Eyes That See Do Not Grow Old, tr by Richard Broderick

LATIN AMERICAN DICHOS

COMPILED

TRANSLATED

AND

BY

RICHARD BRODERICK

Copyright 2013 by Kraken Press Translation rights, Richard Broderick, 2013

Eyes That See Do Not Grow Old A selection of Latin American Dichos, compiled and translated

by Richard Broderick

FOREWORD

I

n Latin America “Dichos” – “Sayings” in Spanish—are short statements or slogans that drivers paint directly on to their

buses, trucks, vans, and cars, or write on pieces of wood or cardboard that are then attached to the vehicles; they are, in other words, the “bumper sticker” of Latin America, but with a major proviso. Dichos are not mass-produced. They are hand-crafted, the words personal to their maker.

Sentiments expressed by Dichos range from the pithy to the poignant. Some are angry, often sarcastic, some are plaintive, some amorous, while still others are passionately devout. While the subject matter may vary, Dichos share certain characteristics, favoring aphoristic language and paradoxical humor, all presented in language that is direct and mordant, often to the point of bluntness.

Strictly speaking, there is nothing “literary” in a conventional sense about Dichos. On the other hand,

the unspoken

rules

of

diction

and

presentation that govern this body of utterances certainly constitute a folk literary genre, one that reflects

Latin

America’s

unique

blend

of

indigenous and European sensibilities. In this light, Dichos can almost be seen as an extension into a new medium and shorn of their religious

context, of the captions that have long graced “retablos,” the small oil paintings on tin, zinc, wood or copper that venerate a multiplicity of Catholic saints and whose literal translation means “behind the altar." This genre of folk art represents the heart and soul of traditional religious beliefs in 17th, 18th, and 19th century Latin America.

I

n recent decades, the ubiquitous Dichos have inspired their own school of poetry, one that strives to adopt the tone and

peculiar point-of-view of the original to a verse form strikingly different from the norms and conventions of contemporary literary poetry in other parts of the world, in particular the West with

its

highly

competitive,

market-driven

obsession with individual fame. One of the most dramatic examples of what distinguishes poets composing

Dichos

from

their

counterparts

elsewhere is the determination to forego claims of individual authorship and to publish Dichos anonymously, either in small journals or as broadsides distributed free of charge at the region’s innumerable ferias and outdoor markets; these Dichos even appear without individual titles. Despite, or because of, this conscious decision to maintain anonymity, allowing the Dichos to speak for themselves – and thus, in a way, for everyone – Dicho poetry has become

widely popular throughout the region, with crowds

at

public

gatherings

erupting

into

spontaneous recitations that can sometimes last for hours of the latest batch of Dichos.

I

became interested in Dicho poetry while traveling throughout Central and South America. On recent trips, I have – with the

permission of their anonymous authors – begun collecting and translating some Dichos, striving, with I hope a degree of success, to capture in English some of the pungency and charm of the originals. It is with great pleasure, and a certain degree of trepidation, that I now present a selection of Dichos for the first time to an American audience.

R.B.

1.

Never give a ride to a witch.

When the snakes start gossiping, it’s because the mule has died.

Look -- now you’ve lost the shortcut.

No one will cry for you just for the sake of crying.

Go ahead and suffer because of love; there is no salvation for the envious.

Jealousy is the only revenge.

You want my advice?

Four words only -I will remember you.

2.

Here I am without gossip.

Here I come from far away.

Here I present myself, the man who wanders in spite or everything.

Here I solicit someone of sound mind and a willing body.

Here I bequeath a legacy of dust.

Look what I found in back.

Look what I found in front.

If you had more I would give you more but the curves and holes prevent it from happening.

3.

Looking for forgiveness?

Stay away from the mirror.

All eyes turn toward the burning house.

It’s just a matter of time and a little more time tomorrow.

Now you see me and now you see me again.

If you think you have all the answers why do you keep rolling the dice?

4.

Spare me the gory details of today’s news.

Tomorrow’s, too.

Everything the devil says is a lie;

that’s why he’s never uncertain.

Armies have never been any good for anything except counting up the dead.

The best way to stay out of the line of fire is to be the guy yelling “Charge!”

Maybe if all of us felt a mother’s grief it would finally stop. Maybe.

Here’s to everyone who has ever suffered – meaning everyone.

Today I drove past a wheat field mowed down by last’s week’s hailstorm.

