Guy-Gérald Ménard
Nació en Puerto Príncipe. Después de haber vivido dos décadas en EEUU donde hace estudios universitarios, vuelve a Haití para trabajar en el campo de la educación. Algunos de sus textos fueron publicados en revistas y compilaciones. Guy-Gérald Ménard es autor del poemario Similak (2001). Su segundo libro, Sezon malè (2012).
Traducción al español del poeta Alfredo Fressia.
Bulevar de los enfermos
En el bulevar de los enfermos
en la encrucijada de los cuatro caminos
están en pie
el corazón en la mano
los brazos caídos
sin mañana
un trapo sucio
mojado de espuma de jabón
por cinco centavos
por diez centavos
limpian
limpian
de Turgeau ao Bicentenaire
sueño rajado de arriba abajo
un uniforme de colegio
deambulan
con la mochila en la espalda
en el bulevar de los enfermos
en la encrucijada de los cuatro caminos
suenan las campanas
sobre todas las puertas
cerradas
enjuagan
enjuagan
Boulva lagraba
Boulva lagraba
kalfou kat chimen
yo kanpe
kè lan men
bra pandye
san demen
kim savon
wèl sire
pou senk kòb
pou dis kòb
y ap siye
y ap siye
Tijo Bisantnè
anwo bit
anba bouk
inifòm sak lan do
levasyon
sou tablo
Kalfou kat chimen
boulva lagraba
klòch sonnen
pòt fèmen
y ap twele
y ap twele
Guy-Gerald Ménard
Guy-Gerald Ménard was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. After high school he traveled to the USA, where he resided for twenty years. He studied commercial art at City College of New York, and earned an undergraduate degree from Barry University in Miami and a certificate in teachers' vocational education from Florida International University. Since his return to Haiti, Ménard devotes his time to teachers' training activities and teaching at the university. His poems are included in numerous anthologies and other publications in his country and abroad. Ménard published his first book of poetry, Similak, in 1998 and a second, Sezon malè, in 2012.
Season of Grief
Goudougoudougoudougoudou . . .
When the malicious brouhaha
finally dozed off at dusk’s feet
when in the magic of darkness
ribbons of promise turned into sadness
with desperation deep in our eyes
we held our hands out to dust
a drizzle of confetti like fine salt
above our heads
Claws of desolation
planted in each neighborhood’s entrails
from one alley to the next
God have mercy on the town of Jacmel
muted words in deaf ears
smoke scattered in the woods
before it disappeared behind Hospital Mountain
Spurs of pain strike passing time
How long would life have to be
for us to forget three hundred thousand voices
knocking at eternity’s door?
If time has time
they will stop
cursing and casting evil spells
on an exhausted people
waiting for dawn
to stand
Goudougoudougoudougoudou . . .
Tremor calls to tremor
Léogane is bedridden
epilepsy seizes the earth
neighbors hold their hands to the sky
calling out to Jesus
Our clock’s hands have stopped
on five minus a few
nature’s guitar strings are out of tune
our legs have the shakes
konpa becomes samba
at a dance with no musicians
Near Juvénat electric wires hang
giving nightmares a boost
the carousel of life runs half-heartedly
then collapses in the middle of Lazarus Hill
Perplexed children and grownups
awake side-by-side in a circle of throbbing pain
tops spinning like mad dogs
sketch an arabesque against the voice of
Cesaria Evora
Families dressed in gray
like a pack of zombies cut loose
run up and down
like cars with no steering rod
Entwined concrete houses
perform pirouettes on both sides of the street
turning and twisting
in an infernal circle
around the fountain of our sadness
a season of despair wearing shiny shoes
night invades us in broad daylight
overturning our bowl of dreams
Goudougoudou . . . goudougoudou . . .
