I just bought a copy of The Complete Poetry Cesar Vallejo (edited and translated by Clayton Eshleman). I’ve previously mentioned my love of Vallejo’s poetry here and posted a poem. Below I’m posting another that I’ve just read today.
Paris, October 1936
From all of this I am the only one who parts.
From this bench I go away, from my pants,
from my great situation, from my actions,
from my number split part to part,
from all of this I am the only one who parts.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strange
backstreet of the Moon curves around,
my death goes away, my cradle parts,
and, surrounded by people, alone, estranged,
my human resemblance turns around
and dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from all, since all
remain to provide my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud
and even the elbow bend
of my own shirt buttoned up.
Room 144 