Awarded the 2017 Fiz Vergara Vilariño Prize, one of the most prestigious awards bestowed for Galician poetry, claus and the scorpion is the fearsome and feral first book of poetry by Lara Dopazo Ruibal to appear in English, translated by the literary polymath Laura Cesarco Eglin. In poems brimming with vivid and beautiful imagery, Dopazo Ruibal interrogates the shattering responses to trauma and violence as they threaten and intrude upon the precarious “safe haven.” Using three distinct speakers — lara, the scorpion, claus — to explore and express the complexity of interiority, Dopazo Ruibal grapples with profuse internal and external forces that painfully shape and reshape a soul even as they threaten a sense of belonging, a cohesive self-concept, and, ultimately, annihilation. claus and the scorpion starts with the resolute calm of the ever-present sea and moves readers to the mercurial forge where fire shapes anew or lays waste. In this movement, the poems disrupt the desire to return to an idyllic and unattainable past, attacking language’s layers and fissures to put pressure on its most enigmatic dualisms: the sublime and the monstrous, the monumental and the mundane, renewal and decay, fragility and strength.
* * * * *
claus — reads a poem by inger christensen aloud
his pronunciation is perfect even if he has no clue what he’s reading
claus is me if i’d been born with a man’s body
and not with this doubtful womb. with these borders
claus — i repeat —
reads a poem by inger christensen aloud
the poem goes like this:
“given limits exist, streets, oblivion
and grass and gourds and goats and gorse,
eagerness exists, given limits
branches exist, wind lifting them exists,
and the lone drawing made by the branches” [1]
but claus — as i’ve already said
doesn’t know what he’s reading
lara is on the other side of the room
lara is me, born with a doubtful womb and a world of borders
even if a part of them — the doubts, the borders
came later.
with a horrible pronunciation, lara repeats aloud
very fast, as if she knew exactly what she was saying
lara and claus are afraid of getting to know and touch each other
they’re afraid of each other because they’re the same
and they gently put their hand forward
knowing that with the slightest impact
the mirror will shatter into smithereens
lara wears a plaid shirt and her hair to the side, like a child
claus wears a plaid shirt and his hair to the side, like a child
neither one likes their name
and they walk down the wet streets, alone
because they don’t know how to walk any other way
what’s retama? asks claus
but lara doesn’t know
a spice, I think
claus — whose eye twitches when he’s nervous —
tells lara that he has no last names.
take mine, she replies
after all, we’re the same person
claus — with his eye in a storm
asks where he’ll sleep
and lara says: with me. where else?
claus recites christensen in danish as he walks
“grænserne findes, gaderne, gremslen
og græs og agurkrr og geder og gyvel,
begejstringen findes, grænserne findes;
granene findes, vinden der løfter dem
findes, og grenenes eneste tegning”
with perfect pronunciation
and the clear voice of a small child
with immense blue eyes that i don’t have
he brushes away his hair with his hand, asks me
are you cold? and throws his arm around my back
but I don’t like to be touched
when we go down the street
he gets home, takes off his socks
looks in the mirror but what the mirror shows him is me
borders exist. mirrors exist
so the mirror shatters into smithereens. so
they get into bed
because it’s cold
one pressed against the other
naked. afraid of the other.
and the mirror’s crystals drive in the insomnia
as they press against them.
and make wounds that never heal
[1] Translated from the Danish by Susanna Nied. Live Journal, May 4, 2009
* * * * *
claus walks through the night
not knowing where he’s going
he traces characters with his feet
such overwhelming beauty.
“my womb is shattered into smithereens,”
he writes, “that i pick up from the floor and put away in disorder”
claus can’t sleep
his chest has been stung by the scorpion
lara looks at him with stone eyes
with unquestionable violence
she says
what you write talks about abandonment
what you write talks about you and me
with no mention of our names.
it talks about abandonment
claus doesn’t hear her
he doesn’t move his hand from his chest.
the scorpion stung me, he says.
the scorpion’s venom will kill me.
while he speaks
the color of his blood paints
the scars from the crystals
lara looks at him with stone hands.
who cares if you die, she says. you have no name.
who cares about abandonment
they’re alone. lara, claus
the scorpion nestled on his chest.
if i die you’ll also die
claus cries.
