Buscador

lunes, 24 de noviembre de 2014

Todo lo que ahora somos: Poema de este mes en Nalgas y Libros





‘why there was so much fury in your soul
against a love that was so chaste.’
- Pier Paolo Pasolini


Todo lo que ahora somos


Hubo un ejército de mujeres desnudas
que en plena invasión soviética
ocuparon una habitación de espejos
para admirar sus cuerpos.
Una imagen implacable y terrible
que mezclaba tanques militares
en las ventanillas
y clítoris erectos en los reflejos.
En el 68 Praga pulverizaba su mirada con rosas,
la rebelión la escribía Alejandra en el 62.
Allí se convencieron que el amor sin violencia
no era posible
y aprendieron a amarse con rabia
y prometieron no subyugarse a ningún amor sobrio.
Se cortaron el cordón de la esperanza
sabían que la maldad se contagiaba pronto
y que poco de lo que contemplaban
sobreviviría el pasar del tiempo,
en sus pubis enredaron promesas
que estaban destinadas a no ser.
Anárquicas como el poder
se concedieron la crueldad de la pureza,
mezclaron sus salivas y sus lenguas
y en cuclillas ensuciaron sus espíritus
esperando una libertad que tardaría
anos en nacer.
Juraron no perder la memoria
pues a su colección de muertes
 no podía sumarse el olvido.
Y en la jaula creció un pájaro
al sonido de las botas y fusiles
dispuestoa  ofrecer compasión y sufrimiento
en las mismas cantidades
Anos más tarde
los fantasmas deambulan por la casa
y en sus risas rechazan todo lo que ahora somos:
no fue el olvido sino la nostalgia
lo que nos llevó a morir de nuevo.


 CR


Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo CR

          
Pasolini Teorema


 Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo

Saboreo el miedo entre mis labios
lo muerdo como se muerde una fruta:
su cáscara se tritura entre mis dientes
sus jugos corren por mis labios
mientras me tambaleo en la cornisa
de un edificio de squatters.

Hay una casa vacía que antes habitaba el miedo.

¿A dónde vas?
 Cuenta una voz que me preguntaron un día
y yo contesté que iba a otro lado
como para evitar otra pregunta
como para huir de las excusas.
Cierro los ojos y tengo miedo
y sé que es el miedo mi única sustancia
y ahora lo mastico, lo digiero
con tortuosa intimidad narcisista;
cierro las cortinas.
Puedo ver el futuro y puedo ver su final
veo sangre derramada en la arena
Pasolini vio al futuro en Canterbury
antes de ser asesinado en el 75.

Hay un cuerpo vacío que habita el miedo.

Se acaba el tiempo contenido en el ego
¿Cómo explicarlo?
son los límites del ser
los que determinan los límites del lenguaje
¿Qué es el lenguaje sino una invención?
llena de los ecos y defectos del ser que la inventó
no es suficiente,
el lenguaje no nos permite describir la verdad:
ni el lenguaje, ni el ser;
el ser no es verdad ni puede expresarla.

Este cuerpo está vacío
solo lo ocupa el miedo
¿Y a dónde huir?
Mastico el miedo que es mi sustancia
por lo tanto
me mastico con un narcisismo patológico
mato mi ego matando a mi cuerpo
es la única forma de escapar.

¿A dónde vas? Me preguntaron
respondí que iba a otro lado
¿Cómo explicarle que el miedo me habitaba
y no podía ir a ningún lugar?
Silencio.
mi enorme resistencia me causa fatiga
¿Cuándo?
pregunto todos los días.
¿Vendrá acaso el remordimiento
a romper con la paz de los muertos?



CR


Warsan Shire Fragment




You’ll have to be careful. My otherness will ruin you, spoil you. After me, all else will taste redundant.

-Warsan Shire


jueves, 13 de noviembre de 2014

Fragment by Jean Amery: On Suicide




Who am I? The body that also is already slipping away. Still more precisely: the face, which is body and perhaps more than that. It wants to see itself in the mirror when someone dies by his or her own hand (people who shoot themselves are often found in their blood in front of a mirror). If the face finds itself, it finds eyes that now strain to stare at each other in fours, a mouth distorted by fear...

"So that's what I am. But why am I that?" The ego's experience of horror in front of the mirror is not reserved for the suicidal. It also turns up as an everyday phenomenon and, by the way, can hardly ever be produced by a willful decision. As soon as it happens, it has the character of a sudden fall.



-Jean Améry, On Suicide


martes, 11 de noviembre de 2014

My notes from Kundera Part VII of Immortality







1.       ‘There is nothing more useless,’ Avenarius said, ‘than trying to prove something to idiots.’

