tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte

Corazón mío, tengo miedo de amarte
Y no amarte. No puedo dormir
En la oscuridad y solamente puedo
Dormir en la oscuridad.

Deseo llenar tu insomnio con
Mis cabellos de madreselva y
Mi fresca, piel de otoño. Quiero
Dar las sombras debajo de los ojos
Mis dos perfectos, senos blancos
De peonías para descansar en.

Respiraría para ti en la noche terrible,
Hasta que los pulmones se conviertan en
Las alas de la mariposa y vuelan lejos.

Por eso,
Tengo miedo de amarte y no amarte.
No puedo decir estas cosas y
Solamente puedo decir estas cosas.



My love, I am afraid of loving you
And of not loving you. I cannot sleep
In the dark and I can only
Sleep in the dark.

I wish to fill up your sleeplessness with
My honeysuckle hair and my
Cool, autumn skin. I want to
Give the shadows under your eyes
My two perfect, white
Peony breasts to rest upon.

I would breathe for you in the terrible night,
Until my lungs turn into
Butterfly wings and fly away.

For these reasons,
I am afraid of loving you and of not loving you.
I cannot say these things and I
Can only say these things.

podrías decirme otra vez

Amado mio ¿podrías decirme otra vez
Que seamos dos personas que
Van a enamorarse?

Deseo oír la historia antes del
Viento frío entre por la
Ventana y apaga nuestra vela.

Quiero escucharla como si
Yo fuera una semillita que no sabe
Los tormentos o las estaciones.



My love, could you tell me again
That we are two people
Who are going to fall in love?

I wish to hear the story before the
Cold wind comes in through the
Window and blows out our candle.

I want to listen as if I were
A tiny seed that does not know about
Storms or seasons.

dropped off the edge off the world?

Actually just the continent. But I'm back and I'm way up in my Spanish vocabulary and minus all my luggage. Which would you rather have?

una estrofa para mi insomniodoro (translation follows, corrections welcome)

Amado mío, por la madrugada,
Tu no dormir es un pájaro dañado,
Asustado de sus propias alas que baten.

Mi despertar es un nido
Musgoso y húmedo por rocío—
Esperando, pero demasiado pequeño
Para contener todo tu insomnio.



My love, in the early morning,
Your un-sleeping is an injured bird,
Afraid of its own beating wings.

My waking is a dew-damp,
Mossy nest—
Waiting, but too small to hold
All of your sleeplessness.

tres colores (translation follows but i'm still learning so it might not be perfect)

No tengo palabras bastantes
Para decirte como la poesía
Me hace una mujer loca como
Una gata que tiene hambre.

Solamente puedo tratar de
Mostrarte el color de la noche
Y mi alma que esta llorando
Porque no tengo palabras bastantes.


Amado mío, cuando estoy contigo
Yo puedo oír los latidos
De mi corazón.
Y cuando no estoy contigo
Yo puedo oír los latidos
De mi corazón.

Soy un pajarito del mar
Atrapado entre
Amor salado del mar y
Libertad sosa de azul.


Escribo para que
Yo puedo decir lo que no puedo decir.
Escribo en español para contar la verdad.



Three Colors


I don’t have enough words
To tell you how poetry
Makes me a crazy woman
Like a hungry cat.

I can only try to show you
The color of night
And my soul crying
Because I don’t have enough words.


My love, when I am with you
I can hear the beating of my heart.
And when I am not with you,
I can hear the beating of my heart.

I am a tiny sea-bird
Trapped between
Salty sea-love and
Bland, blue freedom.


I write so that
I can say the things I cannot say.
I write in Spanish to tell the truth.

translation happens

It's the first day of the Spring term, and I walk into my Introduction to Spanish Literature class five minutes late and without my travel mug. Where did I leave my coffee mug? is the foremost question in my brain. And second is, Where in the hell is my coffee mug?

I take my seat and notice that la profesora had written the words "La Edad Media" on the chalkboard, which I quickly translate as "middle age." I'm a little confused about why we're discussing middle age in a Spanish Lit. class, but I figure it will lead into some significant literary work about middle age or written by an author during his or her middle age. You know, the Reverse Obscurity tactic employed by Literature Professors across the nation: "Let's think about the advent of the three-hole punch. Hmmm. . . and what does this suggest about Eliot's vision of civilization in The Waste Land?"

So, whatever, that's fine with me. If I can remember where I left my coffee mug, I'll consider my time here well spent.

La profesora had apparently instructed the class to form groups (my least favorite classroom activity, second only to "introduce yourself to your neighbor"), and discuss amongst ourselves, in Spanish, what middle age meant to us.

I caught the tail and broken-end of some of these discussions, but I had no idea what anyone was talking about. What the heck does a feudal system have to do with middle age? Unfortunately, however, I was the first student called on to share with the class, in Spanish, what middle age meant to me.

"I have many hair that is grey, and the eyes no see anymore much because I being near to the middle age."

Silence. Laughter. Lesson learned.

La Edad Media = The Middle Ages