Ben Clark

- Spain -

Ben Clark is a Spanish poet and translator born in Ibiza in 1984. Both his parents are British. He studied English Philology in the Universidad de Salamanca where he is currently teaching poetry in the Máster Virtual de Escritura Creativa. He has held residencies at the Antonio Gala Foundation for Young Artists (Spain. 2004-2005); The Hawthornden Castle International Retreat for Writers, (Scotland. 2012); The Château de Lavigny International Writers’ Residence (Switzerland. 2013) and the Valparaíso Foundation (Spain. 2017). In 2019 he was appointed as the Poetry Tutor for the Antonio Gala Foundation. He has published several poetry collections in Spanish, such as Los hijos de los hijos de la ira (Hiperión, 2006), Cabotaje (Delirio, 2008), Basura (Delirio, 2011), La Fiera (Sloper, 2014), Los últimos perros de Shackleton (Sloper, 2016), La policía celeste (Visor, 2018), Armisticio (2008-2018) (Sloper, 2019) and ¿Y por qué no lo hacemos en el suelo? (Espasa, 2020).

His poetry translations include the Collected Poems of Edward Thomas, Love Poems by Anne Sexton and an anthology of English-speaking poets from WW1. He has also translated into Spanish two short story collections by George Saunders.

In 2006 his book Los hijos de los hijos de la ira was selected as one of the three most important poetry collections released in Spain ('El País'. 28-12-2006). Some of is awards include the Hiperión Poetry Prize (2006), the El Ojo Crítico de RNE Poetry Award for the best poetry collection of 2014 and the Loewe Foundation International Poetry Prize (2017). He currently lives in Mérida.

Ben Clark, half Spanish, half British, all poetry, was born in precisely those two worlds: on the one hand the chivalry of an English Lord and his very correct use of language; on the other hand, the Spanish nobility, which makes those same words warp and radiate towards vanishing points that are sometimes humorous, other mischievous and easy-going, ingenious most of the time.

Ben has an absolute innate talent for poetry. It can be seen in all his books. His poems are fluid, they never stop. There is nothing in them that hinders the gaze. All his poems open and close themselves like the pumping of blood. They all build slowly, rise gradually and end up falling down, jumping into the void from very high. In spite of Ben´s preference for anaphora, none of his poems end where they start and the trend throughout the verses has the same pattern as the Dow Jones.

All his poems are written as if he would have built a scale model of a train with all its details: its trees, its mountains cover of artificial moss, its rivers of silver paper, and suddenly, an axe fell on them, making the entire landscape explode. He builds, deconstructs and demolishes as he pleases, with no other satisfaction than that wanting the poem to come alive. Ben becomes easily detached from his work. So to speak: he quickly let the poem fly alone, he does not polish it delicately, but instead confronts it with its present in all its form, complete and well assembled, yes, but orphan in front of the world. In this way he ensures that his poems accompany him in all phases of his life, adapting to the circumstances and adopting the necessary consistency at all times.

More about the poet

Poetry

Passar el missatge / Passar el missatge

I still keep your messages
on my phone. I sometimes reread them
while waiting in line,
silly standing around waiting at the post office
or at the fishmonger’s
where there is always a queue and everyone
says hello who is last
                                      in line?

I want to tell the grouper you are dead,
I want to shout at a prawn: ¡he is deceased!

This would make you laugh. An elegiac
poem that talks about a decapod
crustacean that hears tu sei morto,
while he himself is dying among salmons
and women asking for parsley.

—Anything else?

I still keep your messages
on my phone. A fatuous
exchange, moronic; only a moron
could keep a friend’s WhatsApp messages
like one might keep photos, books, letters.
But nobody texts on their phone
pondering on posterity,
nobody is thinking: one day this emoji
will be a real treasure.

—Anything else?

In my island, the dead invented
a simple way
to announce their passing among the living.
El missatge. The message. News of a death
that had to be passed along from one neighbour
to the next, without ever entering the house,
until it reached the sea.
And, to rid himself from the curse of death,
the last recipient gave the news to a stone.

