This month sees the publication of my latest book of translations, Invisible Dog, by the Mexican poet Fabio Morábito.

Many thanks to the team at Carcanet for their work in producing this handsome volume.

We did an online launch on 6 November, hosted by the excellent Curtis Bauer, and featuring the poet himself — and I did a short video for Carcanet in which I talked about the translation process, which can be viewed here. But best of all, those wishing to hear some of the poems might wish to come along to Little Man in Cardiff, at 18.30 on Tuesday 3rd December, where I will be doing a reading, with the support and collaboration of the wonderful Christina Thatcher.

To whet the appetite, I will leave you with a trio of poems from the collection, in their English translations, with the Spanish below:

To get to Puebla

So many years without knowing how to get to Puebla,
which junction of which artery you have to take
to get to Puebla,
only two hours distant!
People go to Puebla and return
the same day,
I myself have been to Puebla 
(who hasn’t been to Puebla?)
and so many years without knowing how to get there!

Show me how to get to Puebla,
which is two hours distant,
and to believe in God,
who is so close that He can be reached
and returned from the same day.
I myself have believed in God
(who hasn’t believed in God?)
The same thing happens with Him as with Puebla,
I don’t know which junction of which artery to take.

What has become of my life
that I haven’t learned what everyone knows:
to speak with God and to visit and return from Puebla the same day?
I only know the road to Cuernavaca,
that’s the only way I know to leave this city.

Show me the road to Puebla,
show me how to leave, to believe, to go
and return the same day.




I haven’t loved

I haven’t loved chairs enough.
I’ve always turned 
my back on them
and can hardly tell 
one from the other
or remember them.
I clean those in my house
without paying attention
and only with an effort can I
bring to mind
certain chairs of my childhood,
ordinary wooden chairs
that were in the dining room
and which, when the dining room was renovated,
furnished the kitchen.
Ordinary wooden chairs,
although you never arrive at
the true simplicity
of a chair, 
you can impoverish 
the most modest chair, 
always remove an angle, 
a curve, 
you never get to the archetype 
of the chair.
I haven’t loved
almost anything 
enough,
to notice what is really there
requires an assiduous connection,
I never pick up anything on the fly, 
I let the friction of the moment 
pass, I withdraw, 
only when I immerse myself in something do I exist 
and at times it’s already pointless, 
the truth has gone to the bottom of
the most prosaic pit.
I have stifled too many things 
to see them, 
I have stifled the shine of a thing 
believing it to be an ornament, 
and when seduced 
by the simplest things, 
my love of depth
has hindered me.



Invisible dog

I have an invisible dog,
I carry a quadruped inside me
that I let out in the park
just as others do with their dogs.
When I bend down
to let him go free, 
to play and run, 
the other dogs chase him, 
only their owners don't see him, 
maybe they don't see me either.
It happens more and more with every outing
the other dogs get worked up into a state
and among the owners a disquiet grows
and they call their dogs 
to prevent a pack from forming.
Maybe they don’t see me either,
sitting on a bench,
doubled over a little
with the effort of letting him go free,
and although they can’t see him,
perhaps they do see the dog
they carry inside,
invisible like my own,
the beast they never release,
the dog that they repress
while taking their dogs for a walk.

Para llegar a Puebla

¡Tantos años sin saber ir a Puebla,
a qué altura de qué arteria hay que salir
para llegar a Puebla,
que está a dos horas!
La gente va a Puebla y regresa
el mismo día,
yo mismo he estado en Puebla
(¿quién no ha estado en Puebla?),
¡y tantos años sin saber cómo ir!

Enséñenme a ir a Puebla,
que está a dos horas,
y a creer en Dios,
que está tan cerca, que se llega a Dios
y se regresa de Dios el mismo día.
Yo mismo he creído en Dios
(¿quién no ha creído en Dios?).
Me pasa con Él lo mismo que con Puebla,
no sé a qué altura de qué arteria hay que salir.

¿Qué ha sido de mi vida
si no he aprendido lo que todos saben:
hablarle a Dios e ir y volver de Puebla el mismo día?
Yo solo sé el camino a Cuernavaca,
es todo lo que sé para salir de esta ciudad.

Enséñenme el camino a Puebla,
enséñenme a salir, a creer, a ir
y regresar el mismo día.



No he amado

No he amado bastante
las sillas.
Les he dado siempre
la espalda
y apenas las distingo
o las recuerdo.
Limpio las de mi casa
sin fijarme
y solo con esfuerzo puedo
vislumbrar
algunas sillas de mi infancia,
normales sillas de madera
que estaban en la sala
y, cuando se renovó la sala,
fueron a dar a la cocina.
Normales sillas de madera,
aunque jamás
se llega a lo más simple
de una silla,
se puede empobrecer
la silla más modesta,
quitar siempre un ángulo,
una curva,
nunca se llega al arquetipo
de la silla.
No he amado bastante
casi nada,
para enterarme necesito
un trato asiduo,
nunca recojo nada al vuelo,
dejo pasar la encrespadura
del momento, me retiro,
solo si me sumerjo en algo existo
y a veces ya es inútil,
se ha ido la verdad al fondo
más prosaico.
He amortiguado demasiadas
cosas para verlas,
He amortiguado el brillo
creyéndolo un ornato,
y cuando me he dejado seducir
por lo más simple,
mi amor a la profundidad
me ha entorpecido.


Un perro invisible

Tengo un perro invisible,
llevo un cuadrúpedo por dentro
que saco al parque
como los otros a sus perros.
Los otros perros,
cuando al doblarme
lo dejo en libertad
para que juegue y corra, lo persiguen,
sólo sus dueños no lo ven,
tal vez tampoco a mí me vean.
Se ha ido dando a fuerza de paseos,
anima e inquieta a la perrada
y entre los dueños cunde la inquietud
y llaman a sus perros
para que no se forme la jauría.
Tal vez tampoco a mí me vean,
sentado en una banca,
doblado un poco
por el esfuerzo de dejarlo libre,
y aunque no pueden verlo,
tal vez sí ven al perro
que invisible, como el mío,
llevan dentro,
la bestia que no sacan nunca,
el perro que reprimen
llevando de paseo a sus perros.