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lunes, 28 de diciembre de 2015

Una mujer se arroja al vacío, CR- VocalesV

    

   
    Una mujer se arroja al vacío evitando las miradas extrañas
se induce el placer y el dolor en medidas más o menos iguales,
cada vez que puede, se queda contemplando un viejo cuadro de Rembrandt
escondido en el ático de una vieja casona a la que suele ir
para volverse triste.
Pocas veces tiene el tiempo suficiente y se entrena en la vida
para pasar desapercibida por debajo de los puentes.
Hay un tono de tristeza en la forma en que camina,
que no lo esconden las botas, ni el abrigo negro escarchado de lluvia,
cómo explicarle que han pasado los años
y el tren sigue vacío .

Más difícil que su tristeza es su esperanza
de rostro oscuro y sonrisa de niño enfermo.
Sus dedos que vomitaban palabras
se han quedado callados
y el silencio asciende en la noche sobre los ríos
que ella transitó.
Carabelas fantasmagóricas confirman su linaje
y el vinagre espeso de sus lágrimas.
La tierra llora lo que no vio nacer
y es triste, es tan triste que las gaviotas
han parado de volar y tocan tierra en donde ya no hay comida.
Qué decirle a los otros,
Cómo escribir una comedia de una vida tan trágica.
Es difícil mirarse al espejo y no saber a quién matar.
Es difícil arrojarse y no encontrar al viento.
Es díficil ahogarse y aprender a nadar.

Hombres árboles se plantan frente a ella,
dicen que buscan pero no quieren encontrar nada
y si no quieren encontrar entonces no están buscando.
Citan a Sartre, pero no lo han leido,
amenazan con arrojarse al mar
pero solo se adentran hasta el lugar donde
 la salvación esté al alcance de sus bocas.
Y frente a ellos, matar se convirtió en un acto compasivo.
Hombres-espejos de los vicios más ridículos.

¿Qué jurabas entonces, arrodillada sobre la piedra mojada,
desatando tus botas lentamente bajo la fría llovizna?
Tu recuerdo es eterno, así como tus labios,
tu mirada inquietante, tu silencio.
Llevabas entre las manos una foto,
tu espalda desnuda exigía
un cambio de edad para alterar tu identidad.
Nos dijeron entonces que sonreías
y un pájaro anidaba en tu ojo izquierdo,
delante de tu cuerpo flotaban pedazos de existencia
de tu memoria obstinada que no expira.

      La ciudad está llena de luces, la gente sigue llena de ego
y una mujer se arroja al vacío ...
deshinchándose.



CR- VocalesV


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domingo, 27 de diciembre de 2015

Roberto Arlt, Fragmento Las Fieras

Roberto Arlt


No te diré nunca cómo fui hundiéndome, día tras día, entre los hombres perdidos, ladrones y asesinos y mujeres que tienen la piel del rostro más áspero que cal agrietada. No te lo podría decir. Sé que por donde he ido me acordé de vos, y que llegué a profundidades increiblemente tristes. Ahora mismo.. cierro los ojos... pero no duermo. Pienso que es triste no saber a quién matar. Muchas veces acude tu nombre a mis labios. Pero han pasado tantos cientos de días, que ahora me parece vivir en una ciudad profundísima, infinitamente abajo, sobre el nivel del mar. Sin embargo, vivimos aquí en la misma ciudad, bajo idénticas estrellas. Con la diferencia, claro está, que yo exploto a una prostituta, tengo prontuario y moriré con las espaldas desfondadas a balazos mientras vos te casarás algún día con un empleado de banco o un subteniente de la reserva.
Y si me resta tu recuerdo es por representar posibilidades de vida que yo nunca podré vivir. Es terrible, pero rubricado en ciertos declives de la existencia, no se elige. Se acepta.
No te lo podría decir. Ahora mismo.. cierro los ojos... pero no duermo.

- Roberto Arlt (Buenos Aires, 1900-1942)


Marosa di Giorgio

Marosa di Giorgio


I
 Me acuerdo del atardecer y de tu alcoba abierta ya, por donde ya penetraban los vecinos y los ángeles, Y las nubes -de las tardes de noviembre- que giraban por el suelo, que rodaban. Los arbolitos cargados de jazmines, de palomas y gotas de agua. Aquel repiqueteo, aquel gorjeo, en el atardecer.
 
Y la mañana siguiente, con angelillas muertas por todos lados, parecidas a pájaros de papel, a bellísimas cascaras de huevo.
 
