Miguel Otero Silva

& Chris Holdaway (translator)

Two Poems

La sexta voz del coro es la del lago

En mi vasta extensión de llanto y plata,
en el asalto azul de mis espadas,
en mis enardecidos bosques de agua,

arteria soy para latir su muerte.

En las fauces del sol, jaguar de fuego,
en las alas del sol, gallo del cielo,
en las crines del sol, caballo suelto,

antorcha soy para alumbrar su muerte.

En el rumbo oloroso de los lirios,
en el dulce llegar del fugitivo,
en la leche caliente de los ríos,

camino soy para encontrar su muerte.

En el polen astral de la garúa,
en el chubasco de cristal y furia,
en el claro plumaje de la lluvia,

semilla soy para sembrar su muerte.

En los manglares de raíz descalza,
en las islas de entraña calcinada,
en el silencio blanco de las playas,

arena soy para secar su muerte.

En el potro de luz encabritado,
en la noche cruzada por un látigo,
en la lumbre azorada del relámpago,

candela soy para quemar su muerte.

En la palma rasgada por el viento,
en los muñones de los troncos secos,
en el cansancio de los cocoteros,

cogollo soy para tejer su muerte.

En el revuelo de las velas altas,
en el escorzo de las botavaras,
en la lenta evasión de las balandras,

cortejo soy para llevar su muerte.

En los labios callados de los indios,
en la mirada de estancados siglos,
en el sediento corazón guajiro,

guarura soy para ulular su muerte.

En el grasiento hervor de noche y lodo,
en los oscuros sumideros torvos,
en mis pupilas turbias de petróleo,

aceite soy para encender su muerte.

En los motores roncos de los barcos,
en el puñal hundido en mi costado,
en el ávido arpón de los taladros,

palabra soy para negar su muerte.

The choir’s sixth voice is that of the lake

In my vast expanse of weeping and silver,
in the blue assault of my swords,
in my stirring forests of water,

I am artery to the beat of his death.

In the jaws of the sun, jaguar of fire,
in the wings of the sun, rooster of heaven,
in the mane of the sun, horse unfettered,

I am torch to the light of his death.

In the fragrant direction of lilies,
in the sweet arrival of the fugitive,
in the warm milk of the rivers,

I am the road to encounter his death.

In the astral pollen of the mists,
in the downpour of crystal and fury,
in the clear plumage of the rain,

I am seed to the sowing of his death.

In the swamps of barefoot roots,
in the isles of scorched entrails,
in the white silence of beaches,

I am sand to the drought of his death.

In the colt of rearing light,
in the night lashed with a whip,
in the stunned fire of lightning,

I am candle to the burning of his death.

In the palm slanted in the winds,
in the stumps of withered trunks,
in the weariness of the coconut palms,

I am shoot to the weaving of his death.

In the rousing of the tall sails,
in the torsion of the booms,
in the slow escape of sailboats,

I am the procession to carry away his death.

In the silent lips of Amerindians,
in the gaze of stagnant centuries,
in the thirsty hearts of peasants,

I am owl call to the howling of his death.

In the greasy boil of night and mud,
in the dark and baleful sewers,
in my pupils tainted with petroleum,

I am oil to the ignition of his death.

In the hoarse engines of ships,
in the dagger plunged into my side,
in the eager harpoon of drills,

I am the word to deny his death.

Mi canto corre hacia la mar

Mi canto corre hacia la mar.

Los ancianos samanes enarbolan sus rugosos maderos como padres del agua y de la sombra.
Los cederos jóvenes sumergen sus raíces en la madriguera de los metales y trenzan su follaje en
el bauprés del huracán.
Los jabillos guarecen tras punzante corteza su entraña dura y blanca de vivientes mármoles.
Los apamates iluminan mis vitrales en fuga con el desnudo resplandor de sus flores.

Mi savia corre hacia la mar.

Las guacamayas izan sus verdes estandartes, sus rojos gallardetes en los desfiladeros del alba.
Las garzas entrecruzan sus saetas de paz y de ternura entre orilla y orilla, entre bosque y más
bosque.
Los jaguares jadean por boquetes de lianas el aliento amarillo de la selva.
Los peces van conmigo y sus puñales abren heridas y caminos en el pecho del aire.

Mi sangre corre hacia la mar.

Mis vertientes atisban el perfil encorvado de las chozas sin humo y sin mañana que sea otro día.
Mis raudales reflejan las miradas mestizas de un pueblo arrinconado en su inmensa llanura.
Mis crecidas arrastran un rasgueo de pequeñas guitarras y el cantar de las voces melladas por el
ron.
Una mujer, siempre la misma, aunque mi corazón de Pedro la intente negar tres veces, se baña
desnuda en mis remansos.

Mi vida corre hacia la mar.

My song runs to the ocean

My song runs to the ocean.

The ancient rain trees hoist their roughened trunks like fathers of water and shadow.
The young cedars plunge their roots into the lair of metals and weave their foliage into the
bowsprit of the hurricane.
The sandbox trees shelter their hard and white entrails of living marbles behind their pointed
bark.
The rosy trumpet trees illuminate my stained-glass windows in fugue with the naked glow of
their flowers.

My sap runs to the ocean.

The macaws hoist their green banners, their red pennants in the gorges of dawn.
The herons cross their arrows of peace and tenderness over shore after shore, over forest and
more forest.
The jaguars pant the yellow breath of the jungle through openings in the vines.
The fish go with me and their daggers open wounds and paths in the chest of the air.

My blood runs to the ocean.

My watersheds observe the hunched profiles of huts without smoke and without tomorrow that
can be another day.
My torrents reflect the mestizo gaze of a people cornered in their immense plain.
My floods draw a strum of small guitars and the singing of voices gap-toothed for rum.
A woman, always the same one, although my Petrine heart tries to deny her three times, bathes
naked in my backwaters.

My existence runs to the ocean.


Miguel Otero Silva (1908-1985) is a significant figure in the literary and political genealogy of Venezuela. He opposed the Gómez and Jímenez dictatorships, spending time in both prison and exile. As the founding editor of the newspaper El Nacional, he invited Neruda to contribute a weekly poetry column that would turn into the Elemental Odes, and for that provocation alone deserves international recognition. His six books of poetry and seven novels have been translated into numerous languages, but not substantially into English.

“The choir’s sixth voice is that of the lake” comes from the book-length poem “Choral elegy for Andrés Eloy Blanco” (1957) after the death of the Venezuelan poet and statesman. “My song runs to the ocean” is the 19th and final poem in the sequence “The ocean that is oblivion” (1965) which takes as its starting point a line from Manrique’s Coplas por la muerte de su padre (1476).

Chris Holdaway is a poet, publisher, and translator from Aotearoa, New Zealand. He studied poetry and translation at the University of Notre Dame. He is the author of Gorse Poems (Titus, 2022) and HIGH/TENSION-FASHION (Greying Ghost, 2018) and directs Compound Press.