domingo, 26 de febrero de 2017

Martha by Tom Waits

And those were days of roses,
Poetry and prose and Martha
All I had was you and all you had was me.
There was no tomorrows,
We'd packed away our sorrows
And we saved them for a rainy day.

- Tom Waits

Poema 4, CR VocalesV

Pasará el tiempo y seguirás creyendo que has fallado.
No entenderás
  la nostalgia salvo con los años,
y le pondrás nombres y rostros y 300 miligramos
de cualquier cosa que te ayude a confrontar lo que viene.
No entenderás la memoria si no cuando aquello
que no podías olvidar se haya ido,
y solo quede una pequeña imagen de su voz.
Habrá una marca enorme en tu brazo izquierdo
en el lugar exacto donde la enfermedad posó sus músculos.
Seguirás yendo a los happy hours para enfermos mentales
a celebrar que sigues viva.
Te harás adicta a nuevas adicciones
menos amargas que las anteriores.
Te dejarás golpear por un dios que prometió salvarte
y aprenderás que no puedes descifrar al mundo con palabras.
Te seguirá defraudando el lenguaje
y odiarás a la razón porque no te llevó a nada,
salvo a la manipulación racional de tus emociones
y ahora eres distante y calculadora, llorando a escondidas
por vergüenza a ser vista sintiendo algo más que lástima.
Los grandes hombres te parecerán pequeños en persona,
y te alegrará constatar que los humanos son tan simples
como siempre creíste.
Caminarás y ya no verás árboles
si no ramas en donde poder colgarte.
Pero sabrás respirar  con precisión cuando tu corazón estalle
y te encuentres paralizada en mitad de la calle,
la música aquietará el ruido ajeno y te conocerás mejor
en cada paso, en cada pánico asociado con la idea de vivir.
Reconocerás tus lugares seguros: él, por supuesto y tus libros.
Valorarás a tus muertos y guardarás sus fotos
solo para recordarte lo infeliz que te hicieron
mientras estuvieron vivos.
Y seguirás hablando con los gatos,
secretamente envidiando su manera de vivir.
Serás feliz, pero sabrás de inmediato que durará poco
y harás las paces con esas circunstancias.
Yfinalmente desaparecerás,
solo los gatos se preguntarán a donde has ido.

CR -VocalesV

domingo, 19 de febrero de 2017

Indiferencia, CR VocalesV (trad.)

No enterré a nadie para llegar tan lejos
tan solo tragué algunas almas
y rompí algunas promesas que hice
sabiendo que nunca las cumpliría

No maté,
incluso cuando quise.
En cambio,
opté por ciertos términos conciliatorios
que no tenían sentido
pero me darían paz mental.

Eso es lo que me dijeron

Nací en una prisión
no lo digo figurativamente,
yo nací en una celda oscura.
Has estado alguna vez en una?
Alguna vez te acercaste a un hombre
que lo perdió todo
salvo su humanidad?

No, no lo has hecho.
Una prisión debe parecerte un lugar lejano
un mundo fantástico, quizás.
Como Chernóbil es un lugar turístico
para los turistas,
o un lugar de creación
para los artistas.

Donde está tu hogar?
me pregunta un extraño.
Lo miro y me esfuerzo en sonreír:
Mi hogar está en donde estoy ahora
por el tiempo que me quede.

Hay algo hermoso en esta falta de identidad,
abandono quizás
o aún mejor, indiferencia.

CR -VocalesV

viernes, 17 de febrero de 2017

Mary Oliver, Fragment from Blackwater Woods


To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

- Mary Oliver (Ohio, 1935)

miércoles, 15 de febrero de 2017

What you can't bury... Margaret Atwood

Nicolas Stael

What you can’t bury give away
what you can’t give away you must carry with you, 
it is always heavier than you thought.

-Margaret Atwood

lunes, 13 de febrero de 2017

And I.... Because of you, CR VocalesV

“First love never dies, but real love comes to bury it alive…”
-Mahmoud Darwish

When I met you, we were already late for everything
but we passed through open gates smiling,
accepting our faith.
I pulled the night out of your tongue
and you discovered true darkness
in my eyes.
Never had you seen anyone looking
so unintentionally sad.

There were balloons, dances, squatters
and a world in miniature to take our clothes off
and walk naked.
Your soul was an open window that filled
the house with fresh air,
a white flag in the middle of an open field,
I observed you so much those days
that my memories run in my head like scenes of a movie.

You crushed my alienation with music and philosophers
and second-hand books that you bought in every corner
just because you liked to see me smile.
I will never forget how diligently you corrected my French
ever so gentle, ever so patient,
listening for hours while I recited the verbs, fascinated and frustrated,
and proceeding without complains when at the beginning of a film
I would shout at you
s'il te plait mon amour les sous-titres, ils parlent très vite!
and you would just look at me, laughing at my temper, and my accent,
and kissing me, and then we would forget about the film
and now we keep a list of unwatched films that gets larger with the days.

And I learned your past full of miscarriages and Russian dolls
and I pierced my nipple to avoid killing you at night in your sleep
and slowly you understood how crazy I was
and you stayed and loved me even more, nevertheless.
And one night you told me that loving me was holding
my hand at the hospital hoping for me to wake up.

