Freu
I
M'endinso amb l'heura pel forat del pany.
Quin vent m'ha dut a la porta del bosc?
No hi ha senyals als arbres del tocom.
El desig ha esfullat el cel sense resposta.
Al nou convit, un envelat de pluja!
Escampats sobre l'herba, pels ravals d'aquest vi,
la sal del joc i el pebre de l'amor,
i el teu cos i el meu cos, recapte de la festa.
Qui ens ha parat la taula amb tovalles de grana?
Quin trenta de febrer de quin sol? Quin planeta?
Quina mar mig s'albira des del castell de cartes?
La foscor dóna cobri a l'averany més fosc.
Camí d'enlloc, de tornada d'enlloc
t'estimo, exiliada al perquè dels poetes.
II
Guaita! Tenim les mans de la mateixa mida!
I les meves per grosses, les teves per menudes!
Veus? L'ocell fosc ha baixat a l'onada
i el peix de llum s'ha ajocat a la branca.
La branca és aigua i l'onada treu fulles.
El peix fosqueja entre el velam de l'aire.
L'ocell és clar. La lluna submarina.
Guaita! Tenim les mans de la mateixa mida.
L'ona tragina fruita al grat del vent.
La branca trenca als esculls del capvespre.
Lluna de nacre, gavadals de boira
ens capgiren la casa i la tendresa.
Ja ni sabem on s'han trobat, amor,
les nostres mans de la mateixa mida.
III
Ens besem a ple bosc, en clariana fosca,
on només planen ombres d'ocells sense memòria.
Els esquirols amaguen els mots sota les pinyes.
La lluna oblida el foc que li encén la cara.
Les falgueres crepiten amb el rou de la festa
– ni ho saben, que hi ha l'erm ordenat de l'herbari!
Per venir ens hem buidat les butxaques i els ulls
i hem deixat endarrere cartipassos i noses.
Ens traiem els vestits i ens abraçem badats
com dues boques foses: som la carn dins de l'ungla.
I quan ens en tornem, plens a vessar, brandem
paperines molt fondes amb les mans de l'amor.
I escampem per la plaça major d'aquest neguit
serramostre de mel i de llet i de fulles...
IV
Avui la primavera se m'ha fet tota meva
com una criatura: dóna més que no rep.
Ha pres a mà les regnes del meu cor, i l'estrep,
i desnua amb pols ferm la tristor que s'agleva.
Cerco un tast de vi nou. Calço qualsevol ham
– rebost esbatanat a la fruita i al re...
Plouen fulles d'olor, i el bon temps que em diu: té!
M'enduc, com un veler, sol i lluna al velam.
I a casa no m'esperes, amor, per fer-te'n do.
Les hores s'afileren, mals hostes del convit,
i l'enyor de mans balbes adoba la saó.
Un no sé què s'esbalça en cascades sobre el llit,
i, en no trobar l'eixida per portes ni balcons,
esbarria pel sostre teraranys de petons!
Strait
I
The ivy and I squeeze through the keyhole.
What wind has brought me to the door in the woods?
There are no signs on the trees hereabouts.
Desire has stripped the sky of leaves and there’s no answer.
For the new feast, a marquee made of rain!
Spread out on the grass, in the suburbs of this wine,
the salt of play and the pepper of love,
and your body and my body, the food for the party.
Who has set our table with a scarlet cloth?
What thirtieth of February of what sun? What planet?
What sea half-glimpsed from this house of cards?
Darkness lends shelter to the darkest omen.
On the path back, returning from that place
I love you, exiled to the reason why of poets.
II
Look! Your hands and mine are the same!
Though mine are big and yours are tiny!
Do you see? The dark bird has swooped to the wave
and the shining fish has gone to roost on the branch.
The branch is water and the wave puts forth leaves.
The fish grows dark among the sails of the air.
The bird is pale. The moon, underwater.
Look! Your hands and mine are the same!
The wave carts fruit at the wind’s pleasure.
The branch breaks on the reefs of evening.
Mother-of-pearl moon, and fathoms of mist
turn house and tenderness upside-down.
Nor do we know, love, how they found each other,
these hands of ours that are the same.
III
We kiss in the depths of the wood, in a dark clearing,
where only the shadows of birds with no memory soar.
Squirrels hide words away beneath pine-cones.
The moon forgets the fire that burns her face.
The ferns crackle with the dew of the feast—though they
know nothing, such is the flora’s orderly wilderness!
Coming here we have emptied our pockets and eyes
leaving all notebooks and hindrances behind.
We throw off our clothes and embrace, gaping
like two mouths fused: we are the quick beneath the nail.
And when we return, full to overflowing, we balance
deep, deep cones in love’s hands.
And we scatter over the main square of this discomfort
aftermath of honey and milk and leaves…
IV
Today the spring has made itself all mine
like a child: it gives more than it receives.
It has taken in hand the reins of my heart, and its stirrups,
and strips congealed misery away with steady pulse.
I search for a taste of new wine. I hunt out any old bait—
larder open wide for fruit and for anything…
Pungent leaves rain down, and the good weather says: “Grab hold!”
Like a sailing-vessel, I seize the sun and moon for my canvas.
And at home don’t wait for me, love, to make you a gift of it.
The hours are lining up, wretched hosts of the feast,
and the yearning of numb hands seasons the time.
Something, I know not what, hurls itself on to the bed in torrents,
and, finding no way out through doors or balconies,
scatters over the ceiling cobwebs of kisses!
Maria Mercé Marçal (1952 – 1998) was a Catalan poet, university professor and translator. Her first book of poems, Cau de lunes (Lair of moons), won the prestigious Carles Riba prize in 1976. She became a fervent supporter of the Catalan Left and a staunch feminist. Her poems are sung by singers like Maria del Mar Bonet and Ramon Muntaner. She has translated the work of Marguerite Yourcenar, Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva and Baudelaire. The author of almost a dozen books, she died of cancer when only 45. Her work is characterised by a passionate lyricism, masterly use of traditional forms and imagery drawn from the natural world. The four sonnets published here are from 'Freu', Sal Oberta, (Llibres del Mall, 1982) ('Strait', Bare-faced salt).
Anna Crowe (translator) is the former artistic director of StAnza, Scotland's Poetry Festival, and author of two Peterloo collections, Skating Out of the House and Punk with Dulcimer. Figure in a Landscape (Mariscat 2010) won the Callum MacDonald Memorial Award in 2011, was PBS Pamphlet Choice and published in Catalan/English as Paisatge amb figura (Ensiola 2011). Tugs in the fog (Bloodaxe 2006), translations of Catalan poet Joan Margarit's work, was a PBS Recommendation; a second volume, Strangely Happy, appeared in 2011. She has translated an anthology of Catalan poetry, 6 Catalan Poets, for Arc Publications (March 2013). With Joan Margarit she has translated poems by RS Thomas into Catalan, published June 2013 in a bilingual edition by Proa, and a book of poems by the Mexican poet, Pedro Serrano, for Arc, spring 2014. In 2005 she was awarded a Travelling Scholarship by the Society of Authors. Website: www.annacrowe.co.uk