A PARADISE OF POETS
In 1460, several cuicapihqui (= Nahuatl forgers of songs, i.e. poets)
were gathered in Huexotzinco (near the present-day city of Puebla, in Mexico)
by the lord & poet Tecayehuatzin to discuss the nature of poetry, its
origins & the fate of its poets & poems. The result of that historical
meeting was a long poem, here excerpted, transcreated & lineated by Javier
Taboada. The names of the participating poets are given in brackets.
[Tecayehuatzin]
Where do
you dwell, poet?
It is true
he has just
descended to the stage
of
sacred drums
That's the life of the poet:
to
unfetter like the quetzal’s feathers
to spread
out the Life-Giver's songs
For within Heaven
from there
the delightful poems
the
delightful songs
come.
Our desire deforms them.
Invention
spoils them.
[Ayocuan:]
We have
come in vain
in vain we have sprung on earth.
Shall I die
as a flower dies?
My
fame will be nothing someday?
Nothing my name on Earth?
Just
poetry. Just songs.
How could I persuade myself?
We dwell here
in the Land of Poetry.
In here no one will ever stop our poetry
no
one will ever stop our songs.
Or have we not come here
just to know ourselves
on Earth?
[Aquiahuatzin:]
Intoxicating poetry...
with
poetry we linger
for the words of God
Such
is your house
Life-Giver?
Just listen to Him--
He
descended here from Heaven
& He
comes here singing
& His flutes are beating
[Cuauhtencoztli:]
Are men true?
If they are
not
our song will not be truth.
[Motenehuatzin:]
Where
am I singing?
Sad poems sad
songs.
All turns into hate here.
We
all live in The House of Creation.
Sad poems sad
songs.
All turns into hate here.
[Tlapalteuccitzin:]
Who am I?
I
go on flying
& I compose
I sing my
poems
butterflies of song
I come from what’s above us.
I
quetzal of springtime
I have come to Earth.
Now I
spread out my wings
over the stage of sacred-drums
&
here my song arises
comes from
Earth
&
springs!
That is how I sow my poems & songs.
[Ayocuan:]
My house
that house
my painted-books
make
bright
it is yours
God
My fellow poets:
Listen to the
words of dreams
In spring they make us live.
Their shining ears of corn
cause us to
see.
As a red-heron bird
their
rosy-colored cobs
give
us the sequence.
Now we know.
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