Tu deslumbrador fallecimiento.

 II
 Cuando miro hacia el pasado, sólo veo cosas desconcertantes: azúcar, diamelas, vino blanco, vino negro, la escuela misteriosa a la que concurrí durante cuatro años, asesinatos, casamientos en los azahares, relaciones incestuosas.
 
Aquella vieja altísima, que pasó una noche por los naranjales, con su gran batón y su rodete.
 
Las mariposas que, por seguirlas, nos abandonaban.



- Marosa di Giorgio (Uruguay, 193e-2004)


jueves, 24 de diciembre de 2015

Accidentes y Tornados, CR - VocalesV


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     Hubo un tiempo de accidentes y tornados,
de estados mentales congelados en tus fosas nasales,
de vientres maternos sangrantes,
y de paredes que nos vieron
agradecerle a la muerte sus antojos.

¿Qué hay de nuevo en la vida de los inmortales?
Demorándose en repeticiones de sus vidas,
muertos de sed han entendido que
el amor ha muerto, y ellos le han sobrevivido.

Dime a quién van a amar ahora,
esos seres traslúcidos,
colgados de los árboles,
balanceándose al viento...
¿A quién?
Y me respondes
que a la misma persona que esperan.

La desolación del paisaje en tus pinturas,
la agonía de tu rostro en tus poemas,
la mentira.
No podemos ajustarnos a la lógica
si no a la verdad,
por lo tanto,
¿Puedo simplemente perderme?

Imaginaste a una mujer dispuesta a matar,
y decidiste ser víctima,
pero pronto has de descubrir
que el asesino eras tú.


Mordernos la lengua e intentar escribir en otro idioma,
y morir, morir mientras se escriben las derrotas.


- CR, VocalesV


Marguerite Duras, L'amant



Imposible no leerse un libro que comience así:



" Un jour, j'étais âgée déjà, dans le hall d'un lieu public, un homme est venu vers moi. Il s'est fait connaître et il m'a dit : 《 Je vous connais depuis toujours. Tout le monde dit que vous étiez belle lorsque vous étiez jeune, je suis venu pour vous dire que pour moi je vous trouve plus belle maintenant que lorsque vous étiez jeune, j'aimais moins votre visage de jeune femme que celui que vous avez maintenant, dévasté.》"


- Marguerite Duras (France, 1914-1996)


The way we used to love



The blood of my mother giving birth:
a vein.
My sister’s womb bleeding:
red lips.
The blood of my sex:
strawberry blues.
The smell of death and fish:
the future.

One day we shall die
among random lovers.
We’ll throw away what they didn’t give us
and that is all we’ll ever have.

The contracted hand of a corpse
is a story
and the sad look of our dead
is a mirror.
We’re no longer afraid of what we
 will become
we know that it will only take three days after our death
for our enzymes to eat us
That they will cry for us and then,
they will forget
for there is nothing more forgettable than a dead person.

A rose and a fly
violently smashed
reminded me
of the way we used to love. 

- CR- VocalesV


The Distance that separates us, CR VocalesV

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There were so many things to say in those days full of rain and free beers.
My head spinning, cold and distant, as usual.
Your head buried in one of your books:
sing me a song, just sing me a new song.
Your nights were longer than mine, I wonder how many hours did you watch me sleep,
did I look so cold and distant then?
Coffee in the morning, I hated black coffee, but I loved to hear you talking.
Then, the eternal silence and the peace of loneliness
that we both knew and appreciated so well...
We both had the smell of those who have no future.
It was deeper than dying.
My brief moments of inspiration are attached to the littlest things,
 like a dead bird in the middle of the road or the smile of a man who’s about to die.
 Little things never made great poems.

I tried to photograph a crow that reminded me of you,
but he wouldn't let me, so I chased him, I chased him until exhausted,
we both drank water together, before he poked my eyes off.
I have left it all behind and I feel lighter than ever,
but my character is prone to defeat and desolation
and there is nothing I can do about it.
There's so much solitude when the music stops.


One night I danced with your corpse on a boat,
the band was playing tango,
you grabbed my hips, squeezing, and the band played another song;
then the owner of the boat announced that what we had looked a lot like love, and we laughed, holding love on a leash, submissive and prisoner.
That was before you found me bleeding with a knife next to me:
'love is bleeding' I said with a weak voice, while you hold me tight
as I repeated your name in pain.
That night I dreamed of you and me in a yellow combi crossing South America
as I repeated your name in front of the dead

Your eyes were full of sadness.
We have changed, now we’re happy if someone steals our suitcases
so we can travel empty handed.
Yet, you saw it once and you will see it again:
Soon, I will think I have died and death will mean repeating your name forever. 

