you,
that I took a plane
to go to a concert with Aitor
who, by the way, as you may know,
got married.
He is a grown man now.
He still loves you so much.

I could tell you
that your dad died, as did Sabin,
that your mom is feeling lost
and I’ve lost touch
with your siblings.
You’ll be glad to know
Gonzalo has three children
Gorka two daughters
and Mikeltxu will soon
be lengthening our list.

I could tell you
that losing a father
is like losing that wall
which protects you from death
and reveals to you
who will be the next one.
Yes, I know it’s selfish of me
to think of myself,
like an Ivan Illych,
and not of you
but ever since you left
I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

I could tell you
even if I feel
I’m talking to that wall I lost
that your absence brings you here.


This time, with no picture.