Skip to main content
Outdated Browser

For the best experience using our website, we recommend upgrading your browser to a newer version or switching to a supported browser.

More Information

Poetry

Frail Before the Squalor

By Carmen Ollé
Translated from Spanish by Yvette Siegert

Frail before the squalor            
squalor being a feeble answer
the everyday self gives its own abjections
it surprises me to be in a city whose name
like the humidity that clings to its ancient walls
or like its tubercular pigeons
means nothing to me
any more than being inside its plastic image
as I sink into La Defense
or
lose myself in the ardor of its past

     oh the purity the freshness of withered things
     piles of feathers cover us
     undressing us in your presence
     and you, city I live in                                               
     are you collapsing or emerging                                         
     from my kaleidoscope?

Not far from the modern station I settle
into cramped spaces with poor ventilation                                                        
ghostly stretches where you (with limited means)
can cross the afternoon of a godforsaken summer                                 
from a single angle only
            —the wonder of afternoon—
its caress along my sex is like a specter’s                        
and my love for this afternoon is just like in the movies.

The ardor of the past lies in childhood
but I can’t dwell too long on this transparency
and I’ve got no desire to erect a childhood
what’s wonderful is the gnarling branch
that extends forever out of some base substance (the refuse)
and so is this lack of flowers along the gray afternoon.
Leaning in your arms:
your freshest smile rising
from the old Bastilles
my privates are inflamed with greenish fluids   
like impressionist colors
walking in order to grasp the rigid autumn of the Louvre
the stone feelings of the Egyptian Venus
or the bronze gesture of a gladiator’s leg
          —basements and galleries of stolen treasures—                           
I keep walking, I feel for the lesion of memories                                   
my body of a girl
             the rigid silence
of purity
nothing back then could penetrate my fear
the way this city can get inside my greed.           

English Spanish (Original)

Frail before the squalor            
squalor being a feeble answer
the everyday self gives its own abjections
it surprises me to be in a city whose name
like the humidity that clings to its ancient walls
or like its tubercular pigeons
means nothing to me
any more than being inside its plastic image
as I sink into La Defense
or
lose myself in the ardor of its past

     oh the purity the freshness of withered things
     piles of feathers cover us
     undressing us in your presence
     and you, city I live in                                               
     are you collapsing or emerging                                         
     from my kaleidoscope?

Not far from the modern station I settle
into cramped spaces with poor ventilation                                                        
ghostly stretches where you (with limited means)
can cross the afternoon of a godforsaken summer                                 
from a single angle only
            —the wonder of afternoon—
its caress along my sex is like a specter’s                        
and my love for this afternoon is just like in the movies.

The ardor of the past lies in childhood
but I can’t dwell too long on this transparency
and I’ve got no desire to erect a childhood
what’s wonderful is the gnarling branch
that extends forever out of some base substance (the refuse)
and so is this lack of flowers along the gray afternoon.
Leaning in your arms:
your freshest smile rising
from the old Bastilles
my privates are inflamed with greenish fluids   
like impressionist colors
walking in order to grasp the rigid autumn of the Louvre
the stone feelings of the Egyptian Venus
or the bronze gesture of a gladiator’s leg
          —basements and galleries of stolen treasures—                           
I keep walking, I feel for the lesion of memories                                   
my body of a girl
             the rigid silence
of purity
nothing back then could penetrate my fear
the way this city can get inside my greed.           

Frágil ante lo inmundo

Frágil ante lo inmundo
lo inmundo considerado como una débil respuesta
del ser cotidiano ante sus mezquindades
me sorprendo en una ciudad cuyo nombre
ni la humedad pegada a los muros ancianos
ni sus palomas tísicas
me importan
como estar en su imagen de plástico
hundiéndome en La Defense
o
perdida en el ardor de su pasado

  ah pureza frescor de lo marchito
  toneladas de plumas nos cubren
  nos desnudan en tu presencia
  y tú ciudad donde hoy habito
  ¿naufragas o emerges de mi
  caleidoscopio?

A pocos metros de la estación moderna me habito
en pequeñas áreas mal ventiladas
campiñas fantasmales donde uno (de pocos ingresos)
atraviesa la tarde de un verano desolado
desde sólo un ángulo
          -lo maravilloso de la tarde-
su caricia en el sexo es la de un espectro
y amo esa tarde como en un film.

El ardor del pasado descansa en la infancia
pero no puedo ocuparme largo rato de esta transparencia
y no deseo edificar una infancia
lo maravilloso es la rama torcida
que se eterniza en un material innoble (chatarra)
esta falta de flores lo es sobre la tarde gris.
Apoyada en tus brazos:
de las viejas Bastillas
nace tu sonrisa más fresca
y mis partes están irritadas con fluidos verduscos
como tonos impresionistas
caminando para aprehender el rígido otoño en el Louvre
el sentimiento de piedra de la Venus egipcia
o el gesto de bronce de una pierna de gladiador
           -sótanos y galerías de tesoros robados-
camino, palpo el tubérculo de los recuerdos
mi cuerpo de niña  
                  el silencio rígido
de la pureza
nada de entonces puede penetrarme en el miedo
como esta ciudad en la usura.

Read Next

september-2015-jose-tola-la-conquista