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domingo, 26 de febrero de 2017

Martha by Tom Waits





And those were days of roses,
Poetry and prose and Martha
All I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows,
We'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

- Tom Waits





Poema 4, CR VocalesV




Pasará el tiempo y seguirás creyendo que has fallado.
No entenderás
  la nostalgia salvo con los años,
y le pondrás nombres y rostros y 300 miligramos
de cualquier cosa que te ayude a confrontar lo que viene.
No entenderás la memoria si no cuando aquello
que no podías olvidar se haya ido,
y solo quede una pequeña imagen de su voz.
Habrá una marca enorme en tu brazo izquierdo
en el lugar exacto donde la enfermedad posó sus músculos.
Seguirás yendo a los happy hours para enfermos mentales
a celebrar que sigues viva.
Te harás adicta a nuevas adicciones
menos amargas que las anteriores.
Te dejarás golpear por un dios que prometió salvarte
y aprenderás que no puedes descifrar al mundo con palabras.
Te seguirá defraudando el lenguaje
y odiarás a la razón porque no te llevó a nada,
salvo a la manipulación racional de tus emociones
y ahora eres distante y calculadora, llorando a escondidas
por vergüenza a ser vista sintiendo algo más que lástima.
Los grandes hombres te parecerán pequeños en persona,
y te alegrará constatar que los humanos son tan simples
como siempre creíste.
Caminarás y ya no verás árboles
si no ramas en donde poder colgarte.
 
Pero sabrás respirar  con precisión cuando tu corazón estalle
y te encuentres paralizada en mitad de la calle,
la música aquietará el ruido ajeno y te conocerás mejor
en cada paso, en cada pánico asociado con la idea de vivir.
Reconocerás tus lugares seguros: él, por supuesto y tus libros.
Valorarás a tus muertos y guardarás sus fotos
solo para recordarte lo infeliz que te hicieron
mientras estuvieron vivos.
Y seguirás hablando con los gatos,
secretamente envidiando su manera de vivir.
Serás feliz, pero sabrás de inmediato que durará poco
y harás las paces con esas circunstancias.
Yfinalmente desaparecerás,
solo los gatos se preguntarán a donde has ido.

   
CR -VocalesV



domingo, 19 de febrero de 2017

Indiferencia, CR VocalesV (trad.)





No enterré a nadie para llegar tan lejos
tan solo tragué algunas almas
y rompí algunas promesas que hice
sabiendo que nunca las cumpliría

No maté,
incluso cuando quise.
En cambio,
opté por ciertos términos conciliatorios
que no tenían sentido
pero me darían paz mental.

Eso es lo que me dijeron

Nací en una prisión
no lo digo figurativamente,
yo nací en una celda oscura.
Has estado alguna vez en una?
Alguna vez te acercaste a un hombre
que lo perdió todo
salvo su humanidad?

No, no lo has hecho.
Una prisión debe parecerte un lugar lejano
un mundo fantástico, quizás.
Como Chernóbil es un lugar turístico
para los turistas,
o un lugar de creación
para los artistas.

Donde está tu hogar?
me pregunta un extraño.
Lo miro y me esfuerzo en sonreír:
Mi hogar está en donde estoy ahora
por el tiempo que me quede.

Hay algo hermoso en esta falta de identidad,
abandono quizás
o aún mejor, indiferencia.




CR -VocalesV



viernes, 17 de febrero de 2017

Mary Oliver, Fragment from Blackwater Woods

Montreal



To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.



- Mary Oliver (Ohio, 1935)



miércoles, 15 de febrero de 2017

What you can't bury... Margaret Atwood


Nicolas Stael



What you can’t bury give away
what you can’t give away you must carry with you, 
it is always heavier than you thought.

-Margaret Atwood



lunes, 13 de febrero de 2017

And I.... Because of you, CR VocalesV






“First love never dies, but real love comes to bury it alive…”
-Mahmoud Darwish



When I met you, we were already late for everything
but we passed through open gates smiling,
accepting our faith.
I pulled the night out of your tongue
and you discovered true darkness
in my eyes.
Never had you seen anyone looking
so unintentionally sad.

There were balloons, dances, squatters
and a world in miniature to take our clothes off
and walk naked.
Your soul was an open window that filled
the house with fresh air,
a white flag in the middle of an open field,
I observed you so much those days
that my memories run in my head like scenes of a movie.


You crushed my alienation with music and philosophers
and second-hand books that you bought in every corner
just because you liked to see me smile.
I will never forget how diligently you corrected my French
ever so gentle, ever so patient,
listening for hours while I recited the verbs, fascinated and frustrated,
and proceeding without complains when at the beginning of a film
I would shout at you
s'il te plait mon amour les sous-titres, ils parlent très vite!
and you would just look at me, laughing at my temper, and my accent,
and kissing me, and then we would forget about the film
and now we keep a list of unwatched films that gets larger with the days.


And I learned your past full of miscarriages and Russian dolls
and I pierced my nipple to avoid killing you at night in your sleep
and slowly you understood how crazy I was
and you stayed and loved me even more, nevertheless.
And one night you told me that loving me was holding
my hand at the hospital hoping for me to wake up.


And we learned to bleed together
and now it is hard to remember what it was like
to walk the streets without you.
And when you’re gone
I refuse to leave our place, I do not open the curtains
and I purposely stay in the dark, waiting
like I never waited for anyone before,
like our cat in front of the window
I stay,
I do not abandon anymore.


And when you come back I yell at you
“I can’t write anymore, you make me too happy!”
and you laugh offended,
and you hold me by the waist and I dare to go out
to see the world again, to discover the smells,
the colors, the people, I learn to speak my languages again,
and I relearn to turn my head
 whenever someone calls me by my name.
I relearn all the things that I forget when you’re gone.


And when I go mad, you let me go mad
but you never leave my side
just as you never attempt to give me peace,
instead, you go to bed with me
surrounded by my demons
and you hear me breathe until I fall asleep
before you fall asleep too.
You understand my nature with your silence
and your wisdom never ceases to surprise me
but above all it is your mind I respect the most,
your mind and the immense influence it has
in everything I do.


I carry your voice in my rotten veins,
I carry your thoughts in my childless womb,
I carry your promises in my hand,
like a beggar would carry his coins.
I carry the smell of the summer rain
that repeats itself in a loop
allowing me to see the two of us
three years ago
crossing the Blauwbrug in Amsterdam
with a flat tire in your bike,
laughing,
knowing already that we wouldn’t let go.


That night I became what I wanted to be
and I carry that truth like an offering
to the old gods.
You ripped my chest like an executioner
and when I looked at you I asked:
"If we're one, why aren't you bleeding?"





CR-VocalesV


Plato

Widener Library


If anyone comes to the gates of poetry and expects to become an adequate poet by acquiring expert knowledge of the subject without the Muses’ madness, he will fail, and his self-controlled verses will be eclipsed by the poetry of men who have been driven out of their minds.

-Plato