Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta
Porque falta probar el efecto de gravedad cero en ciertas palabras.
Porque nadie ha leído “Muerte sin fin”
a todo pulmón en la noche del espacio.
Porque tengo una hipótesis:
Los sueños gravitan lentamente
como una burbuja de agua en la boca.
Porque si al ingeniero corazón de hierro
la tierra a trescientos mil kilómetros de distancia
le provoca una lágrima pequeña
como una astilla, el poeta es posible
que lo entienda todo de una vez,
la función de los hoyos negros,
la llamada de auxilio de los pulsares,
el corazón roto de una supernova,
la curvatura del espacio y la antimateria.
Porque hace falta llevar un barril de cerveza
y brindar al mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar con la lengua el brillo del sol
y atraparlo con los dientes como una gragea.
Porque la luna es abundante
en un material precioso y no renovable: silencio.
Por eso la NASA debe enviar
en su próxima expedición a un poeta,
para que todos los demás mortales
que nos quedamos viendo las estrellas
desde nuestra calle, sepamos qué pasa allá
arriba cuando los astronautas
se meten en sus sacos,
después de un día de experimentos importantísimos,
como quien duerme bajo el agua.
Request to NASA to Include a Poet in Their Next Space Shuttle
Because it’s necessary to demonstrate the effect of zero gravity in certain words.
Because no one has read Shakespeare, out loud, in the night of space.
Because I have a theory:
Dreams gravitate slowly
as a water bubble in the mouth.
Because if to the engineer with an iron heart,
the earth at three hundred thousand kilometers of distance
provokes a tear
as little as a splinter, the poet would possibly
understand at last,
the function of black holes,
the call of help of pulsars,
the broken heart of a supernova,
the curvature of space and antimatter.
Because it is necessary to take a beer barrel
and drink to the silence of Neptune,
to caress with the tongue the sheen of the Sun
and to catch it with the teeth as a tablet.
Because the moon is abundant
in a beautiful non-renewable resource: silence.
That's why NASA must send a poet in the next journey,
so that all the rest of mortals
can continue seeing the stars from our street,
knowing what happens
up there when the astronauts
get into theirs sacks,
as if sleeping under water.
(Translation by Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts)
Un mes después me llegó un sobre manila con el sello de la NASA. Por un momento me imaginé la sorpresa del cartero que pensaba en quién habitaría esa casa donde reciben correspondencia de la NASA. Adentro del sobre estaba la revista y una carta donde se me decía que debía llenar unos formularios para considerar mi propuesta. ¿Mi propuesta? Si todo era un divertimento poético hecho con la misma emoción con que se escribe un poema: para ver qué pasa.
Pasaron meses y en la Universidad donde trabajo conocí a un señor que nació en el valle de California (en French Camp). Sus padres habían trabajado en los campos. Me preguntó qué hacía, le dije que daba clases y después le pregunté lo mismo, él me dijo que era astronauta. Era nada menos que José Hernández, un modelo de esfuerzo y dedicación. Empezó recogiendo fresas hasta llegar a orbitear la tierra en la Estación Espacial Internacional. Nunca se desanimó cuando lo rechazaron del exigentísimo programa espacial. Cada año añadía una habilidad, un año aprendía ruso, otro año aprendía a bucear, todas habilidades útiles para los astronautas. Cuando lo conocí le platiqué de la historia del poema, le regalé una copia y le dije si lo podía llevar al espacio cuando fuera. Dijo que sí.
Meses después recuerdo escribirle desde “tweeter” a la estación espacial. Y se acordaba del poema y me deseaba suerte educando a las juventudes. Me mandó también su foto, firmada.
Siempre me han interesado las historias que acompañan los poemas, cómo encuentran su propia vida y crecimiento. Creo que la creatividad humana es lo que nos ha llevado al espacio, a imaginar posibilidades. Esta anécdota no es sólo para animar audiencias en lecturas de poesía sino para recordar que la poesía tiene su propia vida.
The History of the Astronaut Poem
When the New Yorkian literary magazine, The Bitter Oleander, published the translation of “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta” (Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts were in charge of the translation), in a sudden burst of emotion, I decided to send the poem to NASA. Telling them that it was important to send a poet to space to do experiments with metaphors of minimal gravity. I sent the poem as a joke. I imagined that an engineer with a good sense of humor would read the poem and then throw it in the trash or would place it on an apparatus filled with screws. But no. NASA took it seriously.
A month later a manila envelope arrived with a NASA seal. For a moment, I imagined the mailman’s surprise as he would wonder who lived in that house that received correspondence from NASA. Inside the envelope were the magazine and a letter informing me that I would have to fill out forms for my proposal to be considered. My proposal? Everything had been done for poetic entertainment—written with the same emotion as one writes a poem: to see what happens.