2.       … but that enormous perfection overwhelms us, it surpasses the capacity of our memory…

3.       It was necessary at last to end the terror of the immortals.

4.       ‘I don’t deny those symphonies their perfection,’ continued Paul. ‘I only deny the importance of that perfection. Those super-sublime symphonies are nothing but cathedrals of the useless. They are inaccessible to man. They are inhuman. We exaggerated their significance. They made us feel inferior. Europe reduced Europe to fifty works of genius which it never understood. Just think of this outrageous inequality: millions of Europeans signifying nothing, against fifty names signifying everything! Class inequality is but an insignificant shortcoming compared to this insulting metaphysical inequality, which turns some into grains of sand while endowing others with the meaning of being!’

5.       … she blushed, it is a beautiful thing when a woman blushes; at that instant her body no longer belongs to her; she doesn’t control it; she is at its mercy; oh, can there be anything more beautiful than the sight of a woman violated by her own body!

6.       ‘Literature will die out, and stupid poetic phrases will remain to drift over the world,’ I remarked.


7.       And at that moment I understood him at last: if we cannot accept the importance of the world, which considers itself important, if in the midst of that world our laughter finds no echo, we have but one choice: to take the world as a whole and make it the object of our game; to turn it into a toy.


-Milan Kundera


My notes from Kundera Part II Immortality





1.       They used to say about the mayor of a certain Moravian village, which I often visited on boyhood outings, that he had an open coffin at home and that in happy moments when he felt well satisfied with himself, he would lie down in it and visualize his funeral. These reveries in the coffin: he dwelt on his immortality.

2.       … he wanted to resemble the dead, which was much wiser, for death and immortality are an indissoluble pair of lovers, and the person whose face merges in our mind with the faces of the dead is already immortal while still alive.

3.       A man longs to be immortal, and one day the camera will show us a mouth contorted into a pathetic grimace – the only thing we will remember about him, the only thing which will remain as a parabola of his entire life.

4.       Even when no lens was aimed at them, people already behaved as if they were being photographed.

5.       Napoleon was a true Frenchman in that he was not satisfied with sending hundreds of thousands to their death but wanted in addition to be admired by writers.

6.       To carry the shield of childhood in front of her: that was her life-long ruse.

7.       Strength is ebbing, and a person is seized by disarming fatigue. Fatigue: a silent bridge leading from the shore of life to the shore of death. At that stage death is so close that looking at it has already become boring.

8.       Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.

9.       Does love for art really exist and has it ever existed? Is it not a delusion? When Lenin proclaimed that he loved Beethoven’s Appasionata above all else, what was it that he really loved? What did he hear? Music? Or a majestic noise which reminded him of the solemn stirrings in his soul, a longing for blood, brotherhood, executions, justice and the absolute?

10.   Did [Bettina] love [Beethoven’s] music with the quiet love that draws us to a magical metaphor or to the harmony of two colours in a painting? Or was it rather the kind of aggressive passion that makes us join political parties?

11.   … even though it is possible to design, manipulate and orchestrate one’s immortality in advance, it never comes to pass the way it has been intended. Beethoven’s hat became immortal. The plan succeeded. But what the significance of the immortal hat turn out to be, that could not be determined in advance.

12.   I realized one day that this was the point of it all, I panicked. From that time on I must have told people a thousand times to leave my life alone. [Hemingway]

13.   A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality.


14.   But the word ‘dearest’ only means that he was dearer to him than all others, who frankly speaking were not so very dear to him at all.


-Milan Kundera


My notes from Kundera part I of Immortality

Estas son mis notas de la parte I de immortality, finalmente me he podido sentar a pasarlas. Son muchísimas pero las iré compartiendo poco a poco.
Kusjes!

C.

Francis Bacon


1.       There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time. Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional moments and most of the time ewe are ageless.

2.       And I  understand him: is the one deep yearning of our lives: to let everybody consider us great sinners! Let our vices be compared to thunderstorms, tornadoes, hurricanes!

3.       Why all this passion? Agnes asked herself, and she thought: When we are thrust out into the world just as we are, we first have to identify with that particular throw of the dice, with that accident organized by the divine computer: to get over our surprise that precisely this (what we see facing us in the mirror) is our self. Without the faith that our face expresses our self, without that basic illusion, that arch-illusion, we cannot live or at least we cannot take life seriously.

4.       Eternity as the sound of endless babble: one could of course imagine worse things, but the idea of hearing women’s voices forever, continuously, without end, gave her sufficient incentive to cling furiously to life and to do everything in her power to keep death as far as possible.
5.       ….and a person can die with a vague yet justified hope.

