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Poetry

Self-Portrait

By Frank Báez
Translated from Spanish by Hoyt Rogers
Dominican poet Frank Baez draws a wry self-portrait about resilience after a lifetime of violence and mishaps.

At one and a half I rolled up the stairs
to the second floor.
At six I almost drowned in a pool.
At seven a current swept me down a river.
They hit me with a stick, with a rifle-butt,
with a two-by-four. They rammed an elbow into my face,
my stomach too; they kneed me, whipped me, slashed me with machetes.
The neighbor’s dog bit my arm.
They cut my ear when they pierced it.
I’ve been knocked cold. Slapped. Slandered.
Booed. Stoned.
Chased by sergeants on motorbikes. By two bill-collectors.
By three Mormons on bicycles.
By girls from Herrera and El Trece.
I’ve been mugged thirty times.
In shared cabs. Private taxis. On scooters. On foot.
A guy gave me a ride and told me: “I’m gay.”
They’ve stolen my TV set, my mattress,
six pairs of sneakers, four billfolds,
a watch, half my books.
They’ve filched several manuscripts, and committed plagiary.
(With what they’ve robbed from me
they could open a pawnshop in Los Prados.)
I’ve broken my right arm, my ring finger,
my hip, my thighbone, and I’ve lost four teeth.
My brother Abelardo gave me a bump on the noggin that still hurts.
At my graduation bash they lit into me with bottles.
Then I published a book of poems and a neighbor read it.
Skeptically, she said she could write
better poems in half an hour, and she did.
An accident with a donkey on the highway.
Attempted suicide in Cabarete.
Tachycardia. Hepatitis. Fucked-up liver.
Satanized in Eastern Europe. Kicked by Mexicans in Chicago.
In Montecristi, a waitress threatened to kill me
(right now she’s sticking pins in a doll that looks like me).
The neighbors dream of shooting me.
The poets dream of writing me elegies.
Other guys want to douse my head with gas,
flip a burning match, and see my curls on fire.
Girls want to jump in bed with me.
A few weeks ago a policeman stopped me
and asked if I was the poet who’d read poetry
that night and I said yes and the policeman
said those poems were good
and made a bow, sort of.

“Autorretrato” © Frank Baez. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by Hoyt Rogers. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

At one and a half I rolled up the stairs
to the second floor.
At six I almost drowned in a pool.
At seven a current swept me down a river.
They hit me with a stick, with a rifle-butt,
with a two-by-four. They rammed an elbow into my face,
my stomach too; they kneed me, whipped me, slashed me with machetes.
The neighbor’s dog bit my arm.
They cut my ear when they pierced it.
I’ve been knocked cold. Slapped. Slandered.
Booed. Stoned.
Chased by sergeants on motorbikes. By two bill-collectors.
By three Mormons on bicycles.
By girls from Herrera and El Trece.
I’ve been mugged thirty times.
In shared cabs. Private taxis. On scooters. On foot.
A guy gave me a ride and told me: “I’m gay.”
They’ve stolen my TV set, my mattress,
six pairs of sneakers, four billfolds,
a watch, half my books.
They’ve filched several manuscripts, and committed plagiary.
(With what they’ve robbed from me
they could open a pawnshop in Los Prados.)
I’ve broken my right arm, my ring finger,
my hip, my thighbone, and I’ve lost four teeth.
My brother Abelardo gave me a bump on the noggin that still hurts.
At my graduation bash they lit into me with bottles.
Then I published a book of poems and a neighbor read it.
Skeptically, she said she could write
better poems in half an hour, and she did.
An accident with a donkey on the highway.
Attempted suicide in Cabarete.
Tachycardia. Hepatitis. Fucked-up liver.
Satanized in Eastern Europe. Kicked by Mexicans in Chicago.
In Montecristi, a waitress threatened to kill me
(right now she’s sticking pins in a doll that looks like me).
The neighbors dream of shooting me.
The poets dream of writing me elegies.
Other guys want to douse my head with gas,
flip a burning match, and see my curls on fire.
Girls want to jump in bed with me.
A few weeks ago a policeman stopped me
and asked if I was the poet who’d read poetry
that night and I said yes and the policeman
said those poems were good
and made a bow, sort of.

Autorretrato

Rodé al año y medio por las escaleras
hasta el segundo piso.
A los seis casi me ahogo en una piscina.
A los siete me arrastró la corriente de un río.
Me golpearon con un palo, con la culata de un fusil,
con una tabla. Me propinaron un codazo en la cara
y otro en el estómago, rodillazos,
machetazos, fuetazos.
El perro del vecino me mordió un brazo.
Me cortaron una oreja haciéndome el cerquillo.
Noqueado. Abofeteado. Calumniado.
Abucheado. Apedreado.
Perseguido por sargentos en motor. Por dos cobradores.
Por tres mormones en bicicleta.
Por muchachas de Herrera y del Trece.
Me han atracado treinta veces.
En carros públicos. Taxis. Voladoras. A pie.
Alguien me dio una bola y me dijo I am gay.
Me robaron un televisor, un colchón,
seis pares de tenis, cuatro carteras,
un reloj, media biblioteca.
Se llevaron varios manuscritos y cometieron plagio.
(Con lo que me han robado pudieran abrir
una compraventa en Los Prados).
Me fracturé el brazo derecho, el anular,
la cadera, el fémur y perdí cuatro dientes.
El hermano Abelardo me dio un cocotazo que todavía me duele.
En la fiesta de graduación me cayeron a trompadas y botellazos.
Luego publiqué un libro de poesía y una vecina lo leyó
y escéptica dijo que era capaz de escribir
mejores poemas en media hora, y lo hizo.
Accidente con un burro en la carretera.
Intento de suicidio en Cabarete.
Taquicardia. Hepatitis. Hígado jodido.
Satanizado en Europa del Este. Pateado por mexicanos en Chicago.
En Montecristi una mesera me amenazó de muerte
(ahora mismo, clava alfileres en un muñeco idéntico a mí).
Los vecinos sueñan conmigo baleado.
Los poetas con dedicarme elegías.
Otros con rociarme gasolina en la cabeza
y arrojar un fósforo y ver mis rizos en llamas.
Otras con llevarme a la cama.
Y hace semanas un policía me detiene y me pregunta
si yo no era el poeta que había leído poesía
aquella noche y le digo que sí y el policía
dice que son buenos poemas
y hace una reverencia o algo así.

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