{"id":21911,"date":"2026-05-20T21:44:14","date_gmt":"2026-05-20T21:44:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/?p=21911"},"modified":"2026-05-20T21:44:17","modified_gmt":"2026-05-20T21:44:17","slug":"un-poema-de-diann-mccabe-y-su-traduccion","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/2026\/05\/20\/un-poema-de-diann-mccabe-y-su-traduccion\/","title":{"rendered":"Un poema de Diann McCabe y su traducci\u00f3n"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

::: Presentamos un poema de una escritora residente de San Marcos, Tejas con su traducci\u00f3n al espa\u00f1ol, que capta parte de la cultura del centro del estado.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

First Taste<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the dining room in the afternoon
in the house where my father and I
were born out in the country, the one big window
in the middle of the north wall
looked out onto the barns past the well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room under the high ceiling held a darkness
in the cool air, and out the window, the warmth
and bright light shown in
on my small body. It was quiet there.
My grandmother at the table, her place<\/p>\n\n\n\n

in the afternoons when I was to watch her
while the rest worked in the fields. There was nothing
to say to her at my age, standing near her
in the room, when staying
inside was already something I understood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her eyes
scared me.       I didn\u2019t like her looking.
                        Her voice, now and then, made
                        a low growl or lifted the occasional song
                        from her girlhood in the Alps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I moved nearer the table to the bread there and the butter
across from her, trying not to be seen. Her scowl,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

                         a way of living, I know now, living
                         as she did in that house built when the century
                         was new and the land was there to take<\/p>\n\n\n\n


                          if you had the will and a little saved.
                         She moved in, a wife, fitting in with the crowd
                         of men there, her small frame casting a shadow
                         like a line drawn in the sand.            <\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the knife on the table
in my small hands, I spread the bread with butter
and ate. And the salt and the fat in my mouth
made an opening:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Filling my mouth with sunlight
I seemed to taste for the first time.  For the first time
I made something
for myself
I loved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

                           Under her breath she had no idea of this
                           knowing
                           I hid in my eyes,
                           only how for her the weight of it all never seemed to lift
                           to let the light in. Out the window<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the plow horse strained as my mother and father leaned
through a sandy field that might grow to feed us, might bring
enough to sell. But as I walked away from her
there in her chair, shrinking alone in the room,
the knife spreading a stain on the table,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the taste in my mouth stored a moment to remember:
That I, too,
could lift my own
occasional song.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2248<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Primera probada<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

En el comedor por la tarde
en la casa en donde mi padre y yo
nacimos all\u00e1 en el campo, la \u00fanica ventana grande
en medio de la pared al norte
daba a los graneros m\u00e1s all\u00e1 del pozo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

La habitaci\u00f3n bajo el cielo tan alto guardaba una oscuridad
en el aire fresco, y desde afuera de la ventana el calor
y la luz radiante brillaban
sobre mi peque\u00f1o cuerpo. All\u00ed estaba quieto.
Mi abuela en la mesa, su lugar<\/p>\n\n\n\n

por las tardes cuando yo me quedaba a cuidarla
mientras los dem\u00e1s trabajaban en las parcelas. No hubo
nada que decirle a mi edad, parada junto a ella
en el cuarto cuando quedarme adentro
era algo que ya entend\u00eda.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sus ojos
me asustaban.          No me gustaba que me mirara.
                                 Su voz, de vez en cuando, hac\u00eda
                                 un rugido bajo o levantaba una canci\u00f3n ocasional
                                 de su infancia en los Alpes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me acerqu\u00e9 a la mesa al pan ah\u00ed y a la mantequilla
que estaba frente a ella, tratando de que no me viera. Su ce\u00f1o fruncido<\/p>\n\n\n\n

                                 una manera de vivir, ahora lo s\u00e9, viviendo
                                 como lo hac\u00eda en aquella casa construida cuando el siglo
                                 era nuevo y la tierra estaba all\u00ed para tomar

                                 si ten\u00edas la voluntad y un poco de ahorros.
                                 Ella lleg\u00f3 all\u00ed, una esposa, haci\u00e9ndose parte del grupo
                                 de hombres all\u00ed, su f\u00edsico peque\u00f1o echando una sombra
                                 como una l\u00ednea trazada en la arena.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Con el cuchillo entre mis peque\u00f1as manos, unt\u00e9 la mantequilla en el pan
y com\u00ed. Y la sal y la grasa en mi boca
hizo una abertura:

Llenando mi boca con la luz del sol
que me parec\u00eda saboreaba por primera vez. Por
primera vez
me hice algo para m\u00ed misma
que me encant\u00f3.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

                                   Bajo su misma respiraci\u00f3n ella no ten\u00eda ni idea de este
                                   conocimiento
                                   que escond\u00ed en mis ojos
                                   solo sabiendo que para ella el peso de todo
                                   nunca parec\u00eda levantarse
                                   para dejar que entrara la luz. Por la ventana<\/p>\n\n\n\n

el caballo de tiro se esforzaba mientras mi madre y mi padre se inclinaban
por la parcela arenosa que quiz\u00e1 creciera para darnos de comer, para darnos
lo suficiente para vender. Pero mientras me alejaba yo de ella
all\u00e1 en su silla, haci\u00e9ndose m\u00e1s chica en el cuarto,
el cuchillo extendiendo una mancha sobre la mesa,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

el sabor en mi boca guardaba un momento para recordar:
Que yo, tambi\u00e9n,
pod\u00eda levantar mi propia
canci\u00f3n ocasional.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

::: Presentamos un poema de una escritora residente de San Marcos, Tejas con su traducci\u00f3n al espa\u00f1ol, que capta parte de la cultura del…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":22017,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[153,209,215],"tags":[331,221,167,216],"coauthors":[312],"class_list":["post-21911","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poema","category-revista","category-traduccion","tag-cultura","tag-literatura","tag-poesia","tag-traduccion"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/20150319_124434-e1777898656265.jpg","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21911","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21911"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21911\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":22027,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21911\/revisions\/22027"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/22017"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21911"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21911"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21911"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=21911"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}