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Poetry

Sleepless Homeland

By Carmen Boullosa
Translated from Spanish by Samantha Schnee
Carmen Boullosa's 2011 poem grapples with Mexico's drug wars.
 
Did we lose you in a game of dice?
Did you escape from us in one snort?
In which junkie’s syringe did you become trapped, my Homeland?
          Maybe some Nordic addict’s?
When did they brand you with the mark of the pill that gives short-lived pleasure?
I’m addicted to you, stamped with your indelible mark.
My Homeland,
once eloquent, now you stutter,
stutter daily,
ever more alive,
voracious, arrogant
like the mouth of an open wound!
In the shadows you behave like a trollop,
you sell each part of yourself for the pleasure of others,
wearing dark glasses,
you sing along to the accordion and tamborines,
until you’re hoarse.
In bed you feign pleasure but feel pain.
(And sometimes you make music without poisoning others with your own flesh.)
(And sometimes, my Homeland, you laugh without making yourself hoarse.)
¿Quo vadis?
Where did you fall, sleepless homeland,
like the star in the story,
like the drunk woman who crashed into a lamppost?
Your flesh is denser,
more austere,
more solid,
more real,
can be compressed into a thimble,
or the embroidery on that blouse.
No doubt you exist, no question.
But where are you?
Through the smoke of a war that sullies us all,
              in which no one
              but mercenaries
              participate
—the bullets that fly have no conviction,
they’re on the payroll of the fed, the state, some drug lord . . .
rounds of bullets for hire.
You’re slipping away from us, Homeland in flight.
(Your honeyed
breath
of rounds of bullets for hire.)
(Your breath of garlic and chocolate and chiles.)
(Your pestle-and-mortar breath
of garlic and honey and chiles and pepper and cinnamon.)
(Your breath of sacrificial stone,
of blood,of a heart still beating.)
I love her anyway
My land, my water, my roots, my tree trunks and flowers,
stony, feminine islet,
mine, mine, as only you can be,
quintessential Mother,
I call to you from another island without stones,
or serpents,
where the eagle and the hedgehog work together,
planning to devour you.
. . .
(Cactus!
We have made cactus
stew of my Homeland!
A delicious soup of pleasures
for foreigners.
Cactus: ecstasy, meth, and everything else.)

From
Sleepless Homeland (Madrid: Hiperion, 2011). © 2011 by Carmen Boullosa. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Samantha Schnee. All rights reserved.
English Spanish (Original)
 
Did we lose you in a game of dice?
Did you escape from us in one snort?
In which junkie’s syringe did you become trapped, my Homeland?
          Maybe some Nordic addict’s?
When did they brand you with the mark of the pill that gives short-lived pleasure?
I’m addicted to you, stamped with your indelible mark.
My Homeland,
once eloquent, now you stutter,
stutter daily,
ever more alive,
voracious, arrogant
like the mouth of an open wound!
In the shadows you behave like a trollop,
you sell each part of yourself for the pleasure of others,
wearing dark glasses,
you sing along to the accordion and tamborines,
until you’re hoarse.
In bed you feign pleasure but feel pain.
(And sometimes you make music without poisoning others with your own flesh.)
(And sometimes, my Homeland, you laugh without making yourself hoarse.)
¿Quo vadis?
Where did you fall, sleepless homeland,
like the star in the story,
like the drunk woman who crashed into a lamppost?
Your flesh is denser,
more austere,
more solid,
more real,
can be compressed into a thimble,
or the embroidery on that blouse.
No doubt you exist, no question.
But where are you?
Through the smoke of a war that sullies us all,
              in which no one
              but mercenaries
              participate
—the bullets that fly have no conviction,
they’re on the payroll of the fed, the state, some drug lord . . .
rounds of bullets for hire.
You’re slipping away from us, Homeland in flight.
(Your honeyed
breath
of rounds of bullets for hire.)
(Your breath of garlic and chocolate and chiles.)
(Your pestle-and-mortar breath
of garlic and honey and chiles and pepper and cinnamon.)
(Your breath of sacrificial stone,
of blood,of a heart still beating.)
I love her anyway
My land, my water, my roots, my tree trunks and flowers,
stony, feminine islet,
mine, mine, as only you can be,
quintessential Mother,
I call to you from another island without stones,
or serpents,
where the eagle and the hedgehog work together,
planning to devour you.
. . .
(Cactus!
We have made cactus
stew of my Homeland!
A delicious soup of pleasures
for foreigners.
Cactus: ecstasy, meth, and everything else.)

From
Sleepless Homeland (Madrid: Hiperion, 2011). © 2011 by Carmen Boullosa. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Samantha Schnee. All rights reserved.

La patria insomne

¿Te perdemos en un juego de dados?
¿En una esnifada te nos escapas?
¿En qué jeringa de que yonki te has quedado atrapada, Patria mía?,

¿tal vez atada a un adicto nórdico?
¿Cuándo te pusieron encima el sello de la píldora que da un placer efímero? De ti yo soy adicta, sin tus suertes.

¡Patria mía,
algún día diamantina, tartamudeas! ¡Tartamuda cada día,
más viva a la manera de la llaga, altiva y voraz!

En tus rincones te comportas como una suripanta, vendes cada porción de ti para el gusto de otros, usas lentes oscuros,
cantas con acordeón y tambores,

te desgañitas,
en tu lecho finges placer y sientes dolor.

(Y a veces tus cuerdas suenan sin estar envenenando a costa propia). (Y a veces, Patria mía, te ríes sin desgañites.)

¿Quo vadis?

¿Dónde caíste, Patria insomne,
como el astro del cuento,
como la ebria que se estrella contra un poste de luz?

Tu masa más densa, más austera,
más sólida,
más real,

puede comprimirse y caber en un dedal,

o en el bordado de aquella blusa.

De que estés, no hay duda.
¿Pero a dónde vas?
Entre lo humos de una guerra entre todos,

en la que nadie sino mercenarios participa

-las balas que vuelan no tienen convicciones,
son de paga federal, estatal, o de este capo o el otro etcétera… Ráfagas a sueldo-,
te nos escapas, Patria en fuga.

(Tu aliento
de miel
de ráfagas a sueldo.)

(Tu aliento de ajo y chocolate y chiles diversos.)

(Tu aliento a piedra de moler,
molcajete y ajo y miel y chiles y pimienta y canela.

(Tu aliento a piedra del sacrificio, a sangre,
al corazón que aún palpita.)

La quiero igual

Tierra mía, agua mía, raíz mía, arboladura y flor, islote pedregoso en femenino,
mía, mía, como sólo tú puedes serlo,
Madre mayor,

a ti te llamo desde otra isla sin piedras,
ni serpientes,
donde el águila y el erizo andan en lo mismo, piensan cómo devorarte.

̈ ̈

(¡Nopalitos!
¡Sopa de nopalitos
hemos guisado con mi Patria!
Deliciosa sopa de placeres
para los extranjeros.
Nopalitos: éxtasis, alfametilfentanilo, y demás.) !


From
Sleepless Homeland (Madrid: Hiperion, 2011). © 2011 by Carmen Boullosa. By arrangement with the author.

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