Un Poco Poesia en Miercoles

Part of my project here involves searching out and discovering new poetry. I narrowly missed National World Poetry Day (how is this not on my calendar w/ Xmas and Easter??) and a performance of poetry at the House of Poetry in Sevilla called “POESÍA COMESTIBLE.” Edible Poetry. Damn. Would have been an amazing display of poetry utilizing vocabulary I don’t know.

Oh well. As substitute, I have looked into some of the poets who were there and found some pretty lovely contemporary work going on here in Spain. From political poetry to experiements with form, I am definitely missing out by not being able to more easily tap into what’s happening here in the Spanish language.

One of the poets I discovered is Sara Herrera Peralta. Sara is from Jerez de la Frontera (about an hour south of here), the same age as me and already has four books out. (!en serio? come on!) I’m really enchanted with a lot of what I’m able to read of her work, and this poem from her new collection spoke to me for a number of reasons and fit nicely with much of my thoughts on travel and how we all continue to search for (fill in the blank). I’ll include my own translation here.

Dreams Agency

Cantamos y maldecimos los días de hambre,
de hambre y de Nocilla,
teniéndolo todo y no teniendo nada.

Cantamos creyendo en el paraíso
de una playa desierta con palmera inclinada,
el olor salado y el sonido de las olas,
cabalgando.

Testimoniamos los hechos.
Y quizá, algún día, sepamos por qué las colas son largas
en el Corte Inglés, – una vez que hemos comprado ya
el papel higiénico, el arroz y los huevos -
en la agencia de viajes.
Un billete, por favor.
Un billete para ir a algún sitio,
no importa dónde, lejos del barrio.

Cuando cantemos creyendo que el paraíso existe,
que de verdad hay una playa
y una isla desierta
y un cocotero
y una palmera,
cuando cantemos, por fin, convencidos
de que el paraíso existe,
los dioses serán menos,
ya no tendremos tantos sueños.

Dreams Agency

We sing and we curse the days of hunger,
real hunger,
hunger for Nutella.
Don’t we have it all,
and don’t we have nothing?

We sing of belief in paradise
in a deserted beach with palms leaning,
the smell of salt, the sound
of waves riding the shore.

We stick to the facts.
And maybe, someday we might know why the lines are long
at the Corte Ingles — once we have bought
toilet paper, rice and eggs — why people wait
in the travel agency.

One ticket, please.
One ticket, to go to another place,
it doesn’t matter where, far from this city.

Only when we sing of our belief
that paradise exists, the truth
of this beach, of desert island,
coconut, and palm,
when we sing, finally, certain
of this heaven,
only then the gods will come down
from their heights,
and our dreaming will cease.