One by one
with small steps
like babies
learning to walk
we take to the streets
staggering
a bunch of silly idiots
playing a senseless game
Port-au-Prince has no arms
wide enough to collect her children
Nazon Alley
Delmas 33
headless bodies
under white sheets
Lasenjan butterflies
that overslept
Shoddy leaders
are conniving
with invisible cohorts
defenseless blind men
get even
by chanting swordlike praises
Buzzard wings are like
a sheet over my country
chameleons proclaim mourning season
settling down the field of recklessness
buzzing insects carpet the tarmac
of Mayi Gate airport
pickets are planted
a thousand tents erected
Flags raised
Waves of yanvalou shroud petro drums
Fire smolders under the ashes of resistance
Goudougoudou . . . goudougoudou
Look how she walks
a tiny, crippled life
that sees no hope anywhere
she drags her bony buttocks
eyes cloaked in dignity
a tiny, pitiful life
that carries a country on her back
I see that tiny life
fighting day after day
she makes eyes at death
as she struggles
for dawn
to replace night
That life
an earthquake knocked her down
but she’s like a bewitched horse
that can’t stop prancing
in our Desolate Savanna
Tuesday, January 12
accursed Tuesday
left our hands tied
in a mystical lakou
turned us into potato peels
a horde of living dead
with no spirit
dogs scrounging
at the foot of a rich man’s table
insignificant nobodies
in the pages of history
Goudougoudougoudou . . .
Master of the night hatches in the shadow of stars
prophets of doom sprout like mushrooms
ranting endlessly in the fields of ignorance
as if we were paying our forefathers debts
The machete of our conscience is sharpened
on Bois Caïman plantation
our invaders remember Crête-à-Pierrot
what do we have left to pay?
our empty pockets turned inside out
yet, our heads reach above the clouds
We made history at Napoleon’s expense
declared freedom for all of humanity
signed our name in Savannah
stood in solidarity with Simon Bolivar
history can’t forget us
even when a ferocious bird
tries to keep us at bay
Don’t measure the distance that separates us
from the shores of Africa
we know where
our umbilical cord is tied
heirs of Carib Indians in the heart of America
we wear our pride on our foreheads
we learn to dodge the blows
our knees will never touch the ground
“Sezon malè” © 2012 by Guy-Gérald Ménard. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Chantal Kenol.
Under the Rubble
We held our breath close to our bodies
sorted words in a straitjacket
our lives between parentheses
turpentine to make hope last
fear sets up a tent
on our chest
fog invades our minds
paralyzes our limbs
Day holds night’s hand
evenings play merry-go-round with mornings
the days turn in circles
until they feel dizzy
we forget all debts, all promises
projects overflow like water springs
the earth sips in with a straw
Clocks are unwinding
under life’s rubble
our voices engraved on text messages
a colony of ants bring us news
daredevils armed with shovel
and pickax
scrape gravel with fingernails
faithfully, block after block
hope pursues a hunchbacked miracle
at the end of a tunnel
“Anba dekonm” © 2012 by Guy-Gérald Ménard. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Chantal Kenol.
Guy-Gerald Ménard was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. After high school he traveled to the USA, where he resided for twenty years. He studied commercial art at City College of New York, and earned an undergraduate degree from Barry University in Miami and a certificate in teachers' vocational education from Florida International University. Since his return to Haiti, Ménard devotes his time to teachers' training activities and teaching at the university. His poems are included in numerous anthologies and other publications in his country and abroad. Ménard published his first book of poetry, Similak, in 1998 and a second, Sezon malè, in 2012.
Season of Grief
Goudougoudougoudougoudou . . .
When the malicious brouhaha
finally dozed off at dusk’s feet
when in the magic of darkness
ribbons of promise turned into sadness
with desperation deep in our eyes
we held our hands out to dust
a drizzle of confetti like fine salt
above our heads
Claws of desolation
planted in each neighborhood’s entrails
from one alley to the next
God have mercy on the town of Jacmel
muted words in deaf ears
smoke scattered in the woods
before it disappeared behind Hospital Mountain
Spurs of pain strike passing time
How long would life have to be
for us to forget three hundred thousand voices
knocking at eternity’s door?
If time has time
they will stop
cursing and casting evil spells
on an exhausted people
waiting for dawn
to stand
Goudougoudougoudougoudou . . .
