the man who hated trees:: el hombre que odiaba los árboles
The man who hated trees
When he started blaming robberies
on trees, you knew for sure
something was wrong.
This man who clipped hair,
who spent years shaving the necks
of cafeteria managers,
sweeping lost curls down drains,
this man who said, “It is always better
to cut off a little too much …”
You could say he transferred
one thing to another when he came home,
hair to leaves, only this time
he was cutting down whole bodies,
from the feet up, he wanted
to make those customers stumps.
“This tree drops purple balls
on the roof of my car.
That tree touches the rain gutter.
I don’t like blossoms, too much mess.
Trees take up the sky.
It’s my light, why share it?”
He said thieves struck more
on blocks where there were trees.
“The shade, you know. They like the dark.”
You lived for days with the buzz of his chain-saw
searing off the last little branches of neighborly affection.
It was planting-season in the rest of the town
but your street received a crew-cut.
Two pecan trees that had taken half-a-century to rise
now stood like Mohawk Indians, shorn.
He gloated on his porch surrounded by amputations.
You caught him staring greedily
at the loose branches swinging over your roof.
Tomorrow, when everything was cut, what then?
He joked about running over cats
as the last chinaberry crashed,
as the truck came to gather arms and legs,
fingers waving their last farewell.
What stories did he tell himself,
this patriot of springtime,
and how did it feel to drown sprouting boulevards
with his bald bald heart?
Naomi Shihab Nye
Poetry magazine (May 1982)
When he started blaming robberies
on trees, you knew for sure
something was wrong.
This man who clipped hair,
who spent years shaving the necks
of cafeteria managers,
sweeping lost curls down drains,
this man who said, “It is always better
to cut off a little too much …”
You could say he transferred
one thing to another when he came home,
hair to leaves, only this time
he was cutting down whole bodies,
from the feet up, he wanted
to make those customers stumps.
“This tree drops purple balls
on the roof of my car.
That tree touches the rain gutter.
I don’t like blossoms, too much mess.
Trees take up the sky.
It’s my light, why share it?”
He said thieves struck more
on blocks where there were trees.
“The shade, you know. They like the dark.”
You lived for days with the buzz of his chain-saw
searing off the last little branches of neighborly affection.
It was planting-season in the rest of the town
but your street received a crew-cut.
Two pecan trees that had taken half-a-century to rise
now stood like Mohawk Indians, shorn.
He gloated on his porch surrounded by amputations.
You caught him staring greedily
at the loose branches swinging over your roof.
Tomorrow, when everything was cut, what then?
He joked about running over cats
as the last chinaberry crashed,
as the truck came to gather arms and legs,
fingers waving their last farewell.
What stories did he tell himself,
this patriot of springtime,
and how did it feel to drown sprouting boulevards
with his bald bald heart?
Naomi Shihab Nye
Poetry magazine (May 1982)
El hombre que odiaba los árboles
Cuando comenzó a culpar a los árboles
por los robos, sabías con certeza
algo andaba mal.
Este hombre que cortaba pelo,
quien pasó años afeitando los cuellos
de los gerentes de la cafetería,
barriendo rizos perdidos por los desagües,
este hombre que dijo, "siempre es mejor
cortar un poco de más..."
Se podría decir que transfería
una cosa a otra cuando llegaba a casa,
cabello a hojas, solo que esta vez
cortaba cuerpos enteros,
de los pies hacia arriba, él quería
hacer que esos clientes fuesen muñones.
"Este árbol deja caer bolas moradas
sobre el techo de mi auto.
Ese árbol toca el canal de lluvia.
No me gustan las flores, demasiado desorden.
Los árboles acaparan el cielo.
es mi luz, ¿por qué compartirla?"
Dijo que los ladrones robaban más
en la calles donde había árboles.
"La sombra, ya sabes. Les gusta la oscuridad ".
Durante días viviste con el zumbido de su moto sierra
cortando las últimas pequeñas ramas del afecto del vecindario.
Era temporada de siembra en el resto de la ciudad
pero tu calle recibió un corte de pelo.
Dos árboles de pacanas que habían tardado medio siglo en levantarse
ahora se parecían Indios Mohawk, esquilados.
Se regodeó desde su porche rodeado de amputaciones.
Lo atrapaste mirando codiciosamente
las ramas sueltas que se balancean sobre tu techo.
Mañana, cuando todo fue cortado, ¿entonces qué?
Bromeó sobre atropellar gatos
cuando el último Chinaberry se estrelló,
cuando el camión vino a juntar brazos y piernas,
dedos agitando su último adiós.
¿Qué historias se dijo a sí mismo,
este patriota de la primavera,
y cómo sintió ahogar bulevares que brotaban
con su corazón calvo calvo?
Naomi Shihab Nye
Revista de poesía (mayo de 1982)
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