THEO DORGAN [9365]

Theo Dorgan

Nacido en Cork, República de Irlanda, en 1953. Fue codirector del Cork Film Festival. Ha dirigido Poetry Ireland y realizado emisiones radiofónicas en RTE Radio 1. Publicó The Ordinary House of Love (1991) y Rosa Mundi (1995), así como The Great Book of Ireland (en colaboración con Gene Lambert, 1991), Revising the Rising (en colaboración con Máirín Ní Dhonnchadha, 1991) y, como editor, Irish Poetry After Kavanagh (1995).

Declaración de los exilados políticos

Para Kader & Louise Asmal*

Si es necesaria la cólera, seremos coléricos.

Si es necesaria la astucia, muy bien,

seremos astutos.

Si es necesaria la paciencia seremos roca

obstinada en el torrente.

Si significa marchas forzadas

en medio de la noche,

búsquennos cuando la luna baja,

un pie firme atrás del otro.

Si significa prisión,

aten nuestras muñecas, llévennos.

Si significa golpes,

cederemos como cañas,

como cañas volveremos a enderezarnos

cuando haya pasado la tormenta.

Podemos estar callados en los aeropuertos,

encerradas en el corazón nuestras canciones.

Podemos no tener rostros

en sus ciudades,

ser anónimos en sus campos;

podemos disolvernos como sal

en el mar de lágrimas,

podemos ser arena

arrastrada a las orillas.

Si hacen falta todos los eones necesarios

para convertir el carbón en diamante,

óigannos:

esos ríos corren en nuestra sangre,

ese jardín nos fue prometido

antes de que el tiempo empezara.

¿A quién pertenece la luz?

¿Quién tiene a su cargo el aire?

Si es necesaria la cólera,

seremos coléricos pero

en todo caso, créannos:

seguramente estamos yendo a casa.

¿Pueden hacer que un pájaro

vuele hacia atrás?

Créannos, estamos yendo a casa.

Nota:

* Kader y Louise Asmal fueron los activos representantes en Irlanda del Congreso Nacional Africano durante el período del apartheid sudafricano.

Traducción de Jorge Fondebrider

GAFFER

She loomed up out of the near-dusk,

long-keeler, gaff-ketch, maybe

fifty yards off. Coursing along, the hullwash

whispering on her faded sides.

I roared at the crew in temper,

where did he come from, there on the lee?

what kind of watch are ye keeping?

Everyone shrugged, I sounded unfair.

Ducked my head back inside,

could see nothing on radar.

Hailed him, the solitary man on the wheel.

He turned to look over at us,

tilted the brim of his cap, stared

off ahead again. Behind and inshore

the bullvoice of Roches Point.

The wind was fresh, I had a reef in

but he was carrying full sail, kerosene

running lights in his rigging, flare

of his port light a flame on the worn mainsail.

I took him for English, out of Dorset or Cornwall.

He flew no flag but everything there before us

spoke of an earned authority,

someone who’d put in the years. For maybe an hour

he held station there beside us and

never again cast a glance in our direction.

As full dark came on we shook out the reef

and pulled ahead – light displacement, fin-keel,

the boat barely two years old. I wanted more

from this meeting than I could grasp, had sand

in my brain inside, some mind’s infection.

We were bound for Kinsale but off the Sovereigns

something came over me, a sudden desire

to be out of the wind. We made in

for Oysterhaven, picked up a mooring

and settled for the night. Over the south ridge

with its deep woods a sky of stars stood up.

I stood there smoking while down below

there was laughter, a burr of voices, a rattle of pans.

Somebody’s mobile rang, strident and wrong.

“Where do you think he is now?” Geoff, coming up.

We turned to the scribble of surf

in the harbour mouth, half-expecting a sail

to blank the cottage lights. He must be staying out,

I said, making on for the west. The last red overhead faded,

a land breeze came up, smelling of leafmould.

Geoff rapped the coachroof with a knuckle, looked out

and away, said “Forecast is good, he’ll be okay.”

I don’t suppose, I said, the weather bothers him.