Fragrant loaves of bread used to be raised there.

5.

So what if we’re dying?

We still have our appetites.

We can still wash up on each other’s shore.

We can still bury our shoes side-by-side.

We are not doomed to traffic in the sorrows of money.

That story about the river of stars?

It’s true.

This is far from over.

Each night brings us closer to water.

Each darkness is a cup only our light can fill.

6.

You need an open heart to have an open mind.

Not everything gold glitters.

A cactus wears its spines to protect the sweet flesh inside.

Every time you come near, I realize – I don’t need wings to fly!

Close your eyes now.

Look at yourself.

See how beautiful?

7.

I want to curl up together like cats.

I want to lick your paws and make you yawn with exhausted appetites.

I want to pat your belly and hear you purr.

I want you to hiss with passion and leave scratch marks on my back with your sweet sharp claws.

I want us to stroke our ears and keep on doing it until our toes curl up and we lie, heads buried in each other’s fur, dozing.

8.

Almost forgotten how one voice can unlock doors, make rivers thaw, cause green fruit to ripen to the core.

Almost forgotten how the right pair of eyes can materialize a world all but hidden from view,

and cause spark showers of light in the darkest hours.

Almost forgotten how a single touch can bring a meadow into bloom, cause spring to shed her balm, and deliver lilacs to an airless room.

By the time I heard you say, your words spoken lovingly, that love doesn’t think of itself but listens, pays close attention, saying by this rapt silence, I love you, I’m listening, I’d almost forgotten.

Now I remember.

9.

Time isn’t on anybody’s side.

Time gets to decide if this is the last time I get to see you.

Sooner or later time breaks up every couple.

The moment time falls asleep we’ll never wake up.

What’s older than the hills?

How long will the sun shine?

How long are you and I going to be together?

How long before the end of time?

Only time will tell, and time isn’t talking.

10.

It’s a real drag, the job of keeping up appearances.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t think you’re the same as the people I’m not the same as neither!”

That last pull on the cigarette before you fire the traffic manager?

It never tastes good.

That concierge who's dying to tell you about her cough, or about her dying kid, but of course she can’t because you’re just not

good enough to know.

How does that feel?

That maitre-‘d who takes a good ten minutes to decide you’re only worth two minutes of his attention.

See what I mean?

And all the time, the both of you thinking how much you could really use a drink!

You might be friends under different circumstances, but then you’d be out of a job and not just you.

Just think how cops must suffer eyestrain from training themselves to see you and see nothing at all, just like the ladies on Michigan who can look right through you without batting an eye, which, to be truthful, is next to impossible for them anyway because of all the surgery.

You know.

Oh how many feet get bruised rushing past

the blank-eyed guy sitting in the gutter with his little cup held out for the spare change that nobody in a homburg or camel hair coat seems able to spare?

What a shame. The weightlessness of the real world weighing you down.

Treading water tirelessly even after the pool’s been drained.

Avoiding the eyes of your drowning mates for fear they might ask for an advance on their next breath out of your little deposit box of stale air.

And always, the last thing you shout, rich or poor, black or white, as you’re going under -“We’re all alike, aren’t we, after all!”

And then, half-joking, half-choking on a lungful of filthy water, you cry out, “Oh, Sweet Jesus!”

And you’d be right!

11.

Go on and say anything you want.

Call me names, scream you hate me, wish me dead.

I’m not listening anyway.

If I don’t look at you, are you really there?

That funny expression on my face means I’ve stopped paying attention.

It may be that love is blind but a night to remember shouldn’t be so easy to forget.

Turn off the lights and make us disappear.

Go ahead now.

You first.

12.

Even when you’ve lost faith don’t lose heart.

I’m aiming for that gap hidden between the mountains.

Ever notice how many things you can see when you switch off the lights?

Getting lost – the road to adventure!

The Devil never rests.

Is it okay, then, for me to take a few days off?

It’s easy to put your pants on two legs at a time when you’re lying in bed.

Oh, the things I could do if I just didn’t have the time.

I’ve got a plan.

I just don’t know what it is yet!

13.

The best way to avoid questions is to ask if anybody has any questions.

I’m at least half as clever as I think I am.

I have my father’s eyes and my mother’s brain.

Maybe it’s time I gave them back?

Squeak, memory! I long for the good old days when people weren’t so nostalgic.

My bumper sticker reads, “I brake for green lights.”

