Todo punto era un punto sin retorno

El viejo país

I

Donde toda ciudad era muy mona,
todo jardín era un jardín colgante.
Media pinta valía media corona.
Tenía vigor toda arteria importante

pues era buena toda la comida.
Había ropa interior en toda cuerda
aunque no hubiera casas desvestidas.
Todo domingo era de marcha lerda

hasta que de memoria uno aprendía
que todo inicio mal se iniciaría
por ser forzosa toda conclusión.

En toda selva algo hay de madreselva.
En todo risco, fatalistas cerdas.
Todo arroyuelo era un Rubicón.

II

Todo arroyuelo era un Rubicón
y resistente toda planta anual
puesta en el césped como un gran mantón.
En las partes de un guante hay un manual

y un mapa vial, de ruta grande y chica.
Toda gran ruta tiene obras grandes.
Todo zahorí aguado en lo que explica
se había plantado tal como un baluarte

contra algo en que plantarse bien valía.
Olor a incienso nos enardecía
cuando hacia el fuerte había fuego en curso.

Toda garza real era un presagio
de algún desastre tras el cual, pensábamos,
todo recurso era último recurso.

III

Todo recurso era último recurso
de un puerto que abrigó un viejo rencor.
En toda venta se vendía un truco.
Algunos no aceptaban cambiar por

las revistas de humor las de aventura.
Aquel jaleo era el jaleo
sin el cual la cuestión se ponía oscura:
digo el fin de semana en que fuimos de paseo

con horarios de día laborable del tren.
Toda torre era torre de Babel
que adornaba una cerca en el rincón

donde era pobre todo observatorio.
Tenía truchas discretas todo arroyo.
Todo arroyuelo era un Rubicón.

IV

Todo arroyuelo era un Rubicón
donde era toda zanja la final.
Todo varón era un pequeño hombrón
cuya labia era toda comercial

ahora que toda nave era quemada.
Toda gorra era de pasar la gorra.
Todo sombrero arrastraba el ala.
Toda banda era banda valerosa

atravesando el puente roto
y caballete roto uno tras otro
donde con mano dura no se daba ni un palo inofensivo.

Todo camino angosto conducía a una cámara.
Y toda decisión era instantánea.
Toda herida era herida en lo más vivo.

V

Toda herida era herida en lo más vivo
donde zorrear chocaba con el diente del zorro
y Cristo tenía algo de impolítico
cuando tildó de “zorros peleándose en un hoyo”

a los contrabandistas de petróleo de aquella tierra arcaica
cuando algún vendedor de gasoil rojo
para quien era verde toda vara
recordaba a todo el mundo que el zorro

no estaba en ningún lado de esa zona.
Mera argamasa no aguantaba otra de diez pulgadas.
Toda esperanza era esperanza vana.

Resultó así que el grupo defensor
se engañó por su sangre en esplendor.
Toda cuesta era cuesta resbalosa.

VI

Toda cuesta era cuesta resbalosa
donde toda afeitada por un pelo escapaba
y la plata era plata facilona
en donde toda tumba era de agua

ahora que toda nave, de nuevo, era quemada.
Toda rata a montones era ahogada
excepto la raposa o el armiño,
que los nórdicos sabían al dedillo

para hablar con ambages
si bien no era muy claro su lenguaje.
Todo tiempo era siempre un tiempo en cana

tal como toda cana era al aire furtivo.
Toda espada desnuda se envainaba en escarcha.
Toda herida era herida en lo más vivo.

VII

Toda herida era herida en lo más vivo
dado que toda pluma se erizaba.
Toda raposa era un astuto bicho.
Toda persona se ponía brava

cuando algún torpe por la claraboya
tiraba que un raposo era un alcaraván.
Toda muralla era la de Troya
y toda caza, caza en vecindad

de una hacienda de tan prohibido ingreso
que todo can sería un cancerbero.
Todo carril tenía una lechera de contorno

cuyas marcas signaban un contrato
de un desparasitador de ganado.
Todo punto era un punto sin retorno.

VIII

Todo punto era un punto sin retorno
para quienes signaron la Alianza con firma sangrienta.
Todo helecho era pelo de doncella
que cubría de barro todo ojo

hasta que lo cazaban y tiraban al fuego.
Todo azarollo era un serbal de cazadores.
El segador en línea hacía un juego
de su afán y la faja del clan iba a mejores

en hilar fibra dura entre laneros.
Los secretarios eran temporeros
que podían cambiar forma

como las diosas río Banna y Boann.
Un laberinto pobre, en el fondo, era minoico.
Todo escape era escape milagroso.

