Excerpts from Pedro Carmona-Alvarez’s Inventarium
Translated by Gabriel Gudding
Der var havet
There was the sea, we had finally arrived
at its beach covered in rushes, so much wind
where we stood, we watched a sea eagle
over the lighthouse, look, a falcon, mother said, I thought
of course of birds but mostly of mother who mixed up
falcon, crane, the eagle sliding above us, what are the names
of the birds that eat corpses, she said,
the water turned black like widows
the cranes were plunging coffins, the sea
a hard black floor one could kneel on
The waves here can take you, she said
here the waves can drag you out
and embrace you, she said
she liked the word embrace
said it was like need, require, must
I didn’t think so, but poor mother
all her words were meant for me
so that I could learn everything
she didn’t get to learn
from her mother, cold as a wave, she said
that mother of mine, remote
as a star, she said, but not me, I, I
I am going to teach you everything
this is my ineffable attempt, I must, I
must be the other side of the daughter
so you won’t have to be, I must
be superb, sleepless, stricken with terror
so you won’t have to promise
to always be a half woman
She pointed and I looked
and she said
you should feel sorry for the ocean
OVERLEVELSE / SURVIVAL
When mother told her stories
everything grew or shrank
according to how tired she was
sometimes the desert was full of flowers
and the flowers bore the names
of those who lay strewn
and sometimes the sand turned to water
and the drowned like happy children
splashed in the dunes
Sometimes I chased a white shape
in the snowstorm, in my dreams
I inherited those who were alive
which we were, these families
up north who let our houses fill
with geese and tin soldiers
and the retelling of stories, as if
the rooms had lost their minds
Jeg ble tatt, forsvant
I was taken, disappeared, died and became a horse
no, I became all the horses, they dragged me out
and I was trotted to death, the water was waiting for me
with its transparent arms
I kissed the muddy bottom
and grazed on the grass there too
while the currents tousled
my human memories
I forgot and forgot
my eyes swayed too, my body became light
like that of a horse that weighs little
and has promised to forget that he once
was a girl who needed food, mother, clothes to float in
I became all horses, all recreation animals
therapy animals, status symbol and pastoral consolation
became centaur, became ponytail and speed
I spread terror among all
who hadn’t tamed me, and once
I became the drowned horse, the murdered horse
the white horse I had myself summoned in a child’s song
I was born in Troy, arrived in Alexandria as a foal
and became a library phantom on the circus floor
Gjenkjennelse / Recognition
Everything around me is alien, like it was all
just placed here. That large tree at the back of the house, the forest,
a water tower, the just-painted shed, grandma’s washbasin
with her rough soaps. Everyone is talking to me about
their dreams. A cousin says he’ll travel one day
to New York, says he’d like to see snow. Another that
he would really like an SUV with tinted windows. And the cousin
who looks at me from a crack, turns her mouth away
every time I open mine to answer. My arrival was expected,
prepared for. It’s maybe not so uncanny that things happen
this way. I don’t know what I think about being here.
It seems so temporary. As if everything will be dismantled
as soon as I leave.
Slik er evigheten sa de
Such is eternity, they said
with their sad voices
in the heat it all
billowed like a dress
hung out to dry
I saw a boy cousin who squinted
but wore a dinner jacket
a girl cousin who limped and read
Rimbaud in French
an aunt who was only 16 when she arrived
at the house with her borrowed shoes
and the uncle whose heart
had long since become dirt, said
when you grow old and ugly and foreign
you will shout into this earth that I’ve become
and here your mouth will linger
About the author:
Pedro Carmona-Alvarez writes in Norwegian and translates from Spanish. Born in 1971, he has won multiple prizes in Norway for his novels, poetry, and essays. He has written eight books of poetry, three novels, and two large collections of essays; has co-edited two major volumes of poetry focusing on the global south and the Americas (decentralizing European poetry); and has published one book-length translation (Raúl Zurita’s Purgatorio / Skjærsild).
Gabriel Gudding is a poet, essayist, and translator from Norwegian. Author of the books Literature for Nonhumans (Ahsahta), Rhode Island Notebook (Dalkey Archive), and A Defense of Poetry (Pitt), his translation of Gunnar Wærness’s book Tå pa Jesus / Touch Jesus was published in Norway bilingually in the fall of 2021 by Forlaget Oktober.