Sweet little bean dumpling, I’ve judged you and am happy to report I’ve found you wanton!

14.

Love snows all day and we never have to go outside.

Plows glide down the street, pushing the hours aside.

How did we find our way into this magic bower?

Gray light kisses the walls before lapsing into shadow.

We warm ourselves with the heat of a naked fire.

We drink but never drain the bottle.

Remember the year drifts climbed all the way to the second-story window? Today's that winter.

Snow falls and falls, filling in the footprints, our hideout a secret known only by us.

Burrow closer now. We’ll bury ourselves inside each other.

15.

I think I will read now.

I think I will read about what I am feeling.

I think I will read the thoughts I am thinking, will read what the world looks like, a description of how birds sound, how they sing aloud in the evening

even when no one is listening how they sound when I am too distracted to hear them because I am reading.

I think I will read now about the life I am leading, about the death whose appearance on page 48 or page 235 or page 789 I am tracking down with my finger, tracking with my finger one sentence at a time.

I think I will read now definitions of the words I am reading, sentences defining the terms and concepts I am reading, the impression onlookers have of me when I am reading and not paying attention to them because I am reading, such a well read man, I read them saying about me.

“Love is contagious,” I once read a man told a woman.

“Love is contagious,” I read, “so kiss me,” and I do not smile but read a passage about myself, or someone just like me smiling as he read these words, and then I go on reading.

16.

Deep pine groves sigh when you breath.

Your eyes look inward to watch birch leaves flutter on the hillsides.

You wear a crown of silence deepened by the song of crickets and nightbirds.

Only the moon, wandering the empty sky wearing a hermit’s cape and your radiant smile, knows where you’re hidden.

Someday everybody who knows you are hiding will be gone. Then maybe you can come out into the open and still be alone.

I stop and dip my hand in the forest stream

where you stopped and dipped your hand until you fled the moment you heard me calling.

17.

See my graying hair?

Paint is always darker when it’s fresh.

My wrinkles are a measure of how many miles I’ve traveled and how many more I’ve got left to go.

You never know when your last Dicho might be your last Dicho.

There is only one thing I know for sure but, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep it to myself.

18.

Some are born talking.

Some take years to open their mouths and still manage to say nothing!

Some crawl first then begin walking.

Some start walking without bothering to crawl.

Some have dust on their shoes.

Some are neatly dressed even when they’re sleeping.

Some nod and act like they’re listening.

Some look distracted like they’re hearing voices.

Some gaze off into the distance like they’re staring at God. Some come quick and easy.

Some play hard to get.

But each is one of my Dichos and I haven’t gotten bored with them yet!

19.

It was the kind of winter that makes you wonder if you want to see another winter.

None of us got here by choice.

None of us remains except by choice.

Sometimes the most persuasive argument is silence.

Shadows circle the trunks of ageless trees, playing hide-and-seek with the sun.

20.

That day your car broke down beside an alpine lake and you had to hoof it four miles to the nearest little town, everyone you loved was either lost or far away, every friend you had or wished to have on the other side of the mountains. A cold wind gusted off the choppy white-capped waters.

Your fists plunged into your pockets.

Your chin burrowed into your chest.

Your shoulders hunched up around your ears. No matter how far you roll in life, no matter how many miles you get to clock on the old odometer -- Man! -you are never going to shake that chill.

21.

I long to create a Dicho that hangs above the mantelpiece of some big living room filled with leather chairs and people drinking good wine, some penthouse apartment owned by a couple who call each other Duchess and Bunny.

A Dicho that holds forth every evening at the same table in the most fashionable bistro in town, the kind of place where Picasso once shared a demi of wine with Gertrude Stein or Gellhorn tossed a drink in Papa’s face, the talk of the town for weeks afterward.

Or a Dicho sculpted from bronze and at least 14 feet tall, a mythological presentation of the very moment a Dicho emerges

from the dark swirl of chaos and begins to shine.

Or I’d like to concoct a Dicho rumored to have magical properties, a Dicho you could sprinkle over yourself and cure your headache or lupus, that would enable you to throw away your crutches and dance again.