IX

Todo escape era escape milagroso
donde el trazo era todo a grandes trazos
de un hacha en el pescuezo de algún chancho.
Gato por liebre era ese chancho y todos

aunque una vez rajó por el Diamante
tan poco… tan tan poco vacilante.
El umbral del dolor más limen era
por la vara elevada en la merienda

cuando toda masita era una masa.
Todo asno tenía una quijada
que pegaba con sorna o en el horno.

Toda malta hacía whisky sin mezclar.
Todo poste era siempre uno de sal.
Todo punto era un punto sin retorno.

X

Todo punto era un punto sin retorno
donde una raya era pasar la raya.
En toda cuesta arriba había un arroyo.
En todo prado había una calandria

que hacía allí las veces de pradero.
Los nórdicos probaron vados varios
hasta encontrar un buen atracadero.
Cuando con tojo en cuerdas hizo un látigo

Cristo expulsó a los prestamistas
y a otros persistentes de la lista
cuando tensar la cuerda era la cosa.

El tojo era a la aulaga lo que la aulaga a la aliaga.
Todo torpe tenía su torpe caballito de batalla.
Las posiciones eran todas ventajosas.

XI

Ventajosas eran todas las posiciones
donde todo caballo era tan caballero
que se sabía rocín con pretensiones.
Todo grano de gracias era inmenso

y todo tópico era familiar.
Toda bala de heno era un tiro al aire
de un segador por una antigua enemistad.
Toda silla era el juego de la silla en un baile

dado que todo mísero gallina
y su mísero perro podían llevar melodía
aunque nadie quería cargar con el muerto

más que Sansón quería llevar encima el templo.
Toda columna vertebral era un estemple cayendo.
Y toda flor era una flor de un día.

XII

Y toda flor era la flor de un día
y todo linde un lindo macizo de flores
salvo que resultara todavía
un macizo observado en el Recorder

o si no registrado en el Observer.
Toda soga venía de un tronco de sauce.
El fervor era religioso siempre
por el que nos salvábamos de las malignas fauces

adonde nos había arrojado eso mismo.
Todo hoyo era un insondable abismo
del que todo caballo salía a caballito.

Toda vaca bajaba en su subsidio.
Guiñaba Biddy a Paddy y Paddy a Biddy un ojo.
Las posiciones eran todas ventajosas.

XIII

Las posiciones eran todas ventajosas,
todo trabajo sucio tenía su soplón.
Habían sido astutos bichos las raposas
hasta que, por su torpetorpor,

aquel torpetorpecito
insistió en que el raposo era un alcaraván.
No obstante, todo chico seguía siendo “uno de los chicos”
y toda chica “hola chica qué tal”

para quien todo baile era el último baile
y toda chance era la última chance
y toda decepción era espantosa

desde cuando las listas eran de ropa sucia
en el viejo país en que, se recordaba con minucia,
toda ciudad era muy mona.

The Old Country

I

Where every town was a tidy town
and every garden a hanging garden.
A half could be had for half a crown.
Every major artery would harden

since every meal was a square meal.
Every clothesline showed a line of undies
yet no house was in dishabille.
Every Sunday took a month of Sundays

till everyone got it off by heart
every start was a bad start
since all conclusions were foregone.

Every wood had its twist of woodbine.
Every cliff its herd of fatalistic swine.
Every runnel was a Rubicon.

II

Every runnel was a Rubicon
and every annual a hardy annual
applying itself like linen to a lawn.
Every glove compartment held a manual

and a map of the roads, major and minor.
Every major road had major roadworks.
Every wishy-washy water diviner
had stood like a bulwark

against something worth standing against.
The smell of incense left us incensed
at the firing of the fort.

Every heron was a presager
of some disaster after which, we’d wager,
every resort was a last resort.

III

Every resort was a last resort
with a harbour that harboured an old grudge.
Every sale was a selling short.
There were those who simply wouldn’t budge

from the Dandy to the Rover.
That shouting was the shouting
but for which it was all over –
the weekend, I mean, we set off on an outing

with the weekday train timetable.
Every tower was a tower of Babel
that graced each corner of a bawn

where every lookout was a poor lookout.
Every rill had its unflashy trout.
Every runnel was a Rubicon.

IV

Every runnel was a Rubicon
where every ditch was a last ditch.
Every man was ‘a grand wee mon’
whose every pitch was another sales pitch

now every boat was a burned boat.
Every cap was a cap in hand.
Every coat a trailed coat.
Every band was a gallant band

across the broken bridge
and broken ridge after broken ridge
where you couldn’t beat a stick with a big stick.

Every straight road was a straight up speed trap.
Every decision was a snap.
Every cut was a cut to the quick.

