Elias Nandino

Though Latin America has a strong tradition of poetry, many of its best poets remain untranslated in the United States. Elkas Nandino (1900–1993) was a Mexican poet who made his living as a surgeon and physician. He published twenty volumes of poetry in his lifetime, work often focused on solitude, eroticism, and love. In recognition of his dedication to teaching and assisting young writers, the National Young Poets Prize in Mexico is named in his honor. This is the first book-length English translation of Nandino’s poetry.

Si hubieras sido tú

Si hubieras sido tú, lo que en las sombras, anoche,
bajó por la escalera del silencio
y se posó a mi lado,
para crear el cauce de acentos en vacío
que, me imagino, será el lenguaje de los muertos.
Si hubieras sido tú, de verdad, la nube sola
que detuvo su viaje debajo de mis párpados
y se adentró en mi sangre,
amoldándose a mi dolor reciente
de una manera leve, brisa, aroma,
casi contacto angelical soñado…
Si hubieras sido tú,
lo que apartando la quietud oscura
se apareció, tal como si fuera tu dibujo
espiritual, que ansiaba convencerme
de que sigues, sin cuerpo, viviendo en la otra vida.
Si hubieras sido tú la voz callada
que se infiltró en la voz de me conciencia,
buscado incorporarte en la palabra
que tu muerte expresaba con mis labios.
Si hubieras sido tú, lo que al dormirme
descendió como bruma, poco a poco,
y me fue encarcelando
en una vaga túnica de vuelo fallecido…

Si hubieras sido tú la llama llama
que inquemante creó, sin despertarme
ni conmover el lago del azoro:
tu inmaterial presencia,
igual que en el espejo emerge
la imagen, sin herirle
el límpido frescor de su epidermis.
Si hubieras sido tú..

Pero nuestros sentidos corporales
no pueden identificar las ánimas.
Los muertos, si es que vuelven,
tal vez ya no conserven
los peculiares rasgos
que nos pudieran dar
la inmensa dicha de reconocerlos.

platicaba del amoroso asedio
con que la muerte sigue a nuestra vida.
Y hablábamos los dos adivinando,
haciendo conjeturas,
ajustando preguntas, inventando respuestas,
para quedar al fin
sumidos en derrota,
muriendo en vida por pensar la muerte.
Ahora tú ya sabes descifrar el misterio
porque estás en su seno, pero yo…

¿Quién más pudo venir a visitarme?
Recuerdo que, contigo solamente,
en esta incertidumbre secretamente pienso
que si no fuiste tú, lo que en las sombras, anoche,
bajó por la escalera del silencio
y se posó a mi lado,
entonces quizá fue
una vista de mi propia muerte.

Nocturna Suma
1955

If It Was You

If it was you who descended the stairway of silence
in the shadows last night
and rested beside me
to create the channel of voices from the void
which, I imagine, must be the language of the dead.
If it was you, truthfully, the single cloud
that paused its voyage beneath my eyelids
and entered my blood,
molding itself to my recent pain
lightly, like a breeze, fragrant,
almost the sound of angelic contact…
If it was you
who, parting the dark quiet,
appeared as if you were a spiritual image
anxious to convince me
that you go on, formless, living another life.
If it was you, the silent voice
that infiltrated the voice of my consciousness
looking to give shape in words
to what your death expressed from my lips.
If it was you who, when I fell asleep,
little by little, descended like mist,
and imprisoned me
in a hazy shroud of deceased flight…

If you were the flame that was created
without burning, calling me without waking
nor stirring the lake of restlessness,
your intangible presence,
like that of a mirror from which
the image emerges without injuring
the clean, refreshing air of its skin.
If it was you..

But our bodily senses
cannot identify souls.
If they do return, perhaps
the dead no longer have
their unique features
which would give us
the good fortune of recognizing them.

Who else could have come to visit me?
I remember that I used to talk only
with you about the loving siege
that death wages against our life,
and the two of us would talk, guessing,
making conjectures
composing questions, inventing answers,
only to end up
completely defeated,
dying in life from thinking about death.
Now you already know how to unravel the mystery
because you are in its lap, but I…

In this uncertainty, I am secretly sure,
if it wasn’t you who descended the stairway of silence
in the shadows last night,
and rested beside me,
then perhaps it was
a visit from my very own death.