Or I’d like to weave a Dicho you could lie on, soaking up the fun and drinking a beer as you listen to the waves wash ashore or prop yourself up on your elbow to watch the soft swell of a young Dicho’s belly swaying past or gaze at the endless horizon of my Dichos’ last line. Or I’d like to give birth to a Dicho that coos and gurgles and reaches down to grab its toes in an ecstasy of selfdiscovery or rescue a Dicho that wags its tail for you and picks up a word it wants you to throw so that it can fetch it and drop it at your feet, a recovered Dicho. I would like to send a Dicho aloft, have it hung over a huge stadium filled with fans cheering each time my Dicho scores.

I would like my Dichos to endure the passage of time, but in some public place, a plaza

maybe in the middle of a big city near a large lake whose constant winds causes my dichos to shiver into life. I don’t want so spawn he kind of shy Dichos that hide away underneath the sheets of some little book smaller than the smallest bed, modest Dichos that people read and think, “I already saw this one – doesn’t he have anything new?” or “So, this is what he calls a Dicho. I could write one myself if I had time I wanted to waste!”

No, not that kind of Dicho. The other kind.

The kind that people want to revisit time and time again, Dichos that people recall fondly, “Remember the time we heard that Dicho?

How alive it made us fell. How magical everything seemed?” Yes, that kind of Dicho.

The sort of Dichos I would enjoy writing.

The sort of Dichos I would enjoy reading.

22.

I bet you 10-to-1 you know a problem gambler.

You sit in your car during rush hour and curse, but who do you think created this goddam traffic jam?

We either consume life or life consumes us.

There is no other choice.

Any time you want to see some wilderness just look at the sky.

It might be empty now but just wait.

Soon enough herds of wooly mammoths and thousands of gray antelopes will start migrating across the clear blue ice.

24.

Every world ever created was tricked into existence.

The void is perfectly happy not to share its solitude.

It isn’t interested in seeing the light separate from the darkness.

You can choose between being beloved by the masses or making the masses laugh.

You can’t do both.

If you choose the second path you’ll probably end up with lots more fans -but who in their right mind wants to be shackled by fame?

Many, many, many women are pretty.

Only a tiny handful are beautiful.

How do I know?

Whenever I look at you, I can’t help smiling.

25.

How do you know I am trying to sleep?

Or am I just dreaming you are keeping me awake?

This is the morning commute on the Crosstown Forlorn,

the bold outburst of moral cowardice, the cat sawing on the cricket’s leg, the epiphanous place at the crowded table, the sequence of unnoticed explosions right beneath our noses, the evening’s official ejaculation, the anonymous people whose names we fondly remember, the portable confessional, the altered original, the child redecorating the stable, the god within us checking out early.

Take me again, all of you, to where I’ve never been, to the mother who didn’t bear me, to the empty window teeming with images, to the long day spent alone by the sea walking hand-and-hand with none of you.

Thanks.

I didn’t need that.

26.

Try as hard as I can I can’t think of any good reason to pursue the path of most resistance.

I keep saying, That was nice.

Let’s not do it again.

Nothing that can be put off until tomorrow is really worth doing in the first place.

Come look for me next week.

You’ll probably still find me here.

Put your ear to the earth and what do you hear?

The sound of beautiful wheels spinning in place.

Now stand and stare at the water spilling over the dam until you feel the river flowing through you without ever moving.

Of all the forces that trigger movement, which one do I like best?

That's simple.

Gravity, my friend.

27.

I need to leave home but don’t know if I’ll be able to find my way home again.

I need to flee now but can’t find the bent key that opens the broken lock.

We’ve filled so many cups with our tears, we could supply our own salt flats.

At this time of day, the high bridge is only visible above the treeline.

I see wild geese flying away and understand why but, for the life of me, don’t know how.

28.

I like hearing the rain on the roof this afternoon.

Now, there’s no good reason to go outside.

I see you’ve just stepped out of the bath.

Your skin is glowing, your limbs are warm and just a little bit damp.

Sounds like a plan to me!

We’ll just have to tell our friends when they call, No, we’re not invalids.

But for the next few days we are going to be bed-ridden!

29.

Flies rarely enter a closed mouth.

It is better to be the head of a rat than the tail of a lion.

To run from here means you have to die over there.

Wine, women and tobacco have left me too weak to flee.

Let the dogs bark.

We are staying on our horses.

It’s not polite to mention the rope in the house of the hanged.

30.

Mirror to my mirror, every time we touch we fall into each other, growing smaller, never disappearing, rising from the depths, always drawing closer.

How much is infinity?

The answer’s simple.

It’s the precise number of times I long for you each moment of every hour.