home | navigation  

issue 22: January -February 2001 

catalan original 

from
HAIR'S BREADTH
Epigrams/Epigraphs

by Antoni Clapés

translated from the Catalan
by Matthew Tree

 

I

To follow the groove
which runs along the infinite
grey lands

to arrive at the heart of poetry
stripping it
of words drawn from ritual artifice

 to approach in (the) silence
nothing more

 



II

The word tempts images
so as to reveal new ones,
sailing through an ocean of dream
until an invisible bird
stops its light:
                                    poetry
inhabits the poem,
the meaning is ripped.

                                                Unease.

 



III

Between the flickering flame
and the bramble, the poem
crackles: an insect
caught at last
in the silk of  a window curtain.

 



IV

Words on a dry stone wall,
crickets in the stream, chirping.
Branch,
            root,
                        silence.
                                    Fluttering
of words there where the copper-coloured
                        light lived.

Death howls.

 


V

The walker reaches
the cliff. He moves
along the thread of the poem,
                                                            pauses.
Writing is the enigma
of the bird frozen in mid-flight
in the shining twilight.

From doubt, knowledge is born.


 

VI

A bench
                        in the empty corridor…
just
            so that so much
                        melancholy might have a rest.               

 

VII

The mist hugs the ground,
for a moment
the light gets through, burning up
words, ancient voices,
a passion.

-Wipe out all meaning
                                    in order to feel.

Cold embers, extreme memory
hanging over the abyss
of the other
                        of yourself.

 

VIII

To climb to the peak
                                                and go on,
cutting through the wind.
Daring to go even further.

Only absence
                        leaves a trace.

 

IX

Afternoon douses the light:
the poem moves along a horizon
woven with crimson thread.
My lips brush the path
of  the butterflies of sleep.

 

X

The poem lives
                                    on the far bank
of meaning.


 

XI

Suddenly, I realise
how far I am from home,
living in another country,
living in another tongue.
It is then that it surprises me
I have no wish to move from here.

©  Antoni Clapés
© Translation:  Matthew Tree
catalan original 

These poems may not be archived or distributed further without the author's express permission. Please see our conditions of use.

navigation:                        barcelona review 22              january - february 2001
-Fiction

Frederick Barthelme - Driver
Helen Simpson - Wurstigkeit
Frank Huyler - two stories
John Aber - Massage
Juan Goytisolo - two stories

-Poetry Tim Turnbull - 7 poems
Antoni Clapés -
from Hair's Breadth
-Quiz

George Orwell
Answers to last issue's Gothic/Horror Quiz

-Regular Features Book Reviews
Back Issues
Links

Home | Submission info | Spanish | Catalan | French | Audio | e-m@il www.BarcelonaReview.com