A stone is much better than a prawn
as a poetic image,
but the dead are dead, that doesn’t change,
but the message burns on the phone
and at the fishmongers I say, Me,
I am the very last inhabitant
of his memory; alone, with a foot
hanging over the cliff
I let your name fall into the foam,
I let your name fall down to the wild fish
that can never be caught,
smiling, I whisper your name, your small name,
and it falls to the waves down to the rocks
and the message is thus delivered.

I bid you goodbye and then I press Delete.
(Unpublished, 2021. Translated by the author)
Todavía conservo tus mensajes
en el móvil. A veces los releo
en momentos de espera,
momentos anodinos en Correos
o en la pescadería
del barrio donde siempre hay cola y todos
piden la vez diciendo hola,
                                                ¿el último?

Quiero decirle al mero que estás muerto,
gritarle al langostino: ¡ha fenecido!

Eso te haría gracia. Que un poema
elegíaco hablara de un crustáceo
decápodo que escucha tu sei morto,
mientras él mismo muere entre salmones
y señoras pidiendo perejil.

—¿Qué más?

Todavía conservo tus mensajes
en el móvil. Diálogo
de besugos, de imbéciles, de imbécil
que guarda todavía los wasaps de un amigo
como quien guarda fotos, libros, cartas.
Pero nadie teclea en el teléfono
pensando en la obra póstuma,
pensando esta carita sonriente
será un día un tesoro.

—¿Qué más?

En mi isla, los difuntos inventaron
una forma sencilla
para anunciar su muerte entre los vivos.
El missatge. Noticia de un deceso
que había que passar de vecino a vecino
sin entrar en las casas,
hasta llegar al mar.
Y, para no quedarse con la muerte,
el último debía contárselo a una piedra.

Una piedra es mejor que un langostino
como imagen poética,
pero el muerto está muerto, eso no cambia,
pero el mensaje quema en el teléfono
y en la pescadería digo Yo,
yo soy el ultimísimo habitante
de su recuerdo; solo, con un pie
junto al acantilado
dejo caer tu nombre entre la espuma,
dejo caer tu nombre entre los peces
salvajes que jamás podrán pescarse,
sonriendo, me digo tu nombre, tan pequeño,
y cae entre las olas a las rocas
y entrego así el mensaje.

Te digo adiós y aprieto, al fin, Borrar.
Campus / Campus

Something works well on this campus.
It’s the grass.
It’s not the smooth bodies, so lost
in the obtuse morning of desire;
not these words, not the filthy water
of this poisoned fountain.

It’s the grass.

It grows and grows hopelessly green,
compassionate and constant.
And there are times when it rises
and travels between folders and between sterile notes
of dead subjects. It’s the grass.
Patient and painful. Their embassy and bed.
The green green grass, the sad grass.
Ode to a freshly cut youth.
(Armisticio 2008-2018. Sloper, 2019. Translated by the author)
Algo funciona bien en este campus.
Es la hierba.
No son los cuerpos tersos, tan perdidos
en la mañana obtusa del deseo.
No son estas palabras; no es el agua
de esta fuente maltrecha y ponzoñosa.

Es la hierba.

Crece sin esperanza y crece verde,
constante, compasiva.
Y hay veces que se eleva
y viaja entre carpetas y entre apuntes estériles
de asignaturas muertas. Es la hierba.
Dolorosa y paciente. Su embajada y su lecho.
La hierba verde y triste.
Oda a la juventud recién cortada.
The Boat / El barco

I'm the New England man. I'm vital in New England.
Arthur Miller
Death of a Salesman

