The Tailor Shop
Carlos Amador Marchant
(To my father, Amador Marchant Montenegro)
I
Carlos Amador Marchant
(To my father, Amador Marchant Montenegro)
I
Behind that dark house is the tailor shop.
There are no sounds no voice, only the smell of soaked cloth.
The place seems wholly winter.
The hanging threads are silent rods.
In the back in the very back the tailor meditates.
Over his skeleton an afternoon is lost.
That shop seems a deserted square.
It looks like a hidden loaf of bread.
To find it one must follow unlit signs,
signs that never call to anyone.
II
There are no sounds no voice, only the smell of soaked cloth.
The place seems wholly winter.
The hanging threads are silent rods.
In the back in the very back the tailor meditates.
Over his skeleton an afternoon is lost.
That shop seems a deserted square.
It looks like a hidden loaf of bread.
To find it one must follow unlit signs,
signs that never call to anyone.
II
The tailor is hidden.
I remember him sitting on a wooden chair.
There he´s surrounded by fabric, flatirons,
suits that hang like men lynched.
The tailor sits in the middle of the room.
I can´t see him clearly.
I´m behind him not yet born.
III
I remember him sitting on a wooden chair.
There he´s surrounded by fabric, flatirons,
suits that hang like men lynched.
The tailor sits in the middle of the room.
I can´t see him clearly.
I´m behind him not yet born.
III
That shop was small.
But at the back the patio sheltered animals.
Hens all mixed in with ducks,
rabbits burrowing in the corners.
For years I entertained myself looking at that spectacle.
I counted eggs, figured out the breeding.
The shop was in front.
Out front on the other hand everything was silence.
The tailor at his post like a statue of ice.
His voice came from behind the counters.
I always squatted facing him,
always causing trouble,
always talking under my breath.
IV
But at the back the patio sheltered animals.
Hens all mixed in with ducks,
rabbits burrowing in the corners.
For years I entertained myself looking at that spectacle.
I counted eggs, figured out the breeding.
The shop was in front.
Out front on the other hand everything was silence.
The tailor at his post like a statue of ice.
His voice came from behind the counters.
I always squatted facing him,
always causing trouble,
always talking under my breath.
IV
The tailor´s suit of armor was his brow.
Whereas I drifted like a log in a river.
I said life and the cave-ins lay in waiting.
I said flight and my wings were sopping wet.
Whereas I drifted like a log in a river.
I said life and the cave-ins lay in waiting.
I said flight and my wings were sopping wet.
V
The tailor´s trade wore him out one night.
Left him dead at the head of a bed.
Because that shop was as damp as the edge of the ocean.
Now and again I appeared playing in that photograph,
looking sad among the weeds of those days.
That´s why I lower my head when I speak.
That´s why this gray moon´s displaced by my shoulders.
Translated by Dave Oliphant and Oliver Welden
Left him dead at the head of a bed.
Because that shop was as damp as the edge of the ocean.
Now and again I appeared playing in that photograph,
looking sad among the weeds of those days.
That´s why I lower my head when I speak.
That´s why this gray moon´s displaced by my shoulders.
Translated by Dave Oliphant and Oliver Welden
___________________________________________
TEXTO ORIGINAL EN ESPAÑOL
SASTRERÍA
Carlos Amador Marchant
(a
mi padre Amador Marchant
Montenegro)
Detrás
de esa casa oscura
está
la sastrería. No hay ruidos
no
hay voz, sólo olor
a
tela remojada. Parece todo invierno
ese
sitio.
Los
hilos que cuelgan
son
estacas silenciosas.
Al
fondo muy al fondo
el
sastre medita.
Sobre
su esqueleto se pierde
una
tarde.
Esa
sastrería parece plaza despoblada.
Parece
un pan escondido.
Para
ubicarla hay que rastrear
letreros
apagados letreros
que
nunca llaman
a
alguien.
II
El
sastre está escondido. Lo recuerdo
sentado
sobre una silla de madera. Allí está
rodeado
de telas, planchas de hierro, ternos que cuelgan
como
hombres ahorcados.
Está
el sastre al centro de la pieza. Lo veo difuso.
Atrás
estoy yo
sin
haber nacido.
III
Esa
sastrería era pequeña. Pero al fondo
el
patio albergaba animales.
Todas
las gallinas se confundían con los patos, los conejos
abrían
cuevas en rincones.
Por
años me entretuve
mirando
ese espectáculo. Conté huevos,
descifré
crías.
La
sastrería estaba afuera. Y afuera
en
cambio todo era silencio. El sastre se situaba
como
estatua de hielo. Su voz emergía
detrás
de mesones.
Yo
estaba
frente
a él siempre en cuclillas, siempre aportando
desconcierto,
siempre
hablando
de
reojo.
IV
La
coraza del sastre fue su frente.
En
cambio yo floté como tronco en los ríos.
Dije
vida y me acecharon los derrumbes.
Dije
vuelo y todas mis alas se averiaron.
V
El
oficio del sastre fue quedar
roto
en la noche. Quedar muerto
sobre
la cabecera de una cama.
Porque
aquella sastrería era húmeda como orilla de océano.
De
vez en cuando
aparecía
yo jugando en esa foto triste
en
la maleza de los días.
Por
eso soy cabizbajo cuando hablo.
Por
eso esta luna gris se desplaza por mis hombros.
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