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.
***
A poem by the brother of my Doktorvater, Juan Ferraté. Gabriel Ferrater (same name but in Catalan) was a prominent poet in his post-war but not quite post-Fascist generation. It intrigues me to read him alongside Fernando Pessoa, or at least his heteronym Alberto Caeiro, though almost forty years separate their births. It was Juan who explained to me what poetry is, at least how it works.