READIN: Altazor: The Journey by Parachute

I'm feeling on a bit of a roll with reading and translating the prologue to Altazor . Here is another section, in which Huidobro / Altazor lays out the manifesto of the poem. There is some tricky pronoun-switching here; but I think the way I'm reading it makes sense.

Oh, how beautiful ... how beautiful.

I see the mountains, the rivers, the jungles , the sea, the ships, the flowers, the seashells.

I see the night and the day, the axis where they converge. great poet, without a horse who eats birdseed, nor who warms his throat in the moonlight; with my little parachute, like a parasol above the planets.

From each drop of sweat on my forehead are born stars; I will leave you the task of baptizing them, like so many bottles of wine.

I see it all, my brain was forged in tongues of prophecy. breath of God, climbing its swollen thermometer until it touches the feet of my beloved.

Walt Whitman - I have never had a white beard, white like lovely nurses, like frozen streams.

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That one who hears at night the counterfeiters' hammers, just busy astronomers. after the flood, paying heed to the doves, who knows the path of fatigue, the seething wake behind the ships.

That one who knows the storehouses of memory, p> He: he, shepherd of airplanes, who conducts lost nights and masterful winds to matchless poles.

His moan is like a blinking web of unseen meteors.

The day rises in his heart; I have lowers his eyelids to make night, the farmer's respite.

He washes his hands under the gaze of God, he combs his hair like light, like he's harvesting slender raindrops, satisfied.

The beautiful hunter, looking at the heavenly watering-hole where the heartless birds drink.

(The as-yet-nameless stars will make a very satisfying appearance early in Song I. )

  • Adam Floyd