Three poems of Esteban Moore
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05 April 2019
Author :  

Esteban Moore (Buenos Aires, 1952). Poet, translator and essayist. He has published ten volumes of poetry, among them Partes Mínimas -uno/dos- (2006, Alción, Córdoba, Argentina); El avión negro y otros poemas 2007, Buenos Aires, Fondo Metropolitano de las Artes y las Ciencias), Veinte años no son nada (2010, Alción, Córdoba, Argentina) y Poemas 1982-2007 (2015, Alción, Córdoba, Argentina). His essays have been gathered in Versiones y apropiaciones (Alción, Córdoba, 2012).

He has translated the work of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso and Raymond Carver. In 2012 for his work he was awarded the Alejo Zuloaga Order, Universidad de Carabobo, Valencia Venezuela.

 

 

Translated from Spanish by JoAnne Engelbert

 

 

 

At an Inn on the Way to Quirama, Medellín

 

 

Men with tan skin

drink in silence --rum brandy or beer

Blaring music 

--electrifies bodies

 

Around the bar a group of women talk

and laugh

and practice dance steps

to the rhythm of their -elegant  -seductive movements

they toss their black hair

which shines beneath the halo of  fluorescent light

reflecting undulating shimmers  -glints

lightning bolts     -voltaic snakes

 

..............above the bar from a giant poster

Marilyn in the apogee of peroxide

.............presides over the party

 

 

 

 

Remembering

 

 

You're standing on the corner waiting for a bus

and ------it's as if you were not there

but back on the dark side of your memory

in last night's nightmare

 

a whirlwind of confused images --

a gravestone --with no inscription and no date

and a black bird with a gold beak

straining

to tell you something

--in a language you don't understand

you close your eyes --the bus goes by --and now

you're sitting on the edge of your bed --watching

the bluish light

which filters through the Venetian blinds

kindle the infinite particles --that float in the air

 

....you open your eyes ---and don't know what to think

 

 

 

 

Paper Trail

 

 

One Saturday morning

going through old stuff in the attic

In an cardboard box I found a package

      wrapped in brown paper

          tied with hemp twine

   ----darkened by time

 

I opened it

and found some of my grandmother's letters -- recipes

yellowed bills  from businesses that no longer exist

medical reports

               newspaper clippings

                             -mainly obituaries

     --  holy cards

[along with many other records

   of her orderly domestic universe]

and several notebooks

from her final years

    in which she kept a record of her expenses

    in countless columns  --- from week to week

        in the market -- the bakery

             --for the newspaper

for her medicines

     --for a pedicure

    -- for new glasses  -- her doctor bills

 

Also recorded were the amounts she gave regularly

      to the Parish of San Patricio

and after them, this entry:

     "I left a bottle of whisky for the parish priest"

            and beside it the price she paid for it

Hard evidence of a personal strategy

     for assuring herself a place in heaven

 

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