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domingo, 28 de agosto de 2016

Soy una mujer ordinaria y no existo, CR VocalesV (Trad.)




Algunas personas cuando sienten que van a morir,
gritan palabras obscenas a las personas a su alrededor.
Algunas otras mueren apaciblemente sin tan siquiera una palabra
a quienes les hayan amado.

Yo caigo en la primera categoría.

No se puede parar el ruido que produce
la fuerza de un cuerpo cayendo al vacío
Así como no puede repararse un amor roto
o predecir al nuevo amor.

Soy una mujer ordinaria y no existo.

Mi vida consiste en conversaciones imaginarias que nunca ocurren
En ellas sueno inteligente, articulada y hermosa,
y parezco disfrutar la compañía de la gente...
esas misteriosas criaturas que me ocupan pensando
en las posibilidades de un escape.

Nunca fue mi intención herir a los que herí.
Mi intención era matarles, pero no tuve la confianza suficiente
para atestar el último golpe.
No me arrepiento de nada salvo de eso.

A veces sueño que he muerto y nadie vacía mi closet,
mi olor continúa depositado en un lugar que mi cuerpo ya no habita,
todo se ve igual: los libros, los cuadernos, la botella de agua,
 el cactus que compré en un viejo mercado de Everett Street ,
 las fotos de mi vida.

Nadie ha tocado nada, aunque ya yo no esté
y eso, en el sueño, me complace.
Algo me dice que es solo mi ego soñando.

Mi ego es otra de las cosas que no he podido matar,
hago ejercicios premeditados para contrarrestar su furia.
Estos días salgo sin ropa interior bajo mis blusas tráslucidas.
para que la gente vea mis imperfecciones,
quiero que se rían de ellas, que les sonrían, que las regañen...
(lo que sea)
pero más importante aún
no
quiero
Sentir
nada.

Ni la urgencia de cubrirme, ni el impulso de mostrarles algo más.
Simplemente nada, con tranquilidad budista, como la hierba después de la tormenta.

No puede romperse un cuerpo
sin romperle el alma primero.


Algunas otras veces sueño que lames mis manos
después del sexo
y pides que te perdone. 



CR - VocalesV


I'm an ordinary woman, CR VocalesV



Some people when sensing they’re dying,
start yelling loud and obscene words at the people around them.
Some others die peacefully with possibly none
or just a few words to tell to those who loved them.

I fall into the first category.

One can’t stop the noise that produces
the force of a body that has leapt into the void
Just as one cannot mend a broken love or predict the next lover.

I’m an ordinary woman and I do not exist.

My life consists of imaginary conversations that never take place.
In them I sound smart, articulate and beautiful, and I seem to enjoy
the company of people…
those mysterious creatures that always keep me busy
thinking of the possibility of an escape.

I never meant to wound those I harmed,
I always meant to kill them;
but fell short of confidence to strike the last blow.
I regret nothing but that.

Sometimes I dream that I die and no one empties my closet,
my smell lingers in a place that is not inhabited
by my body anymore.
Everything looks the same: the books, the notebooks, the bottle of water,
my laptop, the cactus I bought at an old market in Everett Street for $15,
the photos of my life.

No one has touched anything, though I’m no longer there
and in the dream this pleases me.
Something tells me it’s just my ego dreaming.

My ego is something else I’ve had a hard time killing.
These days I go out wearing no bra underneath see-through blouses.
I want people to see my imperfections,
I want them to laugh at them, to smile at them, to scold them
(whatever)
and
I
 want
to
 feel
 nothing.

Nor the urge to cover, nor the impulse of showing even more,
just nothing, Zen-like,
like the grass after the storm.

You can’t break a body without
breaking its soul first.


Some other times I dream that you lick my hands
after sex
and you ask me to forgive you. 


CR - VocalesV


miércoles, 24 de agosto de 2016

Eternity and a Day by Theodoros Angelopoulos, Soundtrack




"How long will tomorrow last?"




Fragment II of Harvard Square by André Aciman



And yet, what finally cemented our friendship from the very start was our love of France and of the French language, or, better yet, of the idea of France –because real France we no longer had much use for, nor it for us. We nursed this love like a guilty secret, because we couldn’t undo it, didn’t trust it, didn’t even want to dignify it with the name of love. But it hovered over our lives like a fraught and tired heirloom dated back to our respective childhoods in colonial North Africa. Perhaps it wasn’t even France, or the romance of France we loved; perhaps France was the nickname we gave our desperate reach for something firm in our lives– and for both of us the past was the firmest thing we had to hold on to, and the past in both cases was written in French.
[…]
We blamed Cambridge for not being Paris, the way over the years I’ve blamed many places for not being Cambridge, which is like blaming someone for not being someone else or for not living up to who they never claimed they were.


