Mi bis bis etc.

tío abuelo Enrique – James Tate

de Absences (1972)

Uno puede ganarse una fortuna en casi cualquier cosa

en este paı́s, el padre de tal o cual tuvo que inventar
todo lo que hay – la papilla, los tractores, el raticida.
Claro que mi familia no hace nada desde el principio de
los tiempos. Inventaron la pobreza y el mal gusto
y zafar y ser cagado a pedos por el patró n.
Oh mi vieja anda comié ndose las uñ as y
escupié ndolas en un plato. No deberı́as tener
vergü enza me dice, acordate de tu gente.
Mi familia digo yo qué carajo hicieron de sus vidas sino
pintarrajear las escenas má s aburdas y desagradables
de miseria vinı́licas y bajeza humana.
Pero no te olvides de tu bis bis tı́o abuelo
El Piloto perdido – James Tate

de The Lost Pilot (1967)

Tu cara no se pudrió
como la de los demá s – al copiloto,
por ejemplo, lo vi

ayer. Su cara parece

puré : su mujer y su hija,
pobres ignorantes, lo miran

como si estuviera por recomponerse.

Má s desdichado que Job.
Pero tu cara no se pudrió

como la de los demá s – se puso oscuro

y rı́gida como el é bano;
los rasgos adquirieron cada vez má s

distinció n. Si te pudiera persuadir

de que volvieras por una sola tarde,
de que bajaras de tus ó rbitas

compulsivas, te sentirı́a con las manos,

te leerı́a la cara como hace Dallas,
tu artillero pandillero, ahora,

con los ojos ampollados, al leer

sus libros de braille. Te tocarı́a
la cara del mismo modo que toca

un erudito desinteresado un ejemplar ú nico.

Por má s miedo que me diera, yo te
descubrirı́a, y no te delatarı́a
nunca; yo no te harı́a
enfrentar a tu mujer, ni a Dallas,
ni al copiloto, Jim. Podrı́as

volver a tus ó rbitas

locas, y yo no intentarı́a a
entender precisamente qué

significan para vos. Lo ú nico que

sé es esto: cuando te veo,
como te he visto al menos

una vez todos los añ os de mi vida,

volar en la vastedad del cielo
como un diminuto dios africano,

me siento muerto. Me siento la

estela de la vida de un desconocido
por haberte perseguido.

La cabeza vuelta hacia el cielo,

no puedo despegar,
y, vos, sobrevolando otra vez,

veloz, perfecto, y reacio

a decirme que te está yendo
bien, o que fue un error

lo que te ubicó a vos en aquel mundo,

y a mı́ en é ste; o que la desgracia
ubicara estos mundos en nosotros.
My Great Great etc Uncle Henry – James Tate
from Absences (1972)

There's a fortune to be made in just about everything

in this country, somebody's father had to invent
everything – baby food, tractors, rat poisoning.
My family's obviously done nothing since the beginning
of time. They invented poverty and bad taste
and getting by and taking it from the boss.
O my mother goes around chewing her nails and
spitting them in a jar: You shouldn't be ashamed
of yourself she says, think of your family.
My family I say what have they ever done but
paint by numbers the most absurd and disgusting scenes
of plastic squalor and human degradation.
Well then think of your great great etc. Uncle
Patrick Henry.
The Lost Pilot – James Tate

from The Lost Pilot (1967)

Your face did not rot

like the others—the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-

mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.

He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,

and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole

you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,

read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads

his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.

However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy

orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know

is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,

spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were

the residue of a stranger’s life,
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,

I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling

to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,

and me in this; or that misfortune