The thing is, the place where I put
\nmy pants on is a house where
\nI take off my shirt out loud
\nand where I have a floor, a soul, a map of my Spain.
\nJust now I was talking to myself
\nabout myself, and setting
\na tremendous loaf of bread on a small book
\nand, afterward, I made a translation, I translated,
\nwanting to hum a little, the right
\nside of life to the left side;
\nlater, I washed my whole body, my stomach,
\nbravely, with dignity;
\nI turned round to see the things that get dirty,
\nscraped off the things that stick
\nand fixed up the map
\nthat was nodding or crying, I don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n
My house, unhappily, is a house, Having lived through fifteen years, Today is Sunday, and so ~<\/p>\n Ello es que el lugar donde me pongo Mi casa, por desgracia, es una casa, Habiendo atravesado Hoy es domingo y, por eso, (November 21, 1937)<\/p>\n The thing is, the place where I put my pants on is a house where I take off my shirt out loud and where I have a floor, a soul, a map of my Spain. Just now I was talking to myself about myself, and setting a tremendous loaf of bread on a small book […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[13],"tags":[25,36],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-xA","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2082"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2082"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2082\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10138,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2082\/revisions\/10138"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2082"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2082"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2082"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\na floor, fortunately, where my beloved
\nlittle spoon lives, with its little inscription,
\nmy dear skeleton, finally illiterate,
\nmy penknife, the perpetual cigarette. <\/em>
\nThe truth is, when I think about what life is,
\nI can\u2019t help telling Georgette about it,
\nso we can eat something good and go out
\nafternoons, buy a good newspaper, <\/em>
\nkeep one day for when there isn\u2019t
\nand a night too, for when there is
\n(a Peruvian saying\u2014forgive me);
\nin the same way, I suffer very carefully
\nso I won\u2019t yell or cry, since the eyes
\narrange, independently, one\u2019s privations
\nI mean, one\u2019s station, something
\nthat slips from the soul and falls to the soul.<\/p>\n
\nthen fifteen, and, before that, fifteen,
\none feels, actually, a little foolish,
\nit\u2019s natural, as for the rest, what to do?
\nAnd what\u2019s worse\u2014what to stop<\/em> doing.
\nExcept live, except become
\nwhat one is, among millions
\nof loaves, among thousands of wines, among hundreds of mouths,
\nbetween the sun and its light that is moonlight
\nand between the eucharist, bread, wine and my soul.<\/p>\n
\nideas come to my head, tears to my breast
\nand my throat, like a great lump.
\nToday is Sunday, and this
\nis eons of years old; on the other hand,
\nit could have been, say, Monday, and ideas would have come
\nto my heart, and tears to my brain,
\nand to my throat, a terrifying desire to drown
\nwhat I now feel
\nlike what I am, a man who has suffered.<\/p>\n(Untitled)<\/h3>\n
\nel pantal\u00f3n, es una casa donde
\nme quito la camisa en alta voz
\ny donde tengo un suelo, un alma, un mapa de mi Espa\u00f1a
\nAhora mismo hablaba
\nde m\u00ed conmigo, y pon\u00eda
\nsobre un peque\u00f1o libro un pan tremendo
\ny he, luego, hecho el traslado, he trasladado,
\nqueriendo canturrear un poco, el lado
\nderecho de la vida al lado izquierdo;
\nm\u00e1s tarde, me he lavado todo, el vientre,
\nbriosa, dignamente;
\nhe dado vuelta a ver lo que se ensucia,
\nhe raspado lo que me lleva tan cerca
\ny he ordenado bien el mapa que
\ncabeceaba o lloraba, no lo s\u00e9.<\/p>\n
\nun suelo por ventura, donde vive
\ncon su inscripc\u00edon mi cucharita amada,
\nmi querido esqueleto ya sin letras,
\nla navaja, un cigarro permanente.
\nDe veras, cuando pienso
\nen lo que es la vida,
\nno puedo evitar dec\u00edrselo a Georgette,
\na fin de comer algo agradable y salir,
\npor la tarde, comprar un buen peri\u00f3dico,
\nguarder un d\u00eda para cuando no haya
\nuna noche tambi\u00e9n, para cuando no haya
\n(as\u00ed se dice en el Per\u00fa\u2014me excuso);
\ndel mismo modo, sufro con gran cuidado,
\na fin de no gritar o de llorar, ya que los ojos
\nposeen, independientemente de uno, sus pobrezas,
\nquiero decir, su oficio, algo
\nque resbala del alma y cae al alma.<\/p>\n
\nquince a\u00f1os; despu\u00e9s, quince, y, antes, quince,
\nuno se siente, en realidad, tontillo,
\nes natural, por lo dem\u00e1s, \u00a1qu\u00e9 hacer!
\n\u00bfY qu\u00e9 dejar de hacer, que es lo peor?
\nSino vivir, sino llegar
\n\u00e1 ser lo que es uno entre millones
\nde panes, entre miles de vinos, entre cientos de bocas,
\nentre el sol y su rayo que es de luna
\ny entre la misa, el pan, el vino y mi alma.<\/p>\n
\nme viene a la cabeza la idea, al pecho el llanto
\ny a la garganta, as\u00ed como un gran bulto.
\nHoy es domingo, y esto
\ntiene muchos siglos; de otra manera,
\nser\u00eda, quiz\u00e1, lunes, y vendr\u00edame al coraz\u00f3n la idea,
\nal seso, el llanto
\ny a la garganta, una gana espantosa de ahogar
\nlo que ahora siento,
\ncomo un hombre que soy y que he sufrido.<\/p>\nby C\u00e9sar Vallejo<\/a>, translated by\u00a0Amy Demas Grunder<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"