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martes, 11 de octubre de 2016

Ice (part II) CR-VocalesV

Georgia O'keeffe


I squeezed the ice in my hand with diligent anguish
as if squeezing the absence of a lover,
or my own death at the hands of a stranger.
I closed my eyes and remembered better days,
maybe they weren’t better at all, but now they’re gone
and seem more bearable, more simple, less tragic.
The cities were burning and I was in the midst of each of them,
but the flames didn’t touch me, though it was me who started the fire.
I was in Baton Rouge, Louisiana
burying my own body, butterflies on my chest,
I was beautiful, I was young, and I was fearless.
I was in Alexandria in a madhouse
and I was alive
swimming in the Nile at night, almost touching
the Mediterranean with my feet.
In Amsterdam I was the wind and the North Sea
furiously crashing against all of those who defeated me.
In Gaza, I was the memory of a homeland,
I fell at the hands of the enemy,
but I- was- the city.
I was a Muslim
I was a Christian
I was a Buddhist
I died an Atheist.
I praised my executioners with the same devotion
I made love to the men I loved,
because yes, I entered that temple a few times,
I entered that place, like a young girl
and I escaped that place, transformed,
and my transformation was nothing but decay.

Open your eyes, he commands
I fear I will drop the ice, but the ice has already melted.
I’m shivering again, I’m not travelling through deserts anymore,
I’m back in the cold room, under a gaze that calms me
even if everything else warns me that it should threaten me.
This should help with the constant cold, he hands me a blanket.

And all this rage, Rod?
what do I do with this rage?

He takes a few notes and walks away.



CR-VocalesV



sábado, 8 de octubre de 2016

Maureen Thorson, Fragment from Applies to Oranges (via lifeinpoetry)

Web


At first, heartbreak made me beautiful.
My skin fluoresced. I hypnotized trees.
The orphans followed me around town,
drunk on my pain. I ate only my own
hunger, gave off a scent like bitter oranges
or chlorine. Loss left me strangely whole,
as if my sadness, were it strong enough,
could turn your ship around. That was back
when I aged. Now, like an astronomer
who seeks no first causes, but only to map
the connections pinned out over the sea,
I want to diagram the light that shines out
through the holes you pricked into me.


- Maureen Thorson

viernes, 7 de octubre de 2016

Ice (part I), CR-VocalesV

Georgia by Yousuf Karsh


Rod takes my hand and gives me an ice cube
squeeze it, he says, harder,
he looks at me furiously, squeeze the damn thing.
I cry
no, no, please, I can’t, this is not what I want.
The ice cube burns my hand, I bite my lips
and I feel the taste of mucus and tears as I sob.
He opens my hand tenderly, it’s ok sweet girl, it’s over now.
I’m lying on a stretcher unable to move,
I look at the ceiling, tears rolling down
forming tiny puddles of salty water on his shoes
as he looks at me from above.
Some minutes pass, maybe an hour goes by
and I hum and old song.

Sit down now, he requests
I’m shivering, and a cold sweat damps my hair
on a table he places a bucket full of water and ice.
There’s a cognitive response towards cold
and he is all about cognitive responses,
that’s what he told me the first day I met him.
He strips me off my robe
Breathe, count until three while inhaling
count until six while exhaling
one
two
three
l-o-u-d-e-r
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
And so I count as I breathe,
I look at the wall

there’s a post-it with a verse from a book
I read a long time ago
“I want my annihilation to be total.”
Sharp, so sharp, the pain is so sharp.
I begin biting my fingers until they bleed
ripping off little pieces of meat,
meat for other humans to play with.
Enough
I regain consciousness, retrieving my gaze from the wall
as I look at him with empty despair
I try to scream, but a thousand birds
come out of my mouth instead.
Rod takes my head and submerge it in the icy water
he pulls me out by the hair,
count, now, louder.
He repeats the same gesture five times,
then leaves the room.
I’m frozen, my heart is melting in the bucket with ice,
I wish I could melt too.





CR - VocalesV



jueves, 6 de octubre de 2016

Mujer Callejera de Sandra Cisneros... (English version below) Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros




Mujer Callejera


Dicen que soy una bestia.
Y una fiesta en sí. Cuando al principio
pensaba que eso es lo que era una mujer.

Dicen que soy una perra .
O una bruja. Afirmé
lo mismo y nunca hice una mueca.

Dicen que soy una macha*, un infierno sobre ruedas,
viva-la-vulva*, fuego y azufre,
odiando a los hombres, devastando,
monstruo-mujer lesbiana.
No necesariamente,
pero me gusta el cumplido.

La turba llega con piedras y palos
para mutilarme y lastimarme
De todos modos, cuando abro mi boca,
se tambalean como ginebra.

Diamantes y perlas
caen de mi lengua.
O sapos y serpientes.
Dependiendo del ánimo que tengo.

Me gusta la picazón que provoco.
El susurro de los rumores
como crinolina.

Soy la mujer del mito y la mentira.
(Cierto. fui artifice de algunas de ellas.)
Construí mi casa de mala reputación.
Ladrillo a ladrillo. Trabajosa,
amada y mazonada.

Yo vivo así.
El corazón como vela, lastre, timón, proa.
Ruidosa. Indulgente en exceso.
Mi pecado y éxito -
Pienso en mí con gula.

Por lo que todos dicen soy
un peligro para la sociedad .
Soy Pancha Villa.
Rompo las leyes ,
altero el orden natural ,
enojo al Papa y hago llorar a padres.
Estoy más allá de la mandíbula de la ley.
Soy la bandida, enemiga pública de las más buscadas.
Mi imagen feliz con una sonrisa en la pared.

Infundo terror entre los hombres.
No me puede molestar lo que piensan.
¡Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!*
Por esto, la cruz, el calvario .
En otras palabras, soy anarquía.

Soy un objetivo - bueno,
tiroteo fuerte,
lengua afilada,
pensamiento agudo,
de rápido hablar,
pies sueltos,
suelta de lengua,
dejé suelta,
mujer callejera .
Cuidado, cariño.

Soy perra. Bestia. Macha .
¡Wáchale!*
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Rompo cosas.






Loose Woman



They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.

They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.

They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.

The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.

Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.

I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.

I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my little house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.

I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success–
I think of me to gluttony.

By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.

I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
¡Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.

I’m an aim-well,
shoot-sharp,
sharp-tongued,
sharp-thinking,
fast-speaking,
foot-loose,
loose-tongued,
let-loose,
woman-on-the-loose
loose woman.
Beware, honey.

I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
¡Wáchale!
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.



- Sandra Cisneros