We present an extract from Whales and Whales by Galician poet Luisa Castro, translated by Keith Payne and published in English by Skein Press.
The first English translation of one of the most pivotal collections in contemporary Galician poetry, Whales and Whales navigates the urgent, playful, shapeshifting journey of a young woman affirming her place in the world.
From Seven Poems About Lions
I
I divide the world in two.
You don’t need to be old to understand it:
on one side is my head, on the other
my dad chasing swordfish down the Irish coast
in the frozen waters where my grandfathers had lovers
and children they confused with the names on bottles.
My head is pure intelligence,
and my dad’s a lion tamer.
My head fits inside the lion’s mouth,
it’s scary
growing up in the lion’s mouth.
Every night
we’d feed the lions.
I fall into bed exhausted
Silvia,
all day feeding lions.
My dad roars and I’m frightened
all day.
I work all day and am frightened of the lions,
frightened ...
I fall into bed, with a leg missing,
but I think about the one that’s left
and the lions.
The law of the jungle is cruel. I work all day
and the Romans have such frightening whips...
My dad went after the swordfish just so I could
—it’s scary—
feed the lions with my beautiful head.
I can never get to sleep without some
yawning lion waking me up.
Since my body is
so sweet
the lions prefer me,
they devour with their eyes and their teeth.
The Romans have such frightening whips ...
I think as I go along, hopping on one foot,
—the one I’ve got left.
I’m happy because I’m smart.
I go to bed
and quick as you like, I’m up: the lions are hungry.
I close my eyes
and let them tear at my last remaining leg.
The lions are fat
but they’re still hungry.
Hah! What a pansy!
Lions have the brains of a fly,
but me ... I’m clever.
The Romans have such frightening whips ...
I make do without my legs, this lion
just devoured my last one, hah!
What a pansy!
Brains of a fly,
who’s going to make me work now,
sure I’ve no legs to go and feed
the lions.
I fall into bed, exhausted from the waist up,
from the waist down, pure intelligence.
My dad’s children are Rum,
Beer and Swordfish ...
Me
I’m my father’s daughter,
the lion tamer.
I’d like to see those Imperial Leather faces.
They never held me.
I placed all my intelligence down into the lion’s belly
and he wasn’t afraid.
In my left ear I wear an earring
a gift from a colourful lover.
One day my grandfather said to me: you’ll wear this earring
as long as Interpol are patrolling Irish waters,
you’ll sail the high seas as long as your father’s lips
taste of contraband.
I divide the world in two.
From the waist up pure intelligence.
From the waist down I love lions.
I divide the world in two.
My dad’s hands are claws
and he lives in a house with no oars.
For the rest of my days, I’ll feast on stinking lion flesh.
I won’t go hungry. My left ear tastes of swordfish.
From Isolde Insisted
I
Dear Captain Tan, the camera-shy kid I can’t see from here
who’ll take awful pictures on St Kilda
while my dad talks to the deckchair owners beneath
the sun from the North Pole
shining along the highest parallel
where you’ll find no hospitals or vaccines against the cold
but don’t you ever get sick.
They’ll dress the beaches in neutral adjectives
bilious yellow my anaemic idea
while I amuse myself wondering if there’s anything you need:
a rap on your knuckles, a split lip
and the conversation cut short so it appears intense,
the repeated guff of I Love You–I Love You
so don’t wear your glasses when we’re together
because if I touch them, it’ll spoil the effect,
something no one has ever done.
Is there no instruction manual for this?
Is there no instruction manual for all this?
II
We deserve everything except the decorative wicker planter,
the must have manuals or silver ashtrays
the world decrees a must
though in St Kilda there’s only ease for us
and the penguins,
who won’t try sell us Persian rugs
while I construct these memories
and you appear.
But eat,
don’t ever get sick.
III
Once we’re together in limbo
all that’ll be left for you to do
is squint your little moley eyes
as if you can see absolutely nothing,
but the deckchairs
and me, who likes a good epic and would change it all
for Virgil
but don’t you ever get sick,
Dad says there are no hospitals on St Kilda,
no hospitals, no baptismal fonts
so if we die up there, the devil’ll come straight for us,
take us all the way down to his place.
Whales and Whales is published by Skein Press
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