Tremor calls to tremor
Léogane is bedridden
epilepsy seizes the earth
neighbors hold their hands to the sky
calling out to Jesus
Our clock’s hands have stopped
on five minus a few
nature’s guitar strings are out of tune
our legs have the shakes
konpa becomes samba
at a dance with no musicians
Near Juvénat electric wires hang
giving nightmares a boost
the carousel of life runs half-heartedly
then collapses in the middle of Lazarus Hill
Perplexed children and grownups
awake side-by-side in a circle of throbbing pain
tops spinning like mad dogs
sketch an arabesque against the voice of
Cesaria Evora
Families dressed in gray
like a pack of zombies cut loose
run up and down
like cars with no steering rod
Entwined concrete houses
perform pirouettes on both sides of the street
turning and twisting
in an infernal circle
around the fountain of our sadness
a season of despair wearing shiny shoes
night invades us in broad daylight
overturning our bowl of dreams
Goudougoudou . . . goudougoudou . . .
One by one
with small steps
like babies
learning to walk
we take to the streets
staggering
a bunch of silly idiots
playing a senseless game
Port-au-Prince has no arms
wide enough to collect her children
Nazon Alley
Delmas 33
headless bodies
under white sheets
Lasenjan butterflies
that overslept
Shoddy leaders
are conniving
with invisible cohorts
defenseless blind men
get even
by chanting swordlike praises
Buzzard wings are like
a sheet over my country
chameleons proclaim mourning season
settling down the field of recklessness
buzzing insects carpet the tarmac
of Mayi Gate airport
pickets are planted
a thousand tents erected
Flags raised
Waves of yanvalou shroud petro drums
Fire smolders under the ashes of resistance
Goudougoudou . . . goudougoudou
Look how she walks
a tiny, crippled life
that sees no hope anywhere
she drags her bony buttocks
eyes cloaked in dignity
a tiny, pitiful life
that carries a country on her back
I see that tiny life
fighting day after day
she makes eyes at death
as she struggles
for dawn
to replace night
That life
an earthquake knocked her down
but she’s like a bewitched horse
that can’t stop prancing
in our Desolate Savanna
Tuesday, January 12
accursed Tuesday
left our hands tied
in a mystical lakou
turned us into potato peels
a horde of living dead
with no spirit
dogs scrounging
at the foot of a rich man’s table
insignificant nobodies
in the pages of history
Goudougoudougoudou . . .
Master of the night hatches in the shadow of stars
prophets of doom sprout like mushrooms
ranting endlessly in the fields of ignorance
as if we were paying our forefathers debts
The machete of our conscience is sharpened
on Bois Caïman plantation
our invaders remember Crête-à-Pierrot
what do we have left to pay?
our empty pockets turned inside out
yet, our heads reach above the clouds
We made history at Napoleon’s expense
declared freedom for all of humanity
signed our name in Savannah
stood in solidarity with Simon Bolivar
history can’t forget us
even when a ferocious bird
tries to keep us at bay
Don’t measure the distance that separates us
from the shores of Africa
we know where
our umbilical cord is tied
heirs of Carib Indians in the heart of America
we wear our pride on our foreheads
we learn to dodge the blows
our knees will never touch the ground
“Sezon malè” © 2012 by Guy-Gérald Ménard. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Chantal Kenol.
Under the Rubble
We held our breath close to our bodies
sorted words in a straitjacket
our lives between parentheses
turpentine to make hope last
fear sets up a tent
on our chest
fog invades our minds
paralyzes our limbs
Day holds night’s hand
evenings play merry-go-round with mornings
the days turn in circles
until they feel dizzy
we forget all debts, all promises
projects overflow like water springs
the earth sips in with a straw
Clocks are unwinding
under life’s rubble
our voices engraved on text messages
a colony of ants bring us news
daredevils armed with shovel
and pickax
scrape gravel with fingernails
faithfully, block after block
hope pursues a hunchbacked miracle
at the end of a tunnel
“Anba dekonm” © 2012 by Guy-Gérald Ménard. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Chantal Kenol.
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