Considered as existential poetry or poetry of consciousness, José Carlos Rosales’s poetic work is marked by a notable stylistic coherence, in which his books, skillfully linked, function as an exploration into the nature of time and as an investigation into the hostility of the world.
At Zenda we offer five poems from Montañas de arena (Anthology of Poetry 1984-2024) by José Carlos Rosales.
***
Later
Like the air that conceals a useless thing,
September’s waves are mere fragments, vain
of a stripped rooftop. Uninhabitable, fleeting,
like the imprisoned glint of a armored box,
they resemble a body without borders.
Secret and without a key, September’s waves,
as the end of summer, are the beginning of nothing.
***
Antiquarian
The rake that clears the snow from the road,
a pair of woolen gloves soaked through, worn out.
Wooden toboggans, an old dirty hat,
and a yellowed photograph of a snowy park.
Hands when they made a snowman,
the furrows left by the wheels on the ice.
The shovel that piles snow on the shoulder,
and other old pieces whose names are forgotten.
***
Your sandals are in a box
I have seen the sandals you wore on Cabo de Gata,
those August or September days:
they rested in their box and, forgotten, bore,
after so long, signs of a summer
that was truly joyful: grains of cheerful sand,
prints of blue sun.
This morning I saw your sandals again and they were
waiting for you to come alive them;
but it rains with fury and summer has left
long months of clouds and squalls. Your sandals stood
so solitary that autumn has become
a customs post or prison, a passage zone, a cage.
Lost at the bottom of a wardrobe drawer,
your sandals await the same as I do:
to walk on the sand, to feel the skin of the air,
to let your steps take us far from here tomorrow.
***
IV (The Highway)
You’re on the highway and the car obeys you,
you’re not really going anywhere,
all the places pass by and by at your side,
all places are the same place,
you see the directions, the signs,
and you see the buildings under construction with their cranes,
heaps of bricks,
a gas station, advertisements:
you stepped out into the street without stepping on the street,
the elevator carries you
to the place
where the car waits for you,
it lowers you into the garage,
you do not have to greet anyone,
from your house to your car,
from your car to the street,
from one street to another street,
without greeting anyone you are on the highway
and you notice the car obeys you,
its wheels turn, the engine spins,
the engines move, they do not tire,
they are machines that keep turning: the world is full of engines,
the houses are full of engines,
there are engines in every
corner of the world,
there is one in the fridge,
the washing machine also has a motor,
and the fans, the boiler,
the microwave, the clocks,
your electric razor,
the music apparatus,
the coffee maker, the oven,
a hair dryer,
juicers, mixers,
everything is full of motors,
the world is a motor,
there exist only motors,
it’s easier to find a motor
than to find a friend,
the garage door also has a motor,
and it always obeys you,
it will do what you say,
and it opens or closes,
if it breaks, someone comes
quickly and repairs it,
everything is in movement,
everything turns and moves,
everything is in motion except you,
who now run along the highway
toward anywhere.
***
Last caress
Someone carries a hidden stone,
and approaches a beach with no one,
and tries that the water cleanses
the shoes, that the mud goes away,
that there are no embers or lumps left,
that the torpor of the road ends.
Someone has hidden a stone
and holds it in the hand, looks at it,
the fatigue tires him and he does not want
to walk dragging that weight
that prevents him from living or moving forward,
to know what remains of the day.
Someone leaves on the beach that stone
which could teach him what it knows,
caresses it for the last time
and walks away thinking that time
from now on will be different:
lighter or cleaner, brighter.
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Author: José Carlos Rosales. Title: Montañas de arena (Anthology of Poetry 1984-2024).Publisher: Renacimiento. Sales: All Your Books.
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