6.       It was as if through his will he had wanted to tell them to kindly forget him.

7.       Agnes recalled the young woman who had entered the sauna a few hours earlier and, in order to introduce herself, and to force it upon others, had announced the moment she walked through the door that she hated hot showers and modesty. Agnes was certain that it was exactly the same impulse that led the black-haired girl to remove the silencer from her motorcycle. It wasn’t the machine that made the noise, it was the self of the black-haired girl; in order to be heard, in order to penetrate the consciousness of others, she attached the noisy exhaust of the engine to her soul.

8.       The world is at some sort of border; if it is crossed everything will turn to madness…

9.       Someone on a top floor had evidently opened a window and turned up the volume all the way, so that Bach’s severe beauty sounded a warning to a world that had gone awry.

10.   Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary. This is the obscenity of war: the intimacy of mutually shed blood, the lascivious proximity of two soldiers who, eye to eye, bayonet each other. Agnes was sure: it was precisely this kind of intimacy that her father found repugnant. The melée on the ship filled him with such disgust that he preferred to drown. The physical contact with people who struck and trampled and killed one another seemed far worse to him than a solitary death in the purity of the waters.

11.   I cannot hate them because nothing binds me to them; I have nothing in common with them.


12.   For the first time in history, the defeated were not allowed a scrap of glory: not even the painful glory of the shipwrecked.


13.       The purpose of the poetry is not to dazzle us with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia.

14.       Yes, the most important thing was that nobody looked at her. Solitude: a sweet absence of looks.

15.       Since then she knew that looks were like weights that pressed her down to the ground, or like kisses that sucked her strength; that looks were needles which etched the wrinkles in her face.

16.       But they were wrong: even though she had no lover there, Switzerland was the one deep and systematic act of betrayal she committed against them.

17.       … and even drafted a letter in her mind in which she announced to her daughter and husband that although she still loved them she had decided to live alone, without them.

18.       This was the most difficult thing to express and to explain: that she needed to know how they were, even though at the same time she had no desire whatever to see them or to be with them.

19.       That was perhaps the first time that she experienced the pleasure, the strange delight that people feel when they are being watched, watched against their will, watched in intimate moments, violated by the looks to which they are exposed.

20.       Life has changed into one vas partouze in which everyone takes part.

21.       Even though she wasn’t in any real danger, she could not rid herself of anxiety because one second of her life, instead of dissolving into nothingness like all other seconds of life, would remain torn out of the course of time and some stupid coincidence would make it come back to haunt her like the badly buried dead.

22.   And she once again had the strong, peculiar feeling that was coming over her more and more often: the feeling that she had nothing in common with those two-legged creatures with a head on their shoulders and a mouth in their face. There was a time when she was interested in their politics, their science, their inventions, when she considered herself a small part of their great adventure, until one day the feeling was born in her that she did not belong among them.

23.   She was no longer able to torment herself with thoughts of their wars nor to enjoy their celebrations, because she was filled with the conviction that none of it was her concern.

24.   Non-solidarity with mankind: that was her attitude. Only one thing could wrench her out of it: concrete love towards a concrete person.

25.   That’s well known all over, that the Earth is horrible.


Milan Kundera


lunes, 10 de noviembre de 2014

Secuencias (de Efectos Automáticos)










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Milan Kundera, fragment from immortality

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He said good-bye to her and as she disappeared round the corner of the street he was seized by a strong, tormenting nostalgia for the women of his past. It was as brutal and unexpected as a disease that breaks out, in one second, without warning.
He slowly began to realize what it was about. The hand on the dial had touched a new number. He heard the clock strike, saw the little window open and, thanks to the mysterious medieval mechanism, a woman in huge tennis shoes came out. Her appearance meant that his longing made a volte-face; he would no longer yearn for new women; he would only yearn for women he had already had; from now on, his longing would be an obsession with the past.

He saw beautiful women walking down the street and was startled that he paid no attention to them. I even believe that they noticed him, and he didn’t know it. Before he had yearned only for new women. He had yearned for them to such a degree that with some of them he had made love only once and no more. As if he were now destined to atone for his obsession with the new, his indifference to everything lasting and stable, his foolish impatience that drove him forward, he now wished to turn himself round, to find the women of his past, to repeat their love-making, to carry it further, to make it yield all that had been left unexploited. He realized that from now on great excitements were to be found only behind him, and if he wanted to find new excitements he would have to turn to his past.

