You are on page 1of 9

VICENTE HUIDOBRO

ALTAZOR

POEM

With a portrait of the author by Pablo Picasso


PREFACE
I was born at thirty-three years old, the day of Christ's death; I was born on the equinox,
under the hydrangeas and the heat airplanes.
Had a deep pigeon look, of tunnel and of sentimental automotive. Launched acrobat sighs.
My father was blind, and his hands were more admirable than the night.
I love the night, chapeau of everyday, evening, night of day, the day till next.
My mother spoke like the aurora and like the falling blimps. Had banner color hairs and
eyes full extend distant vessels.
One afternoon I grabbed my parachute and said: «Between a star and two swallows. » Here
it is the coming death like the earth to the globe that falls.
My mother embroidered desert tears in the first rainbows.
And now my parachute falls from dream to dream by the death spaces.
The first day I found an unknown bird who told me:
«If I was a dromedary, I wouldn’t be thirsty. ¿What time it is? » Drank my hairs dewdrops, threw
me three and half looks and walked away saying: «Goodbye» with his snobby tissue.
Until two of that day, I found a precious airplane, full of flakes and snails. Looking for a
corner of heaven where to shelter from the rain.
Far away, all the anchored ships, in the dye of the aurora. Suddenly, it started to detach,
one by one, trailing as pavilion shreds of uncontested aurora.
Along with the last ones leaving, the aurora disappeared leaving behind some waves
inordinately inflatables.
Then I heard talking about the Creator, nameless, which is a simple hole in the void,
beautiful as a belly button.
«I made a great noise, and that noise formed the ocean and the waves of the ocean.
»This noise will always stick to the waves of the sea and the waves of the sea always stick
to it, like the seals in the post cards.
«After I knitted a large brahman of luminous thunders to knit every day, one by one; days
that have legitimate orient or reconstructed but indisputable.
»After I traced the earth's geography and the lines of the hand.
«After I drank a little bit of cognac (due to the hydrography).
»After I created the mouth and the lips of the mouth, to apprehend the wrong smiles and
the teeth of the mouth to keep an eye on the curses that come into the mouth.
«I’ve created the tongue of the mouth that the men deviate of their roll, making her to learn
to talk… to her, her, the pretty swimmer, deviated forever by her aquatic roll and purely caressing.
»
My parachute started to fall vertiginously. That is the force of the attraction of death and
the open sepulcher.
Can you believe it, the grave is open with all of their magnets. And this I tell it to you, to
you that when you smile you make me think of the beginning of the world.
My parachute got stuck in a dull star who followed her orbit conscientiously, as if it ignored
the futility of its efforts.
And taking advantage of this rest well gained, I started to fill with deep thoughts the squares
of my board:
«The true poems are blazes. Poetry spreads everywhere, lighting up its consummations
with tremors of pleasures of agony.
»It must be written in a non-native language.
»The four cardinal points are three: the South and the North.
»A poem is a thing that’ll be.
»A poem is a thing that never is, but it should be.
»A poem is a thing that has never been, that never could be.
»Run away from the sublime external, if you don’t want to die smashed by the wind.
»If I do not do, at least one madness by year. I would go mad.
I take my parachute, at the edge of my marching star, I throw myself into the atmosphere
of the last breath.
Wheel endlessly over the rocks of the dreams, I roll among the clouds of death.
Found the Virgen sitting on a rose, who says to me:
«Look at my hands: they're as transparent as the electric bombs. ¿Do you see the filaments
where it runs the blood of my intact light.
»Look at my aureole. It has some, it has some jumps, which proves my old age.
»I’m the Virgen, the Virgen without human ink stains, the only one which is not to be half-
heartedly, and I’ the captain of the other eleven thousand that were indeed restored.
»I speak a language that fills the heart according to the law of the communicative clouds.
»I say farewell and I stay.
»Love me, my son, for I adore your poetry and I’ll show you aerial prowess.
»I’ve so much need of tenderness, kiss my hairs, which I’ve washed this morning in the
clouds of the alba and now I want on the mattress of the intermittent mist.
»My glances are a wire on the horizon to the swallows rest.
»Love me.
I got down on my knees in the circular space and the Virgin elevate and came to sit on my
parachute.
I fell asleep and recited my most beautiful poems.
The flames of my poetry dried the hairs of the Virgin who said thank you and got away,
sitting on her soft rose.
And here I’m alone, like the little orphan of the anonymous fragments.
Ah, so beautiful… so beautiful.
I see the mountains, the rivers, then jungles, the sea, the ships, the flowers and the snails.
I see the night and the day and the axis in which they come together.
Ah, ah, I’m Altazor the great poet, without a horse that eats birdseed, neither heats its throat
with moonlight, but with my little parachute like a parasol over the planets.
From every sweat drop of my forehead, I made born astro, which I lead to you the
homework to baptize as bottles of wine.
I see it all, I have my brain forged in prophet languages.
The mountain is the God’s sigh ascending in swollen thermometers until touches the
beloved feet.
That one who has seen everything, who knows all the secrets without being Walt Whitman,
well I’ve never had a white beard like the beautiful nurses and the frozen creeks.
The one who hears during the night the hammers of the fake money purses, which are only
active astronomers.
The one who drinks the hot glass of wisdom after the deluge obeying the pigeons and who
knows the route of the fatigue, the boiling wake left by the ships.
The one who knows the memory stores and beautiful forgotten stations.
Him, the pastor of airplanes, the conductor of lost nights and of the mastered ponents to
the unique poles.
His complaint is akin to a flickering network of aeroliths without a witness.
The day lowers in his heart and he lowers the eyelid drops to make the night of agricultural
rest.
Wash his hands in God’s glaze and combs his hair like light and the harvest of those thin
spikes of the satisfied rain.
The screams go away like a flock on the hills when the stars sleep after a night of
continuous work.
The beautiful hunter front of the celest drinker to the heartless birds.
Be sad as if the gazelles against the infinite and the meteors, as is the deserts without
mirages.
Until the beginning of a swollen mouth full of kisses for the harvest of exile.
Be sad, for she waits for you in a corner of this year that goes by.
Maybe it’s at the edge of your favorite song and will be gorgeous as the freedom waterfall
and as rich as the equatorial line.
Be sad, sadder than the rose, the beautiful cage of our looks and the bees without
experience.
Life is a journey in a parachute and is not what you want to believe.
We’re falling, falling from our zenith to our nadir and left the air filled with blood to poison
themselves the ones who come tomorrow to breathe it.
Inside yourself, outside of yourself, you will fall from the zenith to nadir because this is
your destiny, your miserable destiny. And as long as you fall from the top, the higher the bounce
will be, the longer your length in the memory of the stone.
We have jumped into the womb of our mother or the edge of a star and we are falling.
Ah, my parachute, the only perfumed rose of the atmosphere, the rose of death, overturned
between the stars of death.
Have you heard? This is the sinister noise of the closed chests.
Open the door of your soul and come out to breathe outside. You can open with a sight the
door that the hurricane has closed.
Man, here is your parachute, wonderful like vertigo.
Poet, here is your parachute, wonderful like the magnet of the abyss.
Wizard, here is your parachute that a word of yours can convert in a paraclimbs wonderful
like the thunder that would want to blind the creator.
What are you waiting for?
But behold the secret of the tenebrous one who forgot his smile.
And the parachute awaits tied to the door like the horse of the endless escape.
CHANT II