- VocalesV


viernes, 4 de diciembre de 2015

Those were our times, CR

A. Engelhardt


In that time, we could cure our disappointments with diplomas, and our defects with youth and firm bodies that wouldn’t stand the passage of time, as we would discover later on. In that time, we created a world of rebellion that consisted of reading the classics at a very young age, of writing controversies at a very young age, and of being just what we were: the makeshift portrait of freedom. Innocence was by then, our most notorious weapon, the tool with which we drove older people mad, because we had something they could never buy back: youth ... and that created an explosive sexuality that wouldn’t let anyone untouched. We were beautiful, we were young and the past was too far away to feel sad about it. Our bodies were a miraculous gift of pale skin and round breasts with tiny pink nipples. Those were our times, and they’re never coming back.

I drink a beer, I never liked beer when I was young. I look at myself in the mirror, I look wasted, my skin is wrinkled and my body is shrinking. I still preserve that look, that sexual energy, but I’m no longer young to feel proud about it. Time is a disease, girl. You will learn it in due time. One day you’ll wake up and you’ll feel just as finished as I feel, if you’re brave, you’ll kill yourself. On the contrary, be prepared for the constant humiliation of getting older. Smile on your birthdays, pretend that your happy and cry wherever no one can see you, for no one should ever be the addressee of your pain, do not give that satisfaction to anyone. Remember how proud you used to be, and never lose that thought, remember how beautiful you used to be and fool yourself in front of the mirror. Remember, remember, for you will see how close the past will look by then, the constant longing of what cannot be reached anymore. The past, the word that meant nothing to you before, when you couldn’t even understand why people cried on their birthdays. What did aging mean to someone  turning 18, anyway? Just the prospect of a future. But future, my dear is always one step ahead of us, you'll never reach it, but you'll always wait for it ... though the only certain future is decadence and death.


Have you ever heard anyone dying? It sounds like an opera but sadder. 

CR - VocalesVerticales


martes, 1 de diciembre de 2015

Fragment Knausgaard on the impulse of hiding the dead.

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The elderly man who dies during a cinema performance might just as well remain in his seat until the film is over, and during the next two for that matter. The teacher who has a heart attack in the school playground does not necessarily have to be driven away immediately; no damage is done by leaving him where he is until the caretaker has time to attend to him, even though that might not be until sometime in the late afternoon or evening. What difference would it make if a bird were to alight on him and take a peck? Would what awaits him in the grave be any better just because it is hidden? As long as the dead are not in the way there is no need for any rush, they cannot die a second time. […]
                                         
[…] A town that does not leave its dead out of sight, that leaves people where they died, on highways and byways, in parks and parking lots, is not a town but a hell. The fact that this hell reflects our life experience in a more realistic and essentially truer way is of no consequence. We know this is how it is, but we do not want to face it. Hence the collective act of repression symbolized by the concealment of our dead.

- Karl O. Knausgaard


Fragment My struggle book1, Knausgaard




For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can. Then it stops. Sooner or later, one day, this pounding action will cease of its own accord, and the blood will begin to run toward the body’s lowest point, where it will collect in a small pool, visible from outside as a dark, soft patch on ever whitening skin, as the temperature sinks, the limbs stiffen and the intestines drain. These changes in the first hour occur so slowly and take place with such inexorability that there is something almost ritualistic about them, as though life capitulates according to specific rules, a kind of gentleman’s agreement to which the representatives of death also adhere, inasmuch as they always wait until life has retreated before they launch their invasion of the new landscape. By which point, however, the invasion is irrevocable. The enormous hordes of bacteria that begin to infiltrate the body’s innards cannot be halted. Had they but tried a few hours earlier, they would have met with immediate resistance; however everything around them is quiet now, as they delve deeper and deeper into the moist darkness. […] And they arrive at the heart. As yet, it is intact, but deprived of the activity to which end its whole construction has been designed, there is something strangely desolate about it […] The moment life departs the body, it belongs to death.

- Karl O. Kanausgaard


Un Année Sans Lumiere





La nuit, mes yeux t'eclairent
Ne dis pas à ton père...