I always tell the story of the boats.
It's a good story.
My father, the sailor, sailing the seven seas
—he is young and has no children,
taking boats up north.
But I haven't seen this nor do I know
anyone that can confirm
to what extent our story is the whole story.
Because this tale is ours, his and mine:
my father, who is retired, cuts firewood,
prepares his pills, has a glass of wine
and waits by the fire for me to call.
I will be phoning from a boat.
I am twenty-six and the rightful owner
of a few sad royalties
that sum up the hopes
of my father at sea.
My father in an endless sea, with no waves,
my father, the traveller, the old wolf.
Although he never trod New England
I have seen him sailing,
bound for Boston, lost.
In Boston he always talks of his children,
tells everyone they are strong, that one writes,
that one day he will buy a sailboat with his books;
that everything is going great, all is well,
that he will call soon —if he finds the time,
and then they will discuss the future and talk about that boat.
(Armisticio 2008-2018. Sloper, 2019. Translated by the author)

I'm the New England man. I'm vital in New England.
Arthur Miller
Death of a Salesman

Siempre cuento la historia de los barcos.
Es una buena historia.
Mi padre, marinero, surca los siete mares,
muy joven y sin hijos todavía,
transportando veleros hacia el norte.
Pero yo no lo he visto ni conozco
a nadie que me pueda confirmar
hasta dónde es historia nuestra historia.
Porque este cuento es nuestro, suyo y mío:
mi padre, jubilado, corta leña,
prepara sus pastillas, bebe vino
y espera, junto al fuego, mi llamada.
Llamaré desde un barco.
Tengo veintiséis años y poseo
unos pocos derechos
de autor que constituyen todas las esperanzas
de mi padre en el mar,
de mi padre en un mar sin fin, sin olas,
de mi padre viajero, viejo lobo.
Aunque no haya pisado nunca Nueva Inglaterra
lo he visto navegando
rumbo a Boston, perdido.
En Boston siempre cuenta que sus hijos
son fuertes, que uno escribe, que algún día
le comprará un velero con sus libros,
que todo le va bien, todo va bien,
que pronto llamará, si tiene tiempo,
y que hablarán del futuro y de ese barco.
Big Bang / Big Bang

Back and farther back, toward the beginning
when everything was burning and nothing
was complex, nothing complicated.
Back, toward the first-born
heat, the fires that engendered
universes and gods and taxi meters,
long sentences and days when you never called
and stupid waiters
and rude children and Thursday afternoons
with nothing in the fridge
everything
and back and back again
to the instant right before the big fiesta,
everything is ready
all that remains is for it all to show up and you
too, a few million years late,
of course,
in this cold world of perverted
and promiscuous matter. Back and farther back,
I want to wait for you here,
in this darkness made of future,
expectant and anxious,
and I want one by one to name all objects,
all things, as they expand,
until I come to you, to you again,
and never tell you that I have travelled
many times to the beginning of everything,
that I have seen you naked countless
nights for the first time
but each time different (faithful chance!)
and always with doubt, with the cold fear
of not knowing if I’m in this world
or in another where our bodies do not
explode on contact;
in a world where we do not lie together
looking at the ceiling, at everything
we have created with desire:
the young, voracious universe
over which we have lost control.
(La Fiera. Sloper, 2014. Translated by Magda Bogin)
Atrás y más atrás, hasta el principio
cuando todo ardía y nada
era complejo, nada complicado.
Atrás, hasta el calor
primigenio, los fuegos que engendraron
universos y dioses y taxímetros,
frases largas y días sin que llames
y camareros torpes
y niños insolentes y los jueves
por la tarde sin nada en la nevera
todo
y atrás y atrás de nuevo
al instante anterior a la gran fiesta,
todo está preparado,
sólo falta que venga todo y tú
también, unos millones de años tarde,
claro,
hasta este mundo frío de materia
pervertida y promiscua. Atrás y atrás,
quiero esperarte aquí,
en esta oscuridad del porvenir,
expectante y ansioso,
y nombrar uno a uno los objetos,
las cosas, a medida que se expanden,
hasta llegar a ti, de nuevo a ti,
y no decirte nunca que he viajado
al principio de todo muchas veces,
que te he visto desnuda por primera
vez incontables noches,
pero siempre distintas (¡fiel azar!),
y siempre con la duda, el miedo frío
de no saber si estoy en este mundo
o en otro donde nuestros cuerpos no
se unen hasta explotar;
en otro donde no yacemos juntos
mirando al techo, a todo
lo que hemos generado con deseo:
el universo joven y voraz
sobre el cual no tenemos ya control.
Perhaps / Quizá

