Selected Writings of César Vallejo. César Vallejo
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letting
the islands that linger make a will.
A little more consideration
as it will be late, early,
and easier to assay
the guano,2 the simple fecapital3 ponk4
a brackish gannet
toasts unintentionally,
in the insular heart, to each hyaloid
squall.
A little more consideration,
and liquid muck, six in the evening
OF THE MOST GRANDIOSE B-FLATS
And the peninsula raises up
from behind, muzziled,5 imperturbable
on the fatal balance line.
[CE]
II
Time Time.
Noon clogged up nighttime fog.6
Boring pump of the cellblock backwashes
time time time time.
Was Was.
Roosters songsing7 scratching in vain.
Clear day’s mouth that conjugates
was was was was.
Tomorrow Tomorrow.
The warm repose of being though.
The present thinks hold on to me for
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
Name Name.
What calls all that puts on hedge us?8
It’s called Thesame that suffers
name name name namE.9
[JM]
IV
Two carts grind our eardrums down
three-pwronged10 to our tear ducts, when
we never did anything to them.
To that other yes, unloved,
embitternessed11 in tunnel unsheltered
by the one, and over tough aljid12
spiritizing tests.
I stretched out like a third party,
but the evening—whatta whe to do—
rings around my head, furiously
not wanting two dose up on mother.13 They are
the rings.
They’re the already chawed nuptial tropics.
The withdrawal, best of all,
shatters the Crucible.
That not having discolored
at all. Side by side with fate and cries
and cries. The whole song
squared into three silences.
Heat. Ovary. Nearly transparency.
All’s been mourned. Vigil’s been utterly kept
in deep left.
[JM]
VI
The suit that tomorrow I wore
my laundress has not washed:
she used to wash it in her otilian14 veins,
at the brook of her heart, and I need today
not ask myself if I’ve left the suit
tinged with injustice.
At this our15 when no one’s going to the water,
the fabric for feathering
fledges on my guidelines, and everything
on the nightstand of so much what’ll become of me16
is not all mine
at my side.
They stayed put in her possession,
bonded, sealed up with her flaxen goodness.
And if I knew that she would return;
and if I knew what morning she’d walk in
to deliver me cleaned the clothes, that soul
laundress of mine. What a morning she’d walk in,
satisfied, a goldenberry of labor, delighted
to prove that yes she does know, that yes she can
HOW COULD SHE NOT!
dye blue and iron out all the chaoses.
[JM]
IX
I sdrive to dddeflect at a blow the blow.
Her two broad leaves, her valve
opening in succulent reception
from multiplicand to multiplier,
her condition excellent for pleasure,
all readies truth.17
I strive to ddeflect at a blow the blow.
To her flattery, I transasfixiate18 Bolivarian asperities
at thirty-two cables and their multiples,
hair for hair majestic thick lips,
the two tomes of the Work, constringe,
and I do not live absence then,
not even by touch.
I fail to teflect at a blow the blow.
We will never saddle the torose Trool
of egotism or of that mortal chafe
of the bedsheet,
since this here woman
—how she weighs being general!
And female is the soul of the absent-she.
And female is my own soul.
[CE]
X
Primary and final stone of groundless
chance, has soul and all
just died, October bedroom and pregnant.
From three months of absent and ten of sweet.
How fate,
the mitred monodactyl, laughs.
How unions of contraries
despair behind. How always the digit emerges
beneath all avatar lineage.
How whales go dutch with doves.19
How these in turn abandon their beak
cubed up in third wing.
How we saddlebow,20 facing monotonous haunches.
Toward the tenth are ten months towed,
toward another beyond.
At least two are still in diapers.
And the three months of absence.
And the nine of gestation.
There’s not even any violence.
The