we’re the same person
in different bodies
shouts lara
claus writes in his footsteps
lines from poets he doesn’t know
“it’s the voiceless cries that
precede the horror”
claus doesn’t know how to read
he doesn’t know how to get dressed
or how to open the gates’ latches.
in the morning he undresses lara,
he cleans the scorpion’s nest
with rainwater from the corners of the house
he dresses her
as if placing a shroud
lara looks at him with a stone mouth.
i don’t have the strength to move your body.
if you die i’ll leave you here
until you’re a crack on the ground
claus recites from memory:
“when my body is found, bitten by wolves
bow to the insomnia that saved it
bow to the disease that saved it
bow to my eyes, still open and forever
lay my body on the floor until it becomes a crack on the ground”
claus cries with his dry eyes
with an open hand over his chest.
lara cries with her stone body
pressed against claus’s body
in silence
they let the cold come
lara and claus
stop breathing and break
very slowly
the seams that hold the chest together
* * * * *
the horror
tangled in the barbed wire
fence
in my eyes, those of
someone alive
* * * * *
lara walks with her open chest
the scorpion
that repeats her name like a mantra.
lara walks the ants
that go in and out of her eye sockets.
lara walks claus tied to her wrist with a rope
her body petrified
the birds keep her steps company
and they say “don’t travel”
“don’t love”
claus — who barely knows about the world
carries the pain inscribed in the cuts on his back and chest.
lara with her open chest
and a name that’s not hers
nor claus’s
tattoed on each of her seams.
lara who doesn’t know how to sew
is bleeding from her sterilized womb.
lara nests insects inside her dry skull
lara lara lara
with her short hair. her firm step
of elusive intent.
lara who forgot her native accent
and will set fire to her safe haven.
lara losing track of time
losing the sense of belonging to a body.
lara and the birds biting the scars
she’s intertwined with the treetops.
lara a stranger
that devours worms by inertia.
lara and her forked tongue
attacking language.
lara who lost her name
and the ability to call her name
lara who covered the mirrors
so she wouldn’t have to recognize herself in them
lara who dreams of killing claus in his sleep
lara
more and more vulnerable to the scorpion’s venom
lara turned into a scorpion
diving into the open sea
with eyes open like headlights —
the sea absolutely calm, like a mirror.
lara renouncing desire and fever
lara
taking claus and the scorpion
to the fire
/ / / / /
claus —le un poema de inger christensen en voz alta
a súa fonética é perfecta ainda que non ten nin idea do que está a ler
claus é eu no caso de eu ter nacido con corpo de home
e non con este útero dubitativo. con estas fronteiras
claus —repito
le un poema de inger christensen en voz alta
o poema di así:
“as fronteiras existen, as rúas, o esquecemento
a herba e cogombros e cabras e retama
o entusiasmo existe, as fronteiras existen,
as pólas existen, o vento que as levanta
existe e o debuxo único das pólas”
pero claus —xa o dixen
non sabe o que le
do outro lado da sala está lara
lara son eu, nacida cun útero dubitativo e cun mundo de fronteiras
aínda que parte delas —das dúbidas, das fronteiras
chegaron despois.
lara repite en voz alta cunha fonética espantosa
moi rápido, como se soubese perfectamente o que está a dicir
lara e claus teñen medo de coñecerse e tocarse
téñense medo un á outra porque son iguais
e botan a man adiante suave
sabendo que co mínimo golpe
o espello vai romper en mil anacos
lara leva camisa de cadros e pelo de lado, coma un neno
claus leva camisa de cadros e pelo de lado, coma un neno
a ningún dos dous lle gusta o seu nome
e veñen camiñando pola rúa mollada, sós
porque non saben camiñar doutro modo
que é a retama? pregunta claus
pero lara non o sabe
unha especia, creo
claus —que cando está nervioso fai tremer un ollo
dille a lara que non ten apelidos.
colle os meus, responde ela
total, somos a mesma persoa
claus —co ollo esquerdo en treboada
pregunta onde vai durmir
e lara di: comigo. onde se non?