If we could see all all might seem good.
Edward Thomas

When tasks were still unknown and people walked
from north to south fleeing a savage
child god, when a fire could be struck
with a fistful of words,
there must have been one rough man,
the first of those who would one day
fill whole corridors with new forms of meekness.
He must have somewhat resembled me,
perhaps,
looking toward the light of the horizon
and walking alone.
I don’t know if he then intuited
the incredible unborn number
of bodies and kilometres
to come.
Or if he foresaw the vast dormant horror,
all the hurt that could have been avoided
if he had embraced that child god from the north,
and, yielding, become fossil, rock, nothing.
If before him lay wars and blind nights
and moans and stern girls in uniform,
an army of endless Wednesdays marching backwards,
burying themselves in his chest,
whispering the names of the dead
who would never be born if he were to die.
If that impossible grandfather could see it all
and in a single lucid instant
glimpse you seated here,
strange fruit of the soiled drift of millennia,
perhaps he would find it all all good.
(La Fiera. Sloper, 2014. Translated by Magda Bogin)

si lo pudiéramos ver todo, quizá todo pareciera bueno.
EDWARD THOMAS

Cuando no había labores y la gente caminaba
de norte a sur huyendo de un dios niño
salvaje, cuando con pocas
palabras era fácil hacer fuego,
debió existir por fuerza un hombre bruto,
el primero de todos los que habrían
de poblar los pasillos con nuevas mansedumbres.
Debía parecerse en algo a mí,
quizá,
mirando hacia la luz del horizonte
y caminando solo.
Yo no sé si él llegó a intuir entonces
el increíble número no nato
de cuerpos y kilómetros que aún
faltaban todavía.
Y si hubiera contemplado el vasto horror incumplido,
todo el dolor que podría evitarse
si abrazara aquel niño dios del norte,
si quieto fuera fósil, roca, nada.
Si tuviera delante guerras y noches ciegas
y llantos y niñas serias vestidas con uniforme;
un ejército de miércoles sin fin marchando hacia atrás,
hundiéndose en su pecho
susurrando los nombres de los muertos
que nunca nacerían si él muriera.
Si este abuelo imposible pudiera verlo todo
y en un instante lúcido
pudiera vislumbrarte aquí sentada,
fruto extraño de la sucia deriva de los milenios,
quizá le pareciera todo bueno.
The Return / El regreso

To return from death, improbable.
To return from love, impossible.

The man who returns without ever knowing where to,
under the dim haze of broken lampposts;

the man who returns without ever knowing where to,
knowing that his travels are anything but useful;

the only country he knows is the breast of emptiness.
He no longer understands the language of men,
and all their strange customs seem meaningless.

That sad wanderer who has seen half the world
searching for the two broken pieces from his soul,
doesn’t wish to return, he can never return. Never.
(Cabotaje. Delirio, 2008. Translated by the author)
Regresar de la muerte es improbable.
Regresar del amor un imposible.

La persona que vuelve sin saber nunca a dónde,
bajo las tenues luces de farolas quebradas;

la persona que vuelve sin saber nunca a dónde,
sabiendo que sus viajes ya no sirven;

no conoce otra patria que el pecho de la ausencia.
No entiende ya la lengua de los hombres,
y todas sus costumbres le parecen banales.

Esa persona triste que ha visto medio mundo
buscando los dos cuartos desgajados del alma
no quiere volver nunca. No puede volver nunca.

Ben Clark

- Spain -

Poetry

Passar el missatge / Passar el missatge

Campus / Campus

The Boat / El barco

Big Bang / Big Bang

Perhaps / Quizá

The Return / El regreso