-Milan Kundera

From ILMB

I love my bitch 

From I love my Bitch



I Love my Bitch

Niveles de distorsión (I)




Niveles de distorsión:

 En un salón de clases de una película argentina que vi en el festival de cine de Ámsterdam en el 2012,  estudia el hijo de un hombre de izquierda, la maestra pregunta "¿Qué le trajeron los espanoles a América?", pasa un tiempo y nadie responde, una nina se aventura a decir tímidamente: ¿espejos?; la maestra visiblemente irritada se voltea y escribe en la pizarra la palabra 'CIVILIZACIÓN' y afirma en voz alta:  "civilización ninos, los espanoles le entregaron a América la civilización."


CR 


Baudelaire, Intoxication




Baudelaire The Artist's Confiteor




sábado, 8 de noviembre de 2014

Milan Kundera sobre el exilio como liberación

Este ensayo pertenece a su libro más reciente de ensayos "Encounter" es del ano 2010; esta es una traducción no oficial. Kundera no necesita publicidad pero cómprenlo es fascinante.

Kusjes!
C.







Kundera on Exile as Liberation








And a child will be born





And a child will be born



The winds will blow their faces
cries and history will unite them
they’ll meet death early one day.

The steps will create constellations of blood
a car will break down in the middle of the path
in a city on fire
a couple will make love among the ruins.

The immortals will raise their swords
against defeat
when they learn that love dies too
and they are to survive it.

An era of revolutions will surpass their disappointment.

I’ll be nothing 
and salvation will come
 through self-denial
when the age of tragedy comes to an end.

And a child will be born in 1989
she’ll survive the buffeting from life
and she’ll quickly learn to fear people.


 She’ll die young
mocking tragedy and frivolity
humans won’t find a hint of peace
on her pale face.



CR


And a child will be born... CR




And a child will be born in 1989

she’ll survive the buffeting from life
and she’ll quickly learn to fear people. 


-CR


viernes, 7 de noviembre de 2014

André Breton, Silueta de Paja

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SILUETA DE PAJA
A Max Ernst


Dadme unas joyas de ahogadas
Dos nidos
Una cola de caballo y una testa de maniquí
Perdonadme luego
No tengo tiempo para respirar
Soy un sortilegio
La construcción solar me ha retenido hasta aquí
Ahora ya no tengo más que dejarme matar
Pedid la tabla
De prisa el puño cerrado encima de mi cabeza que comienza a sonar
Un vaso donde se entreabre un ojo amarillo
El sentimiento también se abre
Mas las princesas se aferran al aire puro
Tengo necesidad de orgullo
Y de algunas gotas insípidas
Para recalentar la marmita de enmohecidas flores
Al pie de la escalera
Pensamiento divino en el cuadrado constelado de cielo azul
La expresión de las bañistas es la muerte del lobo
Tomadme por amiga
La amiga de los fuegos y de los hurones
Os mira profundamente
Alisad vuestras penas
Mi remo de palisandro hace cantar vuestros cabellos
Un sonido palpable sirve la playa
Negra por el furor de las sepias
Y roja por el letrero



-André Breton


miércoles, 5 de noviembre de 2014

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Salvan la corona, matan al rey.


CR


Hilos y Costuras, José Ignacio Montoto

José Ignacio es de Córdoba, su poemario La Cuerda Rota ganó el premio de poesía Andalucía Joven. Es el autor de otros libros como Espacios insostenibles/ Mi memoria es un tobogán (2008), Binarios (2009), Superávit (2010), Diario del Fin del Mundo (2012) y Tras la luz (2013). Recibí La Cuerda Rota el día de hoy, lo he leido, he subrayado, he marcado y al final de sus páginas me he conmovido. Les dejo este poema porque su primer verso me hizo temblar, disfrútenlo.

C.







Hilos y Costuras


Acontece el pasado en cuerpos ajenos.


Se repite.


Oxidados raíles atraviesan el mapa de los nombres. Resulta
 conmovedor cómo el tiempo descubre nuestras
 debilidades, las aflora y resucita en una Pascua tardía.


Nuestros nombres.


Hélices que mueven los hilos de una marioneta que se
aproxima al derrumbe.


Nuestra femineidad nos delata.


Un racimo de mujeres griegas esculpió poemas en las rocas,
eran las ninfas de la orografía.


Una noche en París es un mes en cualquier otra ciudad.


La bandera de la Revolución fue cosida con una aguja sin
ojo, frisaba su tela al aire porque sabía que su origen nos
correspondía.


Una bandera es un presente bañado en un sentimiento.


Señalaban a la mujer Barbuda porque se alimentaba de
hombres cobardes que gozaban de su tristeza entre las
 piernas, blancas de dermis vieja, por las que resbalaban
sus mentones.


Una fábrica de almas ciegas.