A few months went by, and at the university where I work I met a man who was born in the California valley (French Camp). His parents had worked in the fields. He asked me what I did. I told him that I taught and then asked him the same question. He told me he was an astronaut. He was the very José Hernández, a model of effort and dedication. He began by picking strawberries until he orbited the Earth at the International Space Station. He never became discouraged when he was rejected from the exigeant space program. Every year he added a skill, one year he would learn Russian, another year he would learn how to dive—all useful skills for astronauts. When I met him, I told him the story of the poem, I gave him a copy as a gift and I asked him if I he could take a copy to space on his next voyage. He said yes.
Months later I remember tweeting to the space station. And he remembered the poem and wished me luck with educating youth. He also sent me a signed photograph.
I have always been interested in the stories that come with writing poems, how they found their own lives and growth. The creative imagination is what has taken us to outer space—to imagine possibilities. This anecdote is not only for poetry reading audiences but to remember that poetry has its own life.
(Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez)
Porque falta probar el efecto de gravedad cero en ciertas palabras.
Porque nadie ha leído “Muerte sin fin”
a todo pulmón en la noche del espacio.
Porque tengo una hipótesis:
Los sueños gravitan lentamente
como una burbuja de agua en la boca.
Porque si al ingeniero corazón de hierro
la tierra a trescientos mil kilómetros de distancia
le provoca una lágrima pequeña
como una astilla, el poeta es posible
que lo entienda todo de una vez,
la función de los hoyos negros,
la llamada de auxilio de los pulsares,
el corazón roto de una supernova,
la curvatura del espacio y la antimateria.
Porque hace falta llevar un barril de cerveza
y brindar al mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar con la lengua el brillo del sol
y atraparlo con los dientes como una gragea.
Porque la luna es abundante
en un material precioso y no renovable: silencio.
Por eso la NASA debe enviar
en su próxima expedición a un poeta,
para que todos los demás mortales
que nos quedamos viendo las estrellas
desde nuestra calle, sepamos qué pasa allá
arriba cuando los astronautas
se meten en sus sacos,
después de un día de experimentos importantísimos,
como quien duerme bajo el agua.
Request to NASA to Include a Poet in Their Next Space Shuttle
Because it’s necessary to demonstrate the effect of zero gravity in certain words.
Because no one has read Shakespeare, out loud, in the night of space.
Because I have a theory:
Dreams gravitate slowly
as a water bubble in the mouth.
Because if to the engineer with an iron heart,
the earth at three hundred thousand kilometers of distance
provokes a tear
as little as a splinter, the poet would possibly
understand at last,
the function of black holes,
the call of help of pulsars,
the broken heart of a supernova,
the curvature of space and antimatter.
Because it is necessary to take a beer barrel
and drink to the silence of Neptune,
to caress with the tongue the sheen of the Sun
and to catch it with the teeth as a tablet.
Because the moon is abundant
in a beautiful non-renewable resource: silence.
That's why NASA must send a poet in the next journey,
so that all the rest of mortals
can continue seeing the stars from our street,
knowing what happens
up there when the astronauts
get into theirs sacks,
as if sleeping under water.
(Translation by Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts)
Petição à NASA para incluir em sua próxima viagem ao espaço um poeta
Porque falta provar o efeito da gravidade zero
em certas palavras.
Porque ninguém leu Carlos Drummond de Andrade
a todo pulmão na noite do espaço.
Porque tenho uma hipótese:
Os sonhos gravitam lentamente
como uma bolha de água na boca.
Porque se ao engenheiro coração de ferro
a terra a trezentos mil kilômetros de distância
lhe provoca uma lágrima pequena
como uma farpa, o poeta é possível
que o entenda tudo de uma vez,
a função dos buracos negros,
a chamada de auxílio dos pulsares,
o coração partido de uma supernova,
a curvatura do espaço e a anti-matéria.
Porque faz falta levar um barril de cerveja
e brindar ao mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar com a língua o brilho do sol
e prendê-lo com os dentes como uma drágea.
Porque a lua é abundante
num material precioso e não renovável: silêncio.
Por isso a NASA deve mandar
em sua próxima expedição um poeta,
para que todos os demais mortais
que ficamos olhando as estrelas
desde a nossa rua, saibamos o quê acontece lá
em cima quando os astronautas
se metem em seus sacos,
depois de um dia de experimentos importantíssimos,
como quem dorme embaixo d’água.
(Translation by Shawn Stein)
Porque falta provar o efeito da gravidade zero
em certas palavras.
Porque ninguém leu Carlos Drummond de Andrade
a todo pulmão na noite do espaço.
Porque tenho uma hipótese:
Os sonhos gravitam lentamente
como uma bolha de água na boca.
Porque se ao engenheiro coração de ferro
a terra a trezentos mil kilômetros de distância
lhe provoca uma lágrima pequena
como uma farpa, o poeta é possível
que o entenda tudo de uma vez,
a função dos buracos negros,
a chamada de auxílio dos pulsares,
o coração partido de uma supernova,
a curvatura do espaço e a anti-matéria.
Porque faz falta levar um barril de cerveja
e brindar ao mutismo de Neptuno,
acariciar com a língua o brilho do sol
e prendê-lo com os dentes como uma drágea.