Woman the word is furnished by your eyes


The sky rises higher in your presence
The earth extends from rose to rose
And the air extends from pigeon to pigeon

As you leave you left a star in your place


You drop your lights as the boat passes
While my bewitched chant follows you
As a melancholic and loyal snake
And you turn your head behind some star

What combat is held in space?


Those light spears between planet
Reflection of merciless armors
What bloodthirsty star does not want to give way?
Where are you, sad night owl
Giver of infinite
That walks in the forest of dreams

Here I am lost in the desert seas


Alone as the feather that falls from a bird in the night
Here I am in a cold tower
Sheltered by the memory of your marine lips
From the memory of your complacencies and your hair
Luminous and untied as the mountain’s rivers
Would you go be blind that God gave you those hands?
I ask you again

The arch of your eyebrows tended for the weapons of the eyes
At the offensive winged sure winner sure with flower pride
The pummeled stones speak to you for me
The skyless waves of birds speak to you for me
The windless color of the landscapes speaks to you for me
The flock of taciturn sheep speaks to you for me
Asleep on your memory
The uncovered creek speaks to you for me
The survivor grass tied to the adventure
Adventure of light and blood of horizon
Without further shelter than a fading flower
If there is a little wind

The lowlands are lost under your fragile grace


The word gets lost under your visible walking
Since everything is artificial when you introduce yourself
With your dangerous light
Innocent harmony with no fatigue nor oblivion
Element of tear that rolls inward
Built from haughty fear and silence.

