Lamento por la mujer del pescador

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Lamento por la mujer del pescador


Image by Amio Cajander.
En una costa donde la gente aprendió a desafiar al mar para ganar su sustento pagando muchas veces un precio demasiado alto…

En una costa que es un rosario de naufragios, que se cuentan por cada islote, por cada roca que emerge entre olas de cresta blanca…

Ella permanece, con el niño en brazos, oteando el horizonte, esperando un barco que teme que no volverá

Visto en: Cabo de Laxe – Costa da Morte – A Coruña

BSO: Lament for the Fisherman’s Wife – Lamento por la mujer del pescador – Silly Wizard.

By the storm-torn shoreline
a woman is standing
The spray strung
like jewels in her hair
And the sea tore the rocks
near the desolate landing
as though it had known
she stood there.

But she has come down
to condemn that wild ocean
For the murderous
loss of her man.
His boat sailed out
on Wednesday morning,
And it’s feared she’s gone
down with all hands.

Oh and white were the wave-caps
And wild was their parting
So fierce is the warring of love,
But she prayed to the gods
Both of men and of sailors
Not to cast their cruel nets o’er her love.

There’s a school on the hill
Where the songs of dead fathers
Are led toward tempests and gales,
Where their God-given wings
Are clipped close to their bodies,
And their eyes are bound-’round with ships’ sails.

What force leads a man
To a life filled with danger
High on seas or a mile underground?
It’s when need is his master
And poverty’s no stranger,
And there’s no other work to be found.
(…)

——–

Junto a la costa tallada por la tormenta
una mujer permanece en pie
las gotas encadenadas
como joyas en su pelo
y el mar rasgó las rocas
junto al desolado embarcadero
como si hubiera sabido
que ella permanecía allí.

Pero ella ha bajado
para condenar al salvaje océano
por la pérdida asesina
de su hombre.
Su barco zarpó
la mañana del miércoles,
y se teme que se hundió con toda la tripulación.

Oh y blancas eran las crestas de las olas
y salvaje fue su partida
tan fiera es la guerra del amor
pero ella rezó a los dioses
de los hombres y de los marineros
para que no echaran sus redes crueles sobre su amado.

Hay una escuela en la colina
donde las canciones de los padres muertos
se dirigen hacia las tempestades y galernas
donde las alas dadas por Dios
se cortan justo junto al cuerpo
y sus ojos son vendados con velas de barco

Que fuerza lleva a un hombre
a una vida llena de peligro
en alta mar o una milla bajo tierra?
Es cuando la necesidad es su amo
y la pobreza no es extraña
y no hay otro trabajo que encontrar.
(…)

120/365: 2001-2002


Image by bloody marty mix
Tuesday, 23 September 2008.

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

Year 34: 2001-2002

Dave e-mailed me in November to tell me that he’d gotten engaged. He thought it would be better if I heard it directly from him, rather than through the network of friends through which we were still tangentially connected. I was surprised at the strength of my reaction. I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. All the old pain came rushing back, and I reached out to just about everyone I knew, looking for any kind of words of comfort I could find. One of the people who responded immediately was C., a person I had known as an online acquaintance for many years, but had never really been close to. I can’t even remember now what his words of wisdom were, but they affected me profoundly. We began a lengthy e-mail exchange on the nature of love, loss, grief and fulfillment, a conversation which lasted months. Over the course of those months, we fell in love.

I resisted for a long time. He lived nowhere near me, and I had little interest in leaving Chicago. He had young kids and simply didn’t have the option of leaving. But he pursued relentlessly, and by the spring, I could no longer deny that what we were feeling might be real.

In July, C. flew to Chicago to meet me in person for the first time. I was nervous. Relationships that begin online are notorious for fizzling out as soon as the parties meet. You can’t fake physical chemistry, and if it’s not there, it’s just not there. Waiting for him at the airport, standing on my toes to survey the concourse for his reddish-blonde hair, my adrenaline was pumping, and my heart was pounding. When he smiled from across the concourse, I recognized him immediately. He walked up to me and folded me into his arms, and right away I felt a comforting sense of being at home with him. His touch, his embrace, his smile — everything about him — felt right.

We spent a thrilling and beautiful week together, and by the time he left, I knew I was in trouble. This would be an absolutely impossible relationship, and yet I could not tear myself away from it. He inhabited my soul.

C. and I continued to court each other with words throughout the summer. We spoke on the phone every day, spent hours on Yahoo Instant Messenger at night, and composed long and poetic e-mails for each other on all manner of subjects, both deep and shallow. It was as if our minds were engaged in an elaborate and enchanting dance. Not even the day of Dave’s wedding could break the spell. Gina had me over for a girls’ night, and we got drunk on cosmopolitans, ostensibly to help me deal with the knowledge that Dave was getting married that evening. Although, I did manage some half-hearted bitching and moaning about it, I was already feeling pretty even-keeled because I knew that C. was out there, and that he was right that very moment thinking about me.

In August, C. and I traveled to Carmel, CA, where we spent a glorious four days driving up and down the coast of Big Sur and Monterey. The views were breathtaking, and we felt it must have been the perfect place for us. Our feelings for each other had taken us to dizzying heights, and such a love demanded such a view. We stood on the cliffs, arm in arm, and watched the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean roll in and out. Where we could, we climbed down onto the beach, and flung our shoes off to run in the sand. The sky, azure and clear, seemed to belong only to us.

Who am I?

I am drawn to the water.

I have always lived near water, and I get very panicky at the thought of not being near it. It was one of the hardest things about leaving Chicago and moving to Kentucky, where I live now. Lake Michigan had been a touchstone for me. When I needed to think, or when I needed to drown out my thoughts and go blank, I would go to the shore. I am not much of a swimmer (I have cranky sinuses, and can not bear being under water for very long). I don’t need to be in the water. I just need to be near it. The water washes everything irrelevant away, leaving only what is indelible and true.

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