V

Every cut was a cut to the quick
when the weasel’s twist met the weasel’s tooth
and Christ was somewhat impolitic
in branding as ‘weasels fighting in a hole’, forsooth,

the petrol smugglers back on the old sod
when a vendor of red diesel
for whom every rod was a green rod
reminded one and all that the weasel

was nowhere to be found in that same quarter.
No mere mortar could withstand a ten-inch mortar.
Every hope was a forlorn hope.

So it was that the defenders
were taken in by their own blood splendour.
Every slope was a slippery slope.

VI

Every slope was a slippery slope
where every shave was a very close shave
and money was money for old rope
where every grave was a watery grave

now every boat was, again, a burned boat.
Every dime-a-dozen rat a dime-a-dozen drowned rat
except for the whitrack, or stoat,
which the very Norsemen had down pat

as a weasel-word
though we know their speech was rather slurred.
Every time was time in the nick

just as every nick was a nick in time.
Every unsheathed sword was somehow sheathed in rime.
Every cut was a cut to the quick.

VII

Every cut was a cut to the quick
what with every feather a feather to ruffle.
Every whitrack was a whitterick.
Everyone was in a right kerfuffle

when from his hob some hobbledehoy
would venture the whitterick was a curlew.
Every wall was a wall of Troy
and every hunt a hunt in the purlieu

of a demesne so out of bounds
every hound might have been a hellhound.
At every lane end stood a milk churn

whose every dent was a sign of indenture
to some pig wormer or cattle drencher.
Every point was a point of no return.

VIII

Every point was a point of no return
for those who had signed the Covenant in blood.
Every fern was a maidenhair fern
that gave every eye an eyeful of mud

ere it was plucked out and cast into the flame.
Every rowan was a mountain ash.
Every swath-swathed mower made of his graft a game
and the hay sash

went to the kemper best fit to kemp.
Every secretary was a temp
who could shift shape

like the river goddesses Banna and Boann.
Every two-a-penny maze was, at its heart, Minoan.
Every escape was a narrow escape.

IX

Every escape was a narrow escape
where every stroke was a broad stroke
of an axe on a pig nape.
Every pig was a pig in a poke

though it scooted once through the Diamond
so unfalt – so unfalteringly.
The threshold of pain was outlimened
by the bar raised at high tea

now every scone was a drop scone.
Every ass had an ass’s jawbone
that might itself drop from grin to girn.

Every malt was a single malt.
Every pillar was a pillar of salt.
Every point was a point of no return.

X

Every point was a point of no return
where to make a mark was to overstep the mark.
Every brae had its own braw burn.
Every meadow had its meadowlark

that stood in for the laverock.
Those Norse had tried ford after ford
to find a tight wee place to dock.
When he made a scourge of small whin cords,

Christ drove out the moneylenders
and all the other bitter-enders
when the thing to have done was take up the slack.

Whin was to furze as furze was to gorse.
Every hobbledehoy had his hobbledyhobbyhorse.
Every track was an inside track.

XI

Every track was an inside track
where every horse had the horse sense
to know it was only a glorified hack.
Every graineen of gratitude was immense

and every platitude a familiar platitude.
Every kemple of hay was a kemple tossed in the air
by a haymaker in a hay feud.
Every chair at the barn dance a musical chair

given how every paltry poltroon
and his paltry dog could carry a tune
yet no one would carry the can

any more than Samson would carry the temple.
Every spinal column was a collapsing stemple.
Every flash was a flash in the pan.

XII

Every flash was a flash in the pan
and every border a herbaceous border
unless it happened to be an
herbaceous border as observed by the Recorder

or recorded by the Observer.
Every widdie stemmed from a willow bole.
Every fervour was a religious fervour
by which we’d fly the godforsaken hole

into which we’d been flung by it.
Every pit was a bottomless pit
out of which every pig needed a piggyback.

Every cow had subsided in its subsidy.
Biddy winked at Paddy and Paddy winked at Biddy.
Every track was an inside track.

XIII

Every track was an inside track
and every job an inside job.
Every whitterick had been a whitrack
until, from his hobbledehob,

that hobbledehobbledehoy
had insisted the whitterick was a curlew.
But every boy was still ‘one of the boys’
and every girl ‘ye girl ye’

for whom every dance was a last dance
and every chance a last chance
and every letdown a terrible letdown

from the days when every list was a laundry list
in that old country where, we reminisced,
every town was a tidy town.

* Poema perteneciente a Poemas selectos. 1968-2014 (trad. de Pablo Ingberg), Buenos Aires, El Cuenco de Plata, 2024.