Translator’s Note
“Monumento/Monument” is a poem from Claudina Domingo’s kaleidoscopic portrait of Mexico City, Tránsito/Transit. The collection as a whole functions as something of a map, tracing layered (psycho)geographic histories of colonialism, the 1985 earthquake, state violence, and everyday life. “Monument” — which appears three quarters of the way through the book — serves as a meditation on what it means to “write place.” It is a cartographic exploration of urban space, split syntax, and the tricky business of inking a city onto the page.
I’ve been working with Domingo since 2016 on the translated manuscript of Transit, and in 2017 I was lucky enough to spend time with her in Mexico City to clarify many of my questions while walking the routes of the poems. I remember the day we sat by the monument that inspired this poem and watched the city “shimmer” in the post-dusk, pre-night twilight.
Transit was originally published by Tierra Adentro in 2011, and in 2012 it was awarded the Premio Iberoamericano Bellas Artes de Poesía Carlos Pellicer para Obra Publicada in Mexico. A chapbook-length bilingual selection of poems from the collection called impossible hours // horas imposibles is forthcoming from death of workers whilst building skyscrapers in the UK.
el cielo (blanco) abril avanza a chubascos (palmeras) zanates “se solicita puerto” (añado) (grúas) plumas planes para un cascarón de cemento (día festivo) alivio para la trombosis de Reforma vigilan los héroes trompudos (que nos dieron patria) gruesa dignidad donde se cagan las palomas (propongo) “palomas en el aire (palmadas en el cielo)” pero se me hacen grumos (bóveda) panza de tambor del eco (retumba sobre mis pasos) (en sus columnas) bajo una incursión de sol una sombra (refleja en negativo mi pertenencia a la ciudad) “(en mi sombra) caben todos los poetas (en mi sombra) serena en el incendio monolítico”
(Hotel Carlton) un ramillete de luz viola la tinieblas de la recepción (humedad) jabón barato toallas agujereadas jóvenes y viejos buscan dónde eyacular “aunque sea en la tarde” mi muchacha los trae a morder el algodón de su cuello uterino (ante sus cinco y media) magnolias para recabar la luz (la tarde) reclama ceguera al blanco (frontón al recuerdo) puertas canceladas (alto abandono) una piedra describe una parábola inaudita (su puntería quiebra una ventana a la modernidad) retoza el principio de siglo en los mosaicos (Ignacio Mariscal) decó con complejo renacentista “nostalgia no es suficiente” cortinas azules conchas y flores de encaje (espuma) nada terminó su prometedor despunte (abre la rosa y muestra el patrón de una oruga ingeniera)
“musa” horma de porcelana que no usará (iconoclasta) se burla de sus estatuas coloca rótulos en sus ancianos edificios “diosa” de las fuentes pútridas y los jardines en bancarrota “señora” (le faltan tantos siglos y ejércitos triunfantes) (precoz) se aproxima al fin de los tiempos en cada balcón (auxiliada por sus órdenes vandálicas) juega a desvencijar sus ruinas (no hace de ellas monumentos) corona con grafiti sus muros sagrados “una muchacha” confía en la anunciación de las esquinas (y lanza su fuego incauto)
diré que le importan mis palabras que desenvainan los capullos a la señal de mi sintaxis (el sol es una alcancía rota en el asfalto) y mientras parto plaza en el poema (se regodean los jardines) restallan las avenidas (porque yo lo dispongo) una rata cruza como una alfombra podrida el pasto (en mis veleidosos paréntesis) florecen sustantivos y trepadores pronombres (ante la desidia de mis circunstanciales) una pick up dobla muy cerrada al clímax (chillan sus posesivos) se estampa la seca onomatopeya en descoyunturado objeto directo ellos “graznan” entre el adverbio y una preposición indeleble (encuentro mi reflejo en un cristal polarizado) “policía de la belleza” viniste por la revelación y encuentras el más triste fraude (el que jamás existió)
“hoy ayer (y probablemente mañana) sobre Puente de Alvarado decidiste abordar el verdor (asirlo contra la voluntad del viento) y reventar lo terso de la tarde contra la parte superior de la panadería luego arrojas algo de luz sobre el panteón (y de rosa) como una quinceañera estúpida (vistes al museo) las jacarandas (vénganos su reino) completan la mascarada” (apunto) todavía con la pólvora mojada (con un poco de fracaso) o sudor en los dedos intento someterte (ungido de ingenuidad) al yugo desahuciado de las palabras “eres una muchacha” (acaso sea una afirmación contundente) “una sencilla muchacha” (y lejos del aullido) plena de cubetas con plantas (suspendida del gancho oxidado de la tarde) “alumbras” un cierto encantamiento bajado de un sol menoscabado (“pero no se ve en las fotos”) una muchacha (silvestre e incendiaria) que no cruzará la calle de mano de tus pusilánimes metáforas “resplandece” (te dirán que es muy manido) pero en verdad resplandece “(como una muchacha cualquiera) no tienes apellido ni emblemas” “ciudad” te llamas ciudad (te digo) se me acabó el presupuesto
