Poetry at Sangam

Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.

IN THE LITTLE PORT by Manuel Ulacia

(Translated from the Spanish by Indran Amirthanayagam.)

When I touch your skin
                        I touch the sky.
There are constellations
                                    in the tree of your nerves;
flowers that open when they feel my fingers.

Your body is a garden
where to lose is to find myself.
                                    I explore its secrets
while I fill myself with you.
The smooth stroke of your hands
on my thighs and hair
and the breath of your mouth in my ear
make my blood grow thick

Everything is magnetized
in the spiral of desire.
Reality turns imperceptible.
Suddenly, we let go of the world
without realizing that we do. Nothing exists except
the two of us in the intense flux of another time.

The elements agree.  The senses
match. Our bodies in love,
in prolonged  pleasure,
form a single body.
In the eye of the spiral
souls unite in transparency.

There is a silence beyond one’s own silence,
a leap beyond distance.
The Milky Way spills into clarities.
The plankton on the waves always arrives at the beach–
luminous foam at nightfall.

Dawn.  Little by little
the firmament goes out:
                                    sparrows sing
clustered under the eaves of the porch.
A star shines on the horizon,
everything is love exactly in its moment.

Reality turns perceptible again.
The sun kindles the ocean,
giving form once again
to forms:  table,
objects, bed, window, the silhouettes
of the roofs of other houses.

While my pupils look steadily at you,
                                    you contemplate  me.
In the geometry of the bedroom
we lie naked between white sheets.

There’s something,  I don’t know what, in the warm air
that leaves us surprised, stammering.            

The masts of sail boats are exclamation points
in the little port.

             Wind

The wind beats the windows,
the walls, the roofs;
delirious,  it filters
through cracks and stairways;
it is the percussion of timpani
in the tower and in the moat;
the heavy breath of tubas
on the path that drops
to the river; sharp whistling
in all the chimneys;
linked movement
in the treetops;
rapid flight of clouds
in the intense blue sky.
A pause. An echo. Silence.
There is no one in the castle.
The wind is blowing
incessantly everywhere.
Something in me also stirs.
Perhaps it’s you, who arrives
suddenly, from far away.

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