lunes, 5 de noviembre de 2018

Recycled loves

Recycled loves in Social Media feeds;
recycled loves in the kitchen;
you’ve recycled your loves like plastic.
Compassionate lovers
who come to lick the small scraped knees.
Lovers in a faraway island.

The fog of love is fleeting,
but your heartache will last
a lifetime.
I vomit on your stupid love,
your delayed love,
your painful, bleeding
breathtaking love.
Stop recycling lovers in transparent
plastic bags,
and exhibiting them in public,
like an open wound.
The saddest thing I’ve ever seen
is the pile of lovers collected at your door,
crude and obvious,
plainly undignified.  

CR- VocalesV

viernes, 31 de agosto de 2018

Guayabas y Flores

I walk the streets of a ruined city that still safeguards its old glory.
The dust accumulates everywhere and so does sadness:
 in the dirty windows, in the cars,
in the corners of the condemned buildings,
 on my clothes.
A couple of tourists disguised their melancholia
with their photography gear.
I walk past them, then turn around and ask the old man to take me a photo,
I wear my usual half a smile
and ask him to name it “Here stands a woman of character.”

I keep walking repeating to myself
I love you
I’m sorry
forgive me
thank you.
I pause: all the stores are shutting down.
This is the face of a depressed city, it looks a lot
like Comala, but colder. 

An agitated woman stumbles and falls to the grass,
shaking compulsively. The police comes after I call 911.
Another victim of the opioids epidemic.
The Northeast, the crisis, the lovers in the windows,
 the faces of all the lovers I killed.

I keep on walking and buy some fruit, I’m going home
where love awaits me. A little palace in the dark, I'll take a train,
I'll be gone.
And then I think of how much I miss my country sometimes,
especially the guayabas, big and pink, full of sweet juices.
Then I decide that this would be a beautiful title for a poem,
and for talks of love and memory and everything we lose in between:
guayabas y flores: like a grave, like an obsolete language that no one
dares to speak any more.

- CR VocalesV

jueves, 31 de mayo de 2018

Somewhere in New York, CR VocalesV

To Ben.

I promised myself that one day I would write a poem
so powerful, so beautiful, that I would stop writing altogether.
That day has not yet come, but I have seen beautiful things.
“You will not die before me,” he says, as he
makes the sign of the cross:
in the name of Father
and Son
and Holy Spirit
I laugh, sitting at the back of the car
but he is crying of terror
by pure imagination.
We drive through Saratoga Springs and we visit a winery,
we remember the past and those we’ve left behind,
and we sip our wines quietly
gazing at the abyss,
as the abyss gazes back.
You take me a photo on an old truck
taken over by nature.
I celebrate its triumph
and toast on its name.
I see you looking for excuses in your pockets,
when I asked you a question you did not want to answer.
As if reacting by instinct, I kiss your heart,
but you push my head away.
Everything hurts these days, I know.
I take a video of you driving
while holding his hand.
We’ve grown so fast,
now you show off a ring on your left hand.
I adore you, your sweet smile,
your long hair, and those tiny wrinkles
that appear when you laugh at what I say.
You’re loved, as you deserve to be.
We stroll down the streets of this
little nowhere town. I walk in the middle,
you both hold my hands.
We share ice cream and brownie,
and watch the birds interact,
we never knew how hard life was going to be,
we never knew how satisfying,
and we’re grateful.
The sun blinds us, and we smile.
We’ve come a long way, my friend
and we’ll always have New York,
and we’ll always have each other.
I roll the window down,
freedom is this: a bit of rain on my face,
and the fury of memories flying away.

CR - VocalesV

Billboards CR -VocalesV

You said you read some non-sense on the billboards
I took it as joke and kept on walking.
I didn’t take you seriously until you told me
you were hearing voices,
and you wanted to harm the ones you loved the most.
You were an apparition in the mirror,
I banged my head against the wall
to silent the visions,
while the anchor man shouted
Your fall was strenuous
like the fall of a nation,
and I couldn’t do anything, except
for asking you, what was the word death
doing amid your lips?
You were silent, and pulled down your pants
to show me your scars.
It is lonely, you said,
I wish you could hear the noise.

CR - VocalesV

domingo, 20 de mayo de 2018

Anna Ajmatova poem

The twenty-first. Night. Monday.
The outlines of the capital are in mist.
Some idler invented the idea  
That there’s something in the world called love.

And from laziness or boredom,
Everyone believed it and here is how they live:
they anticipate meetings, they fear partings
And they sing the songs of love.

But the secret will be revealed to the others,
And a hush will fall on them all . . .
I stumbled on this by accident
And since then have been somehow unwell.

-Anna Ajmatova

Surviving the existential crisis: Nietzsche

"I did that," says my memory. "I could not have done that," says my pride, and remains inexorable. Eventually -the memory yields. 


viernes, 18 de mayo de 2018

Una Ciudad Conquistada, CR- VocalesV (De Relatos Suburbiales)


Los dioses ya no me hablan.
Los invoco todas las noches, cierro mis ojos,
toco mi corazón con la punta de mis dedos,
pero solo hay silencio.

Los mapas solo muestran los caminos del duelo,
dicen que no habrá absolución.
Desde las ventanas veo una ciudad conquistada,
los enemigos han invadido sus puertos.

A los 18 obtuve finalmente autonomía intelectual,
aunque muy asustada para leer Nietzsche,
compré una copia de Mas Allá del Bien y del Mal,
que reposó sobre mi mesa de noche por dos años.

A los 20 ya había dejado partes de mí en otros cuerpos,
caminé mayoritariamente por calles ciegas,
y descubrí mi propio significado de libertad.
Finalmente leí Nietzsche, e hice una llamada al olvido
para encontrar mi voz.

Y las revelaciones vinieron a mí mientras yacía
desnuda en la cama de otro:
Serás un cadáver hermoso,
pero primero necesitas aprender a volar.

Mientras espero mi partida,
los dioses se han censurado.

La ventana era un espejo,
y la ciudad conquistada
era en realidad
un cuerpo.

¿Has escuchado alguna vez a alguien morir?
Suena como una ópera
pero más triste.

CR - VocalesV