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Carlos Barbarito

of

Muñiz, Buenos Aires, Argentina

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carbar8@hotmail.com (Carlos Barbarito)


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Amsterdam; a Mirta Kupferminc

by

Carlos Barbarito

...hijos de un alma tímida
que la tristeza arroja al delirio.
Spinoza, Tratado teológico-político.

Y ahora todo sucede,
afección de una sustancia
menos densa que la noche
y más espesa que el agua.
A través de un juego de lentes
- que otros llaman dios -,
un eco reverbera de muro en muro
bajo la lluvia.
Y ahora nada sucede,
rotura, emigración, extravío,
piedra que al ser frotada
no produce chispa.
No hay agua que bebida
traiga sueños, visiones.
No hay materia que,
imantada o perforada, revele su secreto.
Alguien, un instante antes de morir,
siente que la vida
no es sino una variante menor
de la fuerza que pudre los frutos
y arrastra las hojas secas.


María Gracia Subercaseaux, Espejo

by

Carlos Barbarito

Los ojos abiertos, cuando está oscuro,
los ojos cerrados, cuando estalla
el relámpago. ¿Qué
falla en el instante puro,
en la instancia más abierta y destilada?
No somos polvo ni hierba.
Y lo somos, aunque entremos al mar
y, entre olas, sepamos
que allá abajo hay plantas y peces.
¿Quién instaló muerte,
azar? ¿Quién puso llama
en el extremo de la vela,
bestias cabeza abajo,
dolor en el dolor?
¿Es todo cuanto podemos decir?
¿Y esa que, desnuda,
al pie de una cama
con sábanas revueltas,


(To Norbert Guthier)

by

Carlos Barbarito


Against a wind that breaks,
some are suspended by a thread over earth
that meets no boundary;
in some remote Orient
others will pierce a bone
and through the cavity they will look at what is born and dies;
here the eyelids lick each other,
the thighs bite each other, between one light
from above and another from below.
Tomorrow, perhaps, they will try out gas masks,
they will draw chalk lines
to separate desire from logic;
tomorrow, perhaps, they may weep
and do their clothes up tight
to plunge once more into darkness;
but now, they swing embraced
and naked, placed in such a way
that they look like birds made only of veins;
by their action, even though ephemeral,
the beasts slough their skin,
red tears fall into the sea
and burn it.

Translated by Brian Cole

To Laura Yasán

by

Carlos Barbarito



Pain - a music that fades away,
a silence that is peopled with bad dreams -,
it is the only thing that survives
after the cold flames,
error implanted in the world.
I cry out,
I do not know what is concentrated and what is scattered,
what builds a house and what
hides in the waste land,
I hardly know that that mark on the wood
exudes a substance
that drips onto a grass
that is irreparably dry.
And the air and the water impoverish each other,
lose height and measure,
one body and another body no longer fit together,
real life draws back
with its excess of theory,
of calculation, of derivation,
of doubt.

Translated by Brian Cole

The dream flees the dream...

by

Carlos Barbarito


The dream flees the dream,
nothing can hold it, neither
rope, nor magnet, nothing. And this remains,
wood that burns and smokes, alone.
From the shoulder to the belly, a stake.
Of flesh with an air of flesh, a stake.
Years, days, years:
they strike,
they grind, devour, revile,
through a channel of silence,
with eyes open, mouth silent,
something broken that was alive, in the centre.
And if a poem, this one, all poems, are words,
are words enough, do they suffice?

Translated by Brian Cole