Estos niños que salpican mi cama, no son más que pequeños
querubines de cristal; más pronto que tarde acabarán rotos.


La cuerda rota.


Mi nombre es Herejía y remiendo recuerdos con pequeños
hilos de cobre para que brillen vuestras comisuras en un
lugar de la memoria.


La fresa de nuestras bocas, cenizas tras la hoguera.


Recortes de libros de historia revisten las paredes de los
museos, rostros de princesas sin coronas.


Llora una niña recién nacida en este instante, alguien cose
 sus lágrimas y las engarza en un collar.


Es el primer paso para devolverle lo que le han quitado.


¿Por qué el sol y no la luna?



La vieja costurera zurce nuevos nombres con un dedal de
hueso.




-José Ignacio Montoto
@Nachomontoto


martes, 4 de noviembre de 2014

Cosas que pasan un Sábado en la noche


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Me leía, me leía, me besaba, me volvía a leer, lloraba, me besaba, conversamos, tomamos mate, sonó el Opus 111 de Beethoven, nos miramos en silencio, nos quedamos dormidos. 


CR


Ser, Paul Éluard

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Con la frente
como una bandera perdida
Te arrastro
cuando estoy solo
Por calles
heladas
Por cuartos
negros
Proclamando
infortunios
No quiero
abandonar
Tus manos claras
y complicadas
Nacidas en el
encerrado espejo de las mías
Todo lo demás es
perfecto
Todo lo demás es
todavía más inútil
Que la vida
Excava la tierra
bajo tu sombra Un estanque junto
a los senos
donde hundirse
como una piedra



-Paul Éluard

Desfigurada apenas, Paul Éluard

Paul Éluard



Adiós tristeza.
Buenos días tristeza.
Estás inscrita en las líneas del techo.
Estás inscrita en los ojos que amo.
Tú no eres exactamente la miseria,
pues los más pobres labios te denuncian
por una sonrisa.
Buenos días tristeza.
Amor de los cuerpos amables,
potencia del amor ,
cuya amabilidad surge
como un monstruo incorpóreo.
Cabeza sin punta,

tristeza bello rostro.

-Paul Éluard


Libertad de Paul Éluard

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Ya lo había publicado en inglés, se los dejo en espanol. Es una obra maestra. El mundo necesita que resuciten los surrealistas. 


CR



LIBERTAD


En mis cuadernos de escolar
en mi pupitre en los árboles
en la arena y en la nieve
escribo tu nombre.

En las páginas leídas
en las páginas vírgenes
en la piedra la sangre y las cenizas
escribo tu nombre.

En las imágenes doradas
en las armas del soldado
en la corona de los reyes
escribo tu nombre.

En la selva y el desierto
en los nidos en las emboscadas
en el eco de mi infancia
escribo tu nombre.

En las maravillas nocturnas
en el pan blanco cotidiano
en las estaciones enamoradas
escribo tu nombre.

En mis trapos azules
en el estanque de sol enmohecido
en el lago de viviente lunas
escribo tu nombre.

En los campos en el horizonte
en las alas de los pájaros
en el molino de las sombras
escribo tu nombre.

En cada suspiro de la aurora
en el mar en los barcos
en la montaña desafiante
escribo tu nombre.

En la espuma de las nubes
en el sudor de las tempestades
en la lluvia menuda y fatigante
escribo tu nombre.

En las formas resplandecientes
en las campanas de colores
en la verdad física.
escribo tu nombre.

En los senderos despiertos
en los caminos desplegados
en las plazas desbordantes
escribo tu nombre.

En la lámpara que se enciende
en la lámpara que se extingue
en la casa de mis hermanos
escribo tu nombre.

En el fruto en dos cortado
en el espejo de mi cuarto
en la concha vacía de mi lecho
escribo tu nombre.

En mi perro glotón y tierno
en sus orejas levantadas
en su patita coja
escribo tu nombre.

En el quicio de mi puerta
en los objetos familiares
en la llama de fuego bendecida
escribo tu nombre.

En la carne que me es dada
en la frente de mis amigos
en cada mano que se tiende
escribo tu nombre.

En la vitrina de las sorpresas
en los labios displicentes
más allá del silencio
escribo tu nombre.

En mis refugios destruidos
en mis faros sin luz
en el muro de mi tedio
escribo tu nombre.

En la ausencia sin deseo
en la soledad desnuda
en las escalinatas de la muerte
escribo tu nombre.

En la salud reencontrada
en el riesgo desaparecido
en la esperanza sin recuerdo
escribo tu nombre.

Y por el poder de una palabra
vuelvo a vivir
nací para conocerte
para cantarte


LIBERTAD


-Paul Éluard