You make time doubt


And the heaven with infinite instincts
Far from you, everything is mortal
You throw agony by the humiliated land of nights
Just what thinks of you has taste of eternity

Here is your star that passes


With your breath of far fatigues
With you gestures and your way of walking
With the magnetized space that greets you
That separate us with leagues at night

However, I warn you that we are sewn


To the same star
We are sewn by the same music laid down
From one to another
By the same giant shadow agitated like the tree
Let’s be that piece of heaven
That piece that passes the mysterious adventure
The adventure of the planet that burst in dream petals

In vain you would try to evade my voice


And to jump the walls of my praises
We are sewn by the same stars
You are tied to the mockingbird of moons
That has a sacred ritual in the throat

What do I care about the signs of the night?


And the root and funeral echo that they have in my chest
What do I care about the luminous enigma?
The emblems that light up the chance
And those islands that travel through chaos without destiny to my eyes
What do I care about that fear of flower in the void
What do I care about the name of nothingness
The name of the infinity desert
Or the will or the chance they represent
And if in that desert each star is a desire for oasis
Or flags of presage and from death

I have an atmosphere of my own in your breath


The fabulous security of your glaze with your intimate constellations
With its own language of seed
Your luminous forehead like a ring of God
Firmer than anything in the flora of the sky
Without the whirlwinds of a universe that is running amok
Like a horse because of its shadow in the air

I ask you again


Would you go be mute that God gave you those eyes?

I have that voice of yours for every defense


This voice that comes out of you in heartbeats
This voice in which eternity falls
And it breaks into pieces of phosphorescent spheres
What would life be if you had not been born?
A comet without a mantle, freezing to death

I found you like a tear in a forgotten book


With your sensitive name from before in my chest
Your name made from the noise of flying doves
You bring in you the memory of other higher lifes
From a God found somewhere
And deep inside yourself, you remember that it was you
The bird of yesteryear in the key to the poet

Dream in a dream submerged


The hair that is tied up makes the day
The hair when untied makes the night
Life contemplates the oblivion
Only live your eyes on the word
The only planetarium system without fatigue
Serene skin anchored in the heights
Unaware of any net and stratagem
In its force of self-absorbed light
Behind you life is afraid
Because you are the depth of everything
The word becomes majestic when you pass
Tears falling from heaven are heard
And you erase in the asleep soul
The bitterness of being alive
The orb becomes lightweight on the backs

My joy is to hear the sound of the wind in your hair


(I recognize that noise from far away)
When the boats capsize, and the river drags tree trunks
You are a lamp of flesh in the storm
With the hair in the wind
Your hair where the sun goes to look for its best dreams
My joy is to look at you lonely at the divan of the word
Like the hand of a sleepy princess
With your eyes that evoke a piano of smells
A drink of paroxysms
A flower that is no longer perfuming
Your eyes hypnotize loneliness
Like the wheel that keeps turning after the catastrophe

My joy is to look at you when you listen


That ray of light walks toward the end of the water
And you stay suspended for a long while
Many stars passed through the sea sieve
Nothing then has such an emotion
Not a mast calling for wind
Not an airplane blind palpating the infinite
Not the dove emaciated sleeping on a regret
Not the rainbow with the wings sealed
More beautiful than the parable of a verse
The parable lay in the nocturn bridge from soul to soul

Born in all the places where I put the eyes


With the head up
And all the hair to the wind
You are more beautiful than the whinny of a foal in the mountain
That the siren of a ship that lets out all her soul
That the lighthouse in the mist looking for someone to save
You are more beautiful than the swallow crossed by the wind
You are the noise of the sea in summer
You are the noise of a populous street full of admiration

My glory is in your eyes


Dressed in the luxury of your eyes and their internal brightness
I’m sitting in the most sensitive corner of your gaze
Under the static silence of immobile eyelashes.
It comes out an omen from the bottom of your eyes
And a wind of ocean undulates your pupils

Nothing compares to that legend of seeds that leaves your presence


To that voice that seeks a dead star to return to life
Your voice makes an empire in space
And that hand that rises on you as if were hanging suns in the air
And that look that writes words in the infinity
And that head that folds to listen to a murmur in the eternity
And that foot that is the party of the chained paths
And those lids that come stranding the sparks of the ether
And that kiss that swells the prow of your lip
And that smile like a banner in front of your life
And that secret that direct the tides of your chest
Asleep in the shadow of your breasts

If you died
The stars despite its lighted lamp
Would lose the way
What would be of the universe?

You might also like