martes, 20 de diciembre de 2016

Indifference, IC VocalesV


I didn’t bury anyone to get this far,
I only swallowed a few souls
and broke some promises
I made
knowing I would never deliver on.

I didn’t kill
even if I wanted to,
I opted for some conciliatory terms
that made no sense
but gave me peace.

That’s what they said.

I was born in a prison,
I’m not saying this figuratively.
I was born in a dark cell.
Have you ever been to one?
Have you ever approached a man
who has lost everything
except his humanity?

No, you haven’t.
A prison must seem a faraway place for you
a wonderland, perhaps.
Like Chernobyl is a touristic place
for tourists,
or a place of creation
for artists.

Where is home for you?
Someone asked me
and I looked at him
and forced myself to smile:
home is where I am right now
for as long as I stay.

There is something beautiful in this lack of identity
abandonment, I guess
or even better, indifference.


martes, 13 de diciembre de 2016

Dunya Mikhail, Diary of a Wave Outside the Sea


Memories swarm around me like buzzing flies.

Every sorrow and mistake ads up
to a tally of daily ruination.
And nothing is as long as memories’ shadow
except the moment that transforms
wood into rebab.

My mistakes were drawn like butterflies.
Light was projected onto them
to make them burn.

I stepped back.
The mistakes appeared like a wavy vision
beating against the shores of the seven senses
so that the pages dispersed and gathered and burst
with intuitions and questions.

We remember some things that have been lost
not through carelessness
but from their own pitch-black light
like a flower dying from too much fragrance.

-Dunya Mikhail

I was in a hurry, Poem by Dunya Mikhail

Dunya M.

Yesterday I lost a country.
I was in a hurry,
and didn’t notice when it fell from me
like a broken branch from a forgetful tree.
Please, if anyone passes by
and stumbles across it,
perhaps in a suitcase
open to the sky,
or engraved on a rock
like a gaping wound,
or wrapped
in the blankets of emigrants,
or canceled
like a losing lottery ticket,
or helplessly forgotten
in Purgatory,
or rushing forward without a goal
like the questions of children,
or rising with the smoke of war,
or rolling in a helmet on the sand,
or stolen in Ali Baba’s jar,
or disguised in the uniform of a policeman
who stirred up the prisoners
and fled,
or squatting in the mind of a woman
who tries to smile,
or scattered like the dreams
of new immigrants in America.
If anyone stumbles across it,
return it to me, please.
Please return it, sir.
Please return it, madam.
It is my country…
I was in a hurry
when I lost it yesterday.

- Dunya Mikhail -Translated by Elizabeth Winslow

Fragment Tablets by Dunya Mikhail

Cruzamos las fronteras ligeramente
como nubes.
Nada nos lleva, pero
mientras avanzamos nosotros llevamos
la lluvia, un acento, y la memoria de un lugar

-Dunya Mikhail (Bagdad, Iraq)

martes, 6 de diciembre de 2016

Ice (Part III) CR



He says I suffer from a spiritual emptiness

that I cannot fulfill

because I have no god.

Do you want to be my god? I ask him

I can’t, he answers back, sipping from his glass.

The windows are open, his place is a living creature

breathing between walls,

as the sun reflects its light on our faces.

We look at each other in silence,

I get distracted by the particles of dead skin

floating in the air, illuminated by the rays of light.

I sit down on the couch, with one of his grave flowers

in my hand:

I think I feel a certain pleasure

for disaster,

and a god would only offer me hope.

Hope is an illusion, so you and all your gods

are selling me lies.

He sits on a chair across the room,

and crosses his long legs:

And yet, you want to buy them,

because you keep on asking, you keep on wanting,

you keep on waiting.

You don’t know what I am waiting for.

Disillusionment, my dear

that’s all we’re waiting for.