The Ofi Press Magazine
International Poetry and Literature from Mexico City
Suplencias para el nombre del padre. Julio César Toledo. Consejo Estatal para las Culturas y las artes de Chiapas, México. 2008.
This book was awarded the Rodulfo Figueroa Regional Poetry Prize in 2008. Toledo received an undergraduate degree in cultural science at the Universidad del Claustro de Sor Juana and another in theatre from the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes, both in Mexico City. His master’s degree is in literature from the University of Aarhus in Denmark. In addition to this work, he has published two other books of poems: Del silencio and Quicio and one theatre piece: Hombre, mujer y perro. His poetry has also been widely anthologized.
Poems translated by Don Cellini (USA)
Father/ Son Padre/Hijo
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Father/son Assuming a name for you, you are the sum of endless afternoons alone in which I imagined first your voice then your body trying desperately for a hug. |
Padre/hijo Suponer un nombre para ti que eres la suma de interminable tardes a solas en las que me daba por imaginar primero tu voz, luego tu cuerpo intentando con desesperación, un abrazo. |
Son/ father Hijo/ padre
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Son/Father Assuming a name for you is to arrange anger in a unique lament capable of making the world continue on its convulsive sob that never explodes. |
Hijo/padre Suponer un nombre para ti es ordenar la rabia en un lamento único capaz de hacer que el mundo siga en su convulso palpitar que nunca estalla.
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Templo Templo
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Temple All the temples are in ruins. That’s why you see me fall apart when you walk by. |
Templo Todos los templos son ruinas. Por eso ves desvencijarse mi cuerpo tras tus pasos. |
XV XV
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XV I say your name. With the softest breath that I have, I say your name and, perhaps, the combination of its letters or its echo makes the ground tremble. I say your name which is clear and fresh: I pronounce it and wash myself in it, I purify myself.
I say your name and afterwards, though it’s not what I want, everything is silent. |
XV I say your name. With the softest breath that I have, I say your name and, perhaps, the combination of its letters or its echo makes the ground tremble. I say your name which is clear and fresh: I pronounce it and wash myself in it, I purify myself. I say your name and afterwards, though it’s not what I want, everything is silent. |
This story is not you Este cuento no eres tú
This story is not you
It’s not you. This body that I am writing on is not you because it doesn’t have marks from my finger nails on its skin. The afternoon rises to my bedroom and climbs up my thighs, making me believe it’s your skin. It’s a soul-less disguise (with your clothing) that wants to tempt me. I know it’s not you, but I have given in.
Este cuento no eres tú
No eres tú. Este cuerpo que escribo no eres porque no tienes las marcas de mis uñas en la piel. En la tarde que asecha mi alcoba y sube por mis muslos erizándome, haciéndome creer que es tu epidermis. Es un disfraz sin alma (con tu ropa) que me quiere tentar. Yo sé que no eres tú, pero he cedido.