Porque a lua é abundante
num material precioso e não renovável: silêncio.
Por isso a NASA deve mandar
em sua próxima expedição um poeta,
para que todos os demais mortais
que ficamos olhando as estrelas
desde a nossa rua, saibamos o quê acontece lá
em cima quando os astronautas
se metem em seus sacos,
depois de um dia de experimentos importantíssimos,
como quem dorme embaixo d’água.
(Translation by Shawn Stein)
Historia del poema astronauta
Cuando la revista neoyorkina de poesía The Bitter Oleander (Adelfa amarga) publicó una traducción de mi poema “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próxima expedición a un poeta” (La traducción estuvo a cargo de Anthony Seidman y Traci Roberts) en un arranque de emoción decidí mandar la revista a la NASA. Diciéndoles que sería importante mandar a un poeta al espacio para que hiciera experimentos con metáforas en gravedad mínima. Lo mandé como una broma, imaginé que algún ingeniero con buen humor leería el poema, después lo tiraría a la basura o lo pondría sobre un aparato lleno de tornillos. Pero no. La NASA lo tomó en serio.
Un mes después me llegó un sobre manila con el sello de la NASA. Por un momento me imaginé la sorpresa del cartero que pensaba en quién habitaría esa casa donde reciben correspondencia de la NASA. Adentro del sobre estaba la revista y una carta donde se me decía que debía llenar unos formularios para considerar mi propuesta. ¿Mi propuesta? Si todo era un divertimento poético hecho con la misma emoción con que se escribe un poema: para ver qué pasa.
Pasaron meses y en la Universidad donde trabajo conocí a un señor que nació en el valle de California (en French Camp). Sus padres habían trabajado en los campos. Me preguntó qué hacía, le dije que daba clases y después le pregunté lo mismo, él me dijo que era astronauta. Era nada menos que José Hernández, un modelo de esfuerzo y dedicación. Empezó recogiendo fresas hasta llegar a orbitear la tierra en la Estación Espacial Internacional. Nunca se desanimó cuando lo rechazaron del exigentísimo programa espacial. Cada año añadía una habilidad, un año aprendía ruso, otro año aprendía a bucear, todas habilidades útiles para los astronautas. Cuando lo conocí le platiqué de la historia del poema, le regalé una copia y le dije si lo podía llevar al espacio cuando fuera. Dijo que sí.
Meses después recuerdo escribirle desde “tweeter” a la estación espacial. Y se acordaba del poema y me deseaba suerte educando a las juventudes. Me mandó también su foto, firmada.
Siempre me han interesado las historias que acompañan los poemas, cómo encuentran su propia vida y crecimiento. Creo que la creatividad humana es lo que nos ha llevado al espacio, a imaginar posibilidades. Esta anécdota no es sólo para animar audiencias en lecturas de poesía sino para recordar que la poesía tiene su propia vida.
The History of the Astronaut Poem
When the New Yorkian literary magazine, The Bitter Oleander, published the translation of “Petición a la NASA para incluir en su próximo viaje al espacio a un poeta” (Anthony Seidman and Traci Roberts were in charge of the translation), in a sudden burst of emotion, I decided to send the poem to NASA. Telling them that it was important to send a poet to space to do experiments with metaphors of minimal gravity. I sent the poem as a joke. I imagined that an engineer with a good sense of humor would read the poem and then throw it in the trash or would place it on an apparatus filled with screws. But no. NASA took it seriously.
A month later a manila envelope arrived with a NASA seal. For a moment, I imagined the mailman’s surprise as he would wonder who lived in that house that received correspondence from NASA. Inside the envelope were the magazine and a letter informing me that I would have to fill out forms for my proposal to be considered. My proposal? Everything had been done for poetic entertainment—written with the same emotion as one writes a poem: to see what happens.
A few months went by, and at the university where I work I met a man who was born in the California valley (French Camp). His parents had worked in the fields. He asked me what I did. I told him that I taught and then asked him the same question. He told me he was an astronaut. He was the very José Hernández, a model of effort and dedication. He began by picking strawberries until he orbited the Earth at the International Space Station. He never became discouraged when he was rejected from the exigeant space program. Every year he added a skill, one year he would learn Russian, another year he would learn how to dive—all useful skills for astronauts. When I met him, I told him the story of the poem, I gave him a copy as a gift and I asked him if I he could take a copy to space on his next voyage. He said yes.
Months later I remember tweeting to the space station. And he remembered the poem and wished me luck with educating youth. He also sent me a signed photograph.
I have always been interested in the stories that come with writing poems, how they found their own lives and growth. The creative imagination is what has taken us to outer space—to imagine possibilities. This anecdote is not only for poetry reading audiences but to remember that poetry has its own life.
(Translation by Sonia Gutiérrez)
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Martín Camps y Los Tigres del Norte To learn more about Martín Camps, visit University of the Pacific. To purchase Cruces fronterizos: Hacia una narrativa del desierto, visit Libros Latinos. |
