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martes, 13 de octubre de 2015

Historia, Rafel Cadenas Trad. al Francés.

Rafael Cadenas



Historia
Abro la ventana y veo un ejército que recoge sus víctimas. Espectros que llevan en sus brazos espectros, y adonde camino descubro sus bocas. La penuria  de sus trajes no es nada frente a la de sus ojos, y al pus del heroísmo, ¿Qué decir de todo eso? Cuerpos transparentes al sol, con tejido de fantasmas. Si olvido, aún sé que siguen recogiendo víctimas –apenas comienzan – y no hay fin, durará hasta la noche y todas las noches y mañana y pasado mañana y después y siempre.  Dentro de cinco, nueve, cincuenta, doscientos años abriré nuevamente la ventana y la escena no habrá variado. Los espectros serán los mismos otros, pero ella no se alterará, no habrá modificación, una corrección de última hora.

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J’ouvre la fenêtre et je vois une armée qui rassemble ses victimes. Des spectres portant des spectres dans les bras, et là où je marche, je découvre leurs bouches. La carence de leurs garments n’est rien comparée à  leurs yeux,  et au pus de l’héroïsme. Que dire de tout cela ? Des corps transparents au soleil, avec des tissus de fantômes. Si j’oublie, je sais qu’ils continuent quand même à rafler leurs victimes –ils commencent à peine – et cela sans fin, ça durera jusqu’au soir et toutes les nuits et demain et après-demain et après et toujours. Dans cinq, neuf, cinquante, deux cents ans j’ouvrirai à nouveau la fenêtre et la scène n’aura pas changé.  Les spectres seront les mêmes autres, mais elle, elle sera la même, il n’y aura pas de modification, de correction de dernière heure.

-Rafael Cadenas (Venezuela, 1930)


viernes, 9 de octubre de 2015

One day, CR

Tumblr.com


Once, I wanted to build a house, full of windows, lights and carpets, and wooden floors cracking with every little step.

Once, I wanted to create a song that made me cry, with a flute instead of a piano, blue, blue song. Like Juliette Binoche, like the blue period of Picasso.

One day, I'll try to cry.

Once, I made love in the bed of a dead man. I saw him drinking coffee in the kitchen, he did not turn to say hello.

I heard the sky is blue today, but I won’t open my curtains to burn my skin with the sun. Such a distant star,  yet, so important.

Once, I tried to die under a different star. My blood … ever so beautiful.

Yesterday a gypsy read my palm in the street, she looked at me with piercing eyes and said: ‘Runs of luck, either good or bad, follow you, the high creative force can lead you either to happiness or total despair.'

I think we both know the answer. 


-CR VocalesV


jueves, 8 de octubre de 2015

En vista del premio Nobel... Svetlana Alexievich

Svetlana
Sobre su discurso en la feria del libro de Frankfurt:
"... Al igual que en sus libros, en su discurso reunió fragmentos nítidos y detallados de Historia. Como en esta observación en Kabul en 1988: "Una joven afgana con un niño en brazos. Me acerco a ella y tiendo un oso de peluche al pequeño, que lo agarra con los dientes. Pregunto a la madre por qué lo hace. La madre levanta la manta en la que su hijo va envuelto y veo un pequeño torso sin brazos ni piernas. 'Eso es lo que han hecho tus rusos", me responde. A su lado, un capitán soviético me explica: 'Esta mujer no entiende que les hemos traído el socialismo'".



-Svetlana Alexievich



Más aquí --> http://www.dw.com/es/el-amargo-discurso-de-svetlana-alexievich/a-17155370

jueves, 1 de octubre de 2015

Sylvia Plath, Daddy



You do not do, you do not do   
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot   
For thirty years, poor and white,   
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.   
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,   
Ghastly statue with one gray toe   
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic   
Where it pours bean green over blue   
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.   
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town   
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.   
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.   
So I never could tell where you   
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.   
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.   
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.   
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna   
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck   
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.   
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.   
Every woman adores a Fascist,   
The boot in the face, the brute   
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,   
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot   
But no less a devil for that, no not   
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.   
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,   
And they stuck me together with glue.   
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.   
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,   
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you   
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart   
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.   
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.


- Sylvia Plath (Boston, 1932-1963)



Anne Sexton, Her Kind

Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

- Anne Sexton (Massachusetts, 1928-1974)