Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 18, 2023, from the original work “La identidad para el olvido” by Teodoro Vanegas Andrade (1926-2002) of Cuenca, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Identity for Oblivion.”
Identity for Oblivion
And in the spiral of dreams…
like one who prowls the orchard
of hidden roots.
Like one who smells the dust
Shaken from the hardness of stones.
Like one who staunches
the primal wounds
and seeks to erase the awkward scars,
with a strange herbal concoction
that grew in the corners of nettle and bone.
Like one who hears the echo
of a bird of omens and lament,
in a discontinuous night
of ash, rain, and lightning.
Like one who seeks the water
that poisoned him.
Like one who splinters
the saving plank in the storm.
Like one who shakes hands
with the mercenary
who deceived him, groaning in the mud,
and winked his trained eye
until he saved himself,
only to crush his beloved corollas later…
Like one who withdraws the body
of a persecuted animal,
of a whipped animal,
to fall again,
without voice or echoes,
to the vertigo,
to the spell of nausea.
Like one who abandons himself
in the inner rite of despair,
quietly
on the burning asphalt floor,
or in cold alleys on newspaper sheets
with the latest news
in inks of anticipated death.
Translator’s Note: In translating Teodoro Vanegas Andrade‘s “Identity for Oblivion,” I was struck by the poem’s evocative imagery and profound introspection. As Vanegas Andrade navigates the labyrinth of human emotions, he invites readers to contemplate themes of despair and the transient nature of existence. The poem primarily explores the depths of human emotion, as reflected in the imagery of wounds, echoes, and the search for solace. Through meticulous craftsmanship and emotive expression, Vanegas Andrade’s work offers a poignant meditation on the complexities of the human condition, resonating deeply with readers as they navigate their own existential journeys.
Original Spanish Version
La identidad para el olvido
Y en espiral del sueño…
como quien ronda el huerto
de raíces ocultas.
Como quien huele el polvo
Sacudido de la dureza de las piedras.
Como quien se restaña
las heridas primarias
y pretende borrarse las torpes cicatrices,
con extraño herbolario
que creció en los rincones de la ortiga y del hueso.
Como quien oye el eco
de un pájaro de augurios y de llanto,
en una noche discontinua
de ceniza, de lluvia y de relámpagos.
Como quien busca el agua
que le envenenaron.
Como quien hace astillas
la salvadora tabla en la tormenta
Como quien da la mano
al mercenario
que le engañó gimiendo sobre el barro
y le guiñó su ojo amaestrado
hasta salvarse,
para luego estrujar sus corolas amadas…
Como quien saca el cuerpo,
de animal perseguido,
de animal azotado
para caer de nuevo,
sin voz ni resonancias,
hasta el vértigo,
hasta el hechizo de la náusea.
Como quien se abandona
en el rito interior de la desesperanza,
quedamente
sobre el ardiente piso del asfalto,
o en fríos callejones sobre hojas de diarios
con la última noticia
en tintas de la muerte anticipada.