-          André Aciman (Alexandria, 1951)

Fragment of Harvard Square by André Aciman

When you move to a new city, you find out where the nearest bookshop is. If you're lucky enough, you'll purchase a great book featuring the same city you're now living in. I have not finished the book yet, but I know for certain: it will make me cry.

CR
André Aciman


I still remember the morning smell of bleach and lye with which Zeinab would mop up the floor of Café Algiers while the chairs sat upturned on the café’s minuscule tables. The place was closed to customers, but they’d let a few of us in –regulars who spoke Arabic and French– and allowed us to wait for the coffee to brew. One look at the poster of Tipaza and your body ached for sea water and beach rituals you didn’t even know you’d stopped remembering. All of Café Algiers took me back to Alexandria, the way it took Kalaj back to Tunis, and the Algerian to Oran. Perhaps each one of us would stop by Café Algiers every day to pick up the person we’d left behind in North Africa, each working things back to that point where life must have taken a wrong turn, each as though trying to put time on splints until the fracture and the cracks and the dislocations were healed and the bone finally fused. Sheltered from the morning sun and wrapped in the strong scent of coffee and of cleaning fluids, each found his way back to his mother.


-          André Aciman (Alexandria, 1951)


domingo, 21 de agosto de 2016

The words will come (Fragment) CR, VocalesV



I turned to him and said:
People love diversity especially when it asserts their superiority.
He said that in that case it is not diverse,
And I said that language does not reach our intentions
so we shouldn't deposit our hopes in its honesty.
It was too hot to have that philosophical debate
so we just decided to watch the passers-by and play the game of
“finding one beautiful thing on each of them.”
We were sitting at Harvard Square
and it was the year of the hottest Summer,
It was also the year of transformation,
of making love in a tiny room like teenagers,
with a poster of Burroughs looking at us straight in the eyes
on top of the fridge: "smash the control machine."
It was the year of counting every penny, every quarter, every dollar,
the year of nostalgia for the mirage
of a life that we had left behind,
with the promise of going back,
just to give ourselves some peace of mind
we did not say goodbye.
But we knew that going back to a place that one has already abandoned
is just a different way to lie,
and we were tired of lying.
It was the year of tears and uncertainty,
of afternoons spent at the Widener Library, in silence,
devouring books and thoughts, drinking free water and coffee,
writing, reading, digesting.
A sweet year of punishment and redemption.
And we sat there on a bench across the book store
And he opened the Kundera he had just bought for 4 dollars
And found a receipt for 5 that read “city lights bookshop”
Issued in 1995
And we took it as a sign and as an answer
As if the spirit of Ferlinghetti announced itself with a howl
To tell us that everything was going to be alright even if we felt lost
And in the brink of an emotional collapse.
So we took de Beauvoir, and Miller, and Kundera, and Carpentier
Back to the library that was to become our refuge, and
We climbed the beautiful stairway
and I shut my eyes trying to transport myself to 1915 when it opened
to smell the fresh smell of a new place in such an old year,
but we found the doors locked and we had to find refuge in a different place,
it looked like a sad Sunday, even though everyone seemed to have found joy under the trees.
A big group of Asians passed us by with their cameras
All of them were wearing Harvard sweaters under the inclement sun
He looked at me and mentioned something about mass produced culture
I found it interesting … it reminded me of Foucault
so I made a note on my yellow notebook that read: “mass produced culture = mass incarceration”
And I felt smart about it.
Then he read some pages of Carpentier out loud,
That wonderful Cuban writer that I discovered so late thanks to him
And to my great embarrassment,
And I buried my head in the blank pages of my notebook.
The words will come one day,
Because I’m not too keen of silence.
The words will come, I repeated to myself.
Silent are the dead because death knows no language
But you’re not dead, the words will come someday.



 CR - VocalesV 


sábado, 20 de agosto de 2016

Poem by Robert Hass, Meditation at Lagunitas

Robert Hass


All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.


Robert Hass (San Francisco, United States, 1941)


Poema de Mahmoud Darwish, traducido por María Luis Pietro

M. Darwish


La tierra se estrecha para nosotros. Nos hacina en el último pasaje y nos despojamos de nuestos miembros para pasar.
La tierra nos exprime. ¡Ah, si fuéramos su trigo para morir y renacer! ¡Ah, si fuera nuestra madre para apiadarse de nosotros! ¡Ah, si fuéramos imágenes de rocas que nuestro sueño portara cual espejos! 
Hemos visto los rostros de los que matará el último de nosotros en la última defensa del alma. Hemos llorado el cumpleaños de sus hijos. Y hemos visto los rostros de los que arrojarán a nuestros hijos por las ventanas de este último espacio. Espejos que pulirá nuestra estrella.
¿Adónde iremos después de las últimas fronteras? ¿Dónde volarán los pájaros después del último cielo? ¿Dónde dormirán las plantas después del último aire? Escribiremos nuestros nombres con vapor teñido de carmesí, cortaremos la mano al canto para que lo complete nuestra carne.
Aquí moriremos. Aquí, en el último pasaje. Aquí o ahí... nuestra sangre plantará sus olivos.


