Thinking often these days of Catalunya, I recalled my translation of a poem by Gabriel Ferrater, brother of my Doktorvater Juan, who spelled his own last name Ferrate. Gabriel commited suicide in the 70s, at the height of his fame as one of his generation’s best poets in Catalan.
As we lay enlaced before
a window which gave to a grove
of olives (two bare seeds
within a fruit summer burst open,
infused with heat), we had no
memories. We were the memory
we now have. We were icons
of ourselves to be revered
by true believers of afterwards.
After Gabriel Ferrater
Aleshores, quan jèiem
abraçats davant la finestra
oberta al pendís d’oliveres (dues
llavors nues dins un fruit que l’estiu
ha badat violent, i que s’omple
d’aire) no teníem records. Érem
el record que tenim ara. Érem
aquesta imatge. Els ídols de nosaltres,
per la submisa fe de després.
For a thumbnail potrait of Juan Ferrate, see my Edmonton is Fun After All.
