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| photo by Txomin Saez |
Kirmen Uribe was born in 1970 in Ondarroa, Spain, where he currently lives and writes. His debut poetry collection, Bitartean heldu eskutik, won Spain’s 2001 Premio de la Crítica, and has since been translated from the Basque original into Spanish, French, and English. The English translation by American poet Elizabeth Macklin, titled Meanwhile Take My Hand, was published in January 2007 by Graywolf Press. Uribe is also a newspaper columnist and author of children’s books, and has been a teacher, scriptwriter, and lyricist, working with a number of Basque musicians and artists on multimedia projects.
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Basque
version
Txoriak neguan
Txoriak salbatzea zen gure misioa.
Elurretan preso geratu ziren txoriak salbatzea.
Hondartza aldean egoten ziren gordeta gehienak
itsaso beltzaren abarora.
Txoriak ere beltzak ziren.
Babeslekutik atera eta etxera eramaten genituen
patrikaretan sartuta.
Txori txiki-txikiak, gure haur eskuetan ere
doi-doi sartzen zirela.
Gero, berogailuaren ondoan jartzen genituen.
Txoriek baina ez zuten luzaroan irauten.
Bi edo hiru orduren buruan hil egiten ziren.
Guk ez genuen ulertzen zergatik,
ez genuen ulertzen haien esker txarra.
Izan ere, esnetan bustitako ogi apurrak ematen genizkien
jatera ahora
eta ohea ere prestatzen genien
gure bufandarik koloretsuenekin.
Alferrik baina, hil egiten ziren.
Gurasoek haserre, esaten ziguten
ez ekartzeko txori gehiago etxera,
hil egiten zirela gehiegizko beroagatik.
Eta natura jakintsua dela
iritsiko zeal udaberria bere txoriekin.
Gu pentsakor jartzen ginen une batez,
beharbada gurasoak zuzen izango dira.
Hala eta guztiz ere,
biharamonean berriro joango ginen hondartza aldera
txoriak salbatzera.
Gure ahalegina
itsasoan elurra bezain alferrekoa zela jakin arren.
Eta txoriek hiltzen jarraitzen zuten, txoriek hiltzen.
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English
version
Birds in Winter
Saving the birds was our mission that whole winter.
Saving the birds imprisoned in the snow.
All along the beach most of them were hidden,
nestled in the shade of the black sea.
The birds were black, too.
From the coverts we’d take them and carry them home
in our coat pockets.
The tiniest birds, barely contained
in even our child-sized hands.
Later, we’d lay them beside the warm stove.
But the birds never lasted long.
In two or three hours they died.
We didn’t see why,
didn’t understand their bad luck.
After all, we’d given them
breadcrumbs moistened in milk,
held to their mouths, to eat,
and furnished a nest for each
with our most colorful winter scarves.
But it was useless, they kept on dying.
Furious, our parents told us
not to bring home any more birds,
they were dying of too much heat.
And that nature is wise,
spring would come with its own birds.
We sat and considered their statements,
it could be that they will be right.
Still and all, the very next day
we would flock off back to the beach
to save the birds,
though we knew
it was fruitless as snow in the sea.
And our birds kept dying, these birds taking life.
“Birds in Winter” copyright © 2007 by Kirmen
Uribe,
English translation copyright © 2007 by Elizabeth Macklin.
Reprinted from Meanwhile Take My Hand with the permission
of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. www.graywolfpress.org |
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Dedicated to James G. Zumwalt, humanitarian scholar.
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