claus camiña recitando a christensen en danés
“grænserne findes, gaderne, gremslen
og græs og agurkrr og geder og gyvel,
begejstringen findes, grænserne findes;
granene findes, vinden der løfter dem
findes, og grenenes eneste tegning”
cunha fonética perfecta
e unha voz clara de neno pequeno
de ollos azuis inmensos que eu non teño
aparta o pelo coa man, dime
tes frío? e bótame o brazo polo lombo
pero a min non me gusta que me toquen
cando imos pola rúa
chega a casa, saca os calcetíns
mírase no espello pero o que o espello lle devolve son eu
as fronteiras existen. os espellos existen
entón o espello roto en mil anacos. entón
meterse na cama
porque vai frío
unha contra o outro
sen roupa. téndose medo.
e os cristais do espello crávanse no insomnio
mentre se apertan.
e fanlles feridas que nunca sandan
/ / / / /
claus camiña noite adiante
sen saber onde vai
traza caracteres cos pés
dunha beleza que desborda.
“teño o útero roto en mil anacos”
escribe, “que recollo do chan e gardo sen orde”
claus non pode durmir
leva o peito picado polo alacrán
lara mírao con ollos de pedra
cunha violencia incontestable
dille
o que escribes fala do desamparo
o que escribes fala de ti e de min
sen os nosos nomes.
fala do desamparo
claus non oe
nin move a man do peito.
picoume o alacrán, di.
vaime matar o veleno do alacrán.
mentres fala
a cor do sangue pinta
as cicatrices dos cristais
lara mírao con mans de pedra.
que importa se morres, di. non tes nome.
que importa o desamparo
están sós. lara, claus
o alacrán aniñado no peito.
se eu morro ti tamén has morrer
chora claus.
somos a mesma persoa
en distintos corpos
grita lara
claus escribe nos seus pasos
versos de poetas que non coñece
“son os gritos sen voz os que
preceden o espanto”
claus non sabe ler
nin sabe vestirse
nin sabe abrir os fechos das cancelas.
pola mañá ispe a lara,
limpa o niño do alacrán
coa auga de chuva dos recantos da casa
ponlle a roupa
coma quen coloca unha mortalla
lara mírao con boca de pedra.
non teño forza abonda pra mover o teu corpo.
se morres deixareite aquí
ata que sexas unha fenda na terra
claus recita de memoria:
“cando apareza o meu corpo mordido polos lobos
saudade o insomnio que o gardou
saudade a enfermidade que o gardou
saudade os seus ollos aínda abertos e para sempre
deitádeo no chan e que sexa unha fenda na terra”
claus chora polos seus ollos secos
cunha man aberta contra o peito.
lara chora polo seu corpo de pedra
apertada contra o corpo de claus
en silencio
deixan que veña o frío
lara e claus
deixan de respirar e rompen
moi amodo
as costuras que fechan a tapa do peito
/ / / / /
o espanto
enredado no aramio
nos meus ollos de viva
/ / / / /
lara pasea o seu peito aberto
o alacrán
que repite o seu nome coma un mantra.
lara pasea as formigas
que lle saen e lle entran pola cavidade dos ollos.
lara pasea a claus atado dunha corda ao seu pulso
o seu corpo petrificado
os paxaros que acompañan o seu paso
a dicir “non viaxes”
“non ames”
claus —que apenas sabe do mundo
leva inscrita a dor nos cortes do lombo e do peito.
lara co seu peito aberto
e un nome que non é o seu
que non é o de claus
tatuado en cada unha das costuras.
lara que non sabe coser
desangrándose polo útero esterilizado.
lara a aniñar insectos no seu cranio seco
lara lara lara
co seu pelo curto. cos seus pasos firmes
de intención esquiva.
lara que esqueceu o acento natal
e fará arder a casa matriz.
lara perdendo a noción dos días
perdendo o sentido de pertenza a un corpo.
lara e os paxaros a picar nas cicatrices
pendurada no alto das árbores.
lara que é unha descoñecida
que devora vermes por inercia.
lara e a súa lingua bífida
atentando contra a linguaxe.
lara que perdeu o seu nome
e a capacidade de nomearse
que cubriu os espellos
para non ter que recoñecerse neles
lara que soña con matar a claus mentres dorme
lara
cada vez máis vulnerable ao veleno do alacrán
lara convertida en alacrán
lanzándose ao mar aberto
cos ollos abertos como faros
—o mar en calma absoluta, como un espello.
lara renunciando ao desexo e á febre
lara
levando a claus e o alacrán
cara o incêndio
/ / / / /
To acquire a copy of claus and the scorpion from Small Press Distribution ($19.00), click here.