Mahmoud Darwish (Al-Dirwa 1941-2008)


Olive K, CR VocalesV

Tumblr.com


Soy yo la que camina estos suelos, la que destruye y salva con la misma pasión, soy yo la que traduce las palabras de los muertos y las escribe en las plantas de tus pies para que al caminar oigas susurros de una fuerza extraordinaria, de los cuales no logras seleccionar ideas pero tampoco descartarlas. Soy yo la que tuviste a ratos, o la que quiso que la tuvieras para sostenerla durante su tormenta. Soy yo, la de los ojos intactos frente a la tristeza que inundaba tus manos. 

Un día temblará tu memoria y sabrás que los cambios fueron el único consuelo frente a la vejez ya anunciada, ya vivida tantas veces en el horror deshonroso de tu imaginación. Caminarás lentamente la ciudad que te vio consumirte, cruzarás los puentes que fueron testigos de tus amores interrumpidos, querrás buscar excusas para ocupar sus cuerpos nuevamente y encontrarás un espejo que te convencerá de lo contrario. Derrotado, darás un último paseo y te retirarás a una guarida que ya no se siente tuya, aunque tus cosas ocupen sus espacios, aunque to olor penetre sus rincones, ya no perteneces a ningún sitio y entiendes ahora porqué era tan fácil escribir sobre tu asco constante hacia las personas, y enorgullecerte secretamente de ser un buitre escondido detrás de las cortinas. Era fácil porque eras joven y eras extraordinario, pero ahora despojado de ambas cualidades, la náusea íntegra se queda en casa, y quisieras ser en cambio aquel chico que está afuera mirándote con desolación.

Eres un verdadero paria ahora, no como antes, que decías serlo pero tenías la atención de tantos que decirlo no significaba nada. Eres un marginado sin cartones donde anunciar lo que te falta. Pasas tus noches construyendo pasados, porque el futuro ya no es lo que era cuando lo construías. 

En mis sueños te veo tragando pastillas. No veo sangre en tus paredes solo una soledad inhabitable. 

Deja tus zapatos a la entrada, y pasa únicamente si vienes con la verdad en tus manos y tus pies descalzos.



CR - VocalesV 



domingo, 14 de agosto de 2016

Tobermory, CR VocalesV



We drowned in Tobermory
In a green silence full of hummingbirds flipping their wings near the waters
We drowned in the Peninsula
Our skin turned green, our noses exploded and disfigured our faces
We rested in the sun, stained, deformed, mutilated
waiting for the language to obey us.
There is a saying in Spanish that we use every time something is so good or so bad
That we cannot find adjectives to describe it
We say “no tiene nombre”
Which literally translates to “it has no name”
I tell you about this while we are sailing in Lake Huron
 and the wind capsized our boat.
Colloquially, we accept the limitations of language,
We, as common people understood a long time ago
That language cannot express it all.
I always tend to relate beautiful moments
to terrible accidents and blood
I never imagine a word, just an image that stays in my head for hours
But it is the word to describe that image and the moment I imagine it
That obsesses me.
Language is an object of devotion for it is incomplete
And does not relinquish its possession over anything else but itself.
I don’t want to have a face, I don’t want to have a body
I just want to have, what no one can possess: language.


CR VocalesV

Poema al norte, CR




Abrí mis piernas y crecieron flores en el espacio que él ya no habita
cerré los labios y mordí mi lengua para evitar nombrarle.
Matar a la gente
en silencio,
con el silencio,
en la oscuridad.
Matar, matar, matar
sin violencia, sin espectáculos de sangre, sin vicios que comprometan
mi sanidad mental.
Matar en silencio,
 con el silencio,
en la oscuridad.
Quise que mis muertos descansaran a lo alto de una montaña
quise cubrirlos de pasto amarillo y flores silvestres,
con la lluvia cubriendo sus cuerpos, con el viento sacudiendo sus almas.
Pero no hubo muertos porque no hubo a quien matar:
no había nadie, salvo un espejo roto que se repite en versos
que quebrantan mi voz.
Mis muertos morirán a su manera,
y los destruirá la historia que otros contarán de ellos.
Ellos, los mismos que soñaban con morir,
 sin saber que no hay nada más indefenso y olvidable que un muerto.
De todos modos no importa,
porque aquel que no me habita
 nunca sabrá todo lo que perdí cuando él huyó.

Abrí mis piernas y crecieron poemas en los techos
y yo escogí la poesía porque me pareció que ella podía gestarlo todo:
la violencia, por ejemplo
o una revolución.



CR - VocalesV