the sky (white) april dashes into downpours (palm trees) grackles “harbor wanted” (I add) (cranes) booms plans for a shell of cement (public holiday) relief from Reforma’s thrombosis the pouty heroes (who gave us the nation) keep watch thick dignity where the pigeons shit (I propose) “pigeons in the air (applause in the sky)” but it all just lumps together for me (vaulted arch) drum-belly of the echo (rings out over my footsteps) (between its columns) under a sunbeam infiltration a shadow (reflects the photo-negative image of my belonging to the city) “(in my shadow) all the poets could fit (in my shadow) calm in the monolithic blaze”
(Hotel Carlton) a bouquet of light breaches the gloom of the reception desk (humidity) cheap soap hole-ridden towels young and old men searching out places to ejaculate “even in the afternoon” my girl takes them to chew on the cotton of her cervix (before her five thirty) magnolias to collect the light (the afternoon) demands blindness for the white wall (memory’s fronton court) canceled doors (utter neglect) a rock traces an unheard-of parabola (its aim shatters one of modernity’s windows) the start of the century frolics about in the mosaics (Ignacio Mariscal) deco with a renaissance complex “nostalgia’s not enough” blue curtains shells and lace flowers (sea-foam) nothing came of its promising bud (open the rose and reveal the pattern of a caterpillar engineer)
“muse” porcelain mold she’ll never use (iconoclastic) she mocks her statues places labels on her ancient buildings “goddess” of the putrid fountains and the decrepit gardens “señora” (you’re missing so many centuries and triumphant armies) (precocious) she comes closer to the end of time in every balcony (aided by her vandalic orders) plays at crumbling her ruins to pieces (doesn’t make monuments out of them) crowns her sacred walls with graffiti “a girl” who trusts in the annunciation of the street corners (and lets loose her reckless fire)
I’ll say that my words matter to her that flower buds unsheathe themselves at the signal of my syntax (the sun is a piggy-bank shattered on the asphalt) and meanwhile I steal the show in my poem (the gardens rejoice) the avenues crash (because I say so) a mouse runs across the grass like a rotting carpet (in my fickle parentheses) nouns and creeping-vine pronouns bloom (in the face of my circumstantial adverbs’ apathy) a pick-up veers sharply toward the climax (its possessives screech) its bone-dry onomatopoeia smashes against dislocated direct object they “cackle” between adverb and indelible preposition (I face my reflection in a polarized crystal) “beauty police” you came in search of revelation and now you find the saddest fraud (the one that never existed)
“today yesterday (and probably tomorrow) on Puente de Alvarado you decided to tackle the greenness (to anchor it against the wind’s wishes) and smash the afternoon’s polish on the bakery’s awning later you toss a bit of light onto the cemetery (and with some pink) (you dress the museum up) like a stupid quinceañera the jacarandas (thy kingdom come) round out the masquerade” (I jot down) with the gunpowder still wet (with a bit of fiasco) or sweat on my fingers I try to subject you (anointed with innocence) to the terminal yoke of my words “you’re a girl” (might be a convincing thing to say) “a simple girl” (and far from the howl) full of plant-filled pails (hanging from the afternoon’s rusty hook) “you light up” a true enchantment dropped down from a deteriorated sun (“but it doesn’t look that way in the photos”) a girl (wild and incendiary) who won’t cross the street hand-in-hand with your faint-hearted metaphors “she shimmers” (they’ll say it’s trite) but she truly shimmers “(like any old girl) you’ve got no last name and no emblems” you’re called “city” city (I say) I blew through my budget
About the Poet
Claudina Domingo (b. 1982) is a poet, author, literary critic, and essayist from Mexico City. In 2011, she was named “emerging writer of the year” by the magazine La Tempestad. Her book of poems, Tránsito (Tierra Adentro, 2011), won the 2012 Premio Iberoamericano Bellas Artes de Poesía Carlos Pellicer para Obra Publicada. Her most recent book of poems, Ya sabes que no veo de noche (Ediciones Atrasalante, 2017), won the 2016 Premio Nacional de Literatura Gilberto Owen. In 2017, she also published her first collection of short stories, Las enemigas (Editorial Sexto Piso, 2017). Her most recent book is an “oneiric biography” called La noche en el espejo (Editorial Sexto Piso, 2020). Domingo is a three-time recipient of the Jóvenes Creadores grant from Mexico’s Fondo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes. She is currently a member of the Sistema Nacional de Creadores de Arte (National System of Arts Creators).
About the Translator
Ryan Greene (1994) is a translator, book farmer, and poet from Phoenix, Arizona. He’s a co-conspirator at F*%K IF I KNOW//BOOKS and he’s translated work by Claudina Domingo, Elena Salamanca, Ana Belén López, Giancarlo Huapaya, and Yaxkin Melchy, among others. Since 2018, he has facilitated the Cardboard House Press Cartonera Collective bookmaking workshops at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore. Like Collier, the ground he stands on is not his ground.
Write On, Downtown 