And we learned to bleed together
and now it is hard to remember what it was like
to walk the streets without you.
And when you’re gone
I refuse to leave our place, I do not open the curtains
and I purposely stay in the dark, waiting
like I never waited for anyone before,
like our cat in front of the window
I stay,
I do not abandon anymore.

And when you come back I yell at you
“I can’t write anymore, you make me too happy!”
and you laugh offended,
and you hold me by the waist and I dare to go out
to see the world again, to discover the smells,
the colors, the people, I learn to speak my languages again,
and I relearn to turn my head
 whenever someone calls me by my name.
I relearn all the things that I forget when you’re gone.

And when I go mad, you let me go mad
but you never leave my side
just as you never attempt to give me peace,
instead, you go to bed with me
surrounded by my demons
and you hear me breathe until I fall asleep
before you fall asleep too.
You understand my nature with your silence
and your wisdom never ceases to surprise me
but above all it is your mind I respect the most,
your mind and the immense influence it has
in everything I do.

I carry your voice in my rotten veins,
I carry your thoughts in my childless womb,
I carry your promises in my hand,
like a beggar would carry his coins.
I carry the smell of the summer rain
that repeats itself in a loop
allowing me to see the two of us
three years ago
crossing the Blauwbrug in Amsterdam
with a flat tire in your bike,
knowing already that we wouldn’t let go.

That night I became what I wanted to be
and I carry that truth like an offering
to the old gods.
You ripped my chest like an executioner
and when I looked at you I asked:
"If we're one, why aren't you bleeding?"



Widener Library

If anyone comes to the gates of poetry and expects to become an adequate poet by acquiring expert knowledge of the subject without the Muses’ madness, he will fail, and his self-controlled verses will be eclipsed by the poetry of men who have been driven out of their minds.


domingo, 12 de febrero de 2017


NYC, 2016

Herbert Marcuse wrote one day that Western culture is inherently repressive, for it sacrifices happiness for social progress.

And he was so right... HE WAS SO RIGHT!

It is so sad: we live in a "progressive society" full of unhappy individuals. We are all victims of a system imposed by elites, that suck up all of our happiness but promise us a future. Like a rapist caressing the victim's hair after the violence.

And yet all other countries try to emulate Western states, all other people try to emulate Western people, while the West tries to make it clear: there are plenty of differences between us. And goes on to define itself through its sounding differences with "the others." The others will resemble the West only as far as the West allows them to resemble it, insofar as it fits its interests.

Western culture cannot exist without "the others:" that portion of the world that is backwards, slow, and so non-western; those minorities that do not resemble the white males from the West, but that are so needed because the oppressors need to construct their opposites.

I finish my heartfelt discourse and he tells me "You're hyper-sensitive, feelings have overtaken your objectivity." He kisses my forehead and leaves.

Sometimes he's so establishment and I'm a firm believer of the Frankfurt School. Love can be weird.

CR- VocalesV

viernes, 10 de febrero de 2017

Dive in, CR VocalesV

Every Friday at 11:00, I meditate for ten minutes
and then I sit on a bench near my place and refuse to talk
for half an hour.
Patience, I think, is a brutal cordiality of time.
I see dogs and squirrels, sometimes a timid rabbit comes by
and of course I see people passing by
always two humans together, or only one with a coffee
or wearing earphones. (I like the ones who walk alone and wear earphones)
The more I see them, the more alienated I feel
what am I doing here? Why did I choose this place?
Why am I tormenting myself with this experience?
To understand my pain, you first need to understand
the things I have rejected my entire life:
I have rejected conventional thoughts and that rejection
only gets sharper the older I get: marriage, babies, time, adulthood and its meanings
they’re all structures of power that I do not want to submit to.
I have rejected any external factor that might control my freedom
for that matter I have even rejected hunger if it interrupts me from being myself.
I already rejected the perfect accommodated life with a bright future
and that has been my best decision so far.
I reject the UN, I reject the manipulative project of human rights,
I reject the calculating version of democracy liberals want to sell us
I reject conservatives too,
I refuse to keep on fooling myself with the idea of equality,
and I reject identity, that imaginary concept that only serves to buy loyalties.
In general, I have always rejected imposed systems
that satisfy the interests of the few at the expense of individual freedom.
Am I an individualist? Maybe
yet I cannot define myself under political categorizations
I would go as far as to define myself with a language I’ve invented.
Everything we give for granted is contaminated with a past history
that never happens to be innocent.
There are no ontological truths: time as we know it today
 is not an invisible ethereal substance that has always existed,
but a creation of capitalism to regulate and exploit the working class.
Our languages and races have not always been tools to categorize people
they are the products of colonization and the need to preserve a sense of superiority
in finding a hierarchy between the old world and the new world.
We were not always religious; at least we did not have to pray to just one male god
imposed by institutions that resemble corporations with political ties.
Then I interrupt my thoughts to look around me,
 it is cold, there is enough snow to hide,
and there is a certain peace in this place that I reject but feel so attracted to.
Most of these people are in search of money and fame
and they seem to have it all figured out
while I still can’t figure out what to do with this unbearable weight we call life
they plan their future, and I’m too busy keeping myself from going mad in the present.
I admire how easily they fit in the different systems that have been created for all of us to fit in.
You see, my pain lies in my empty promise of never submitting to a conventional life
yet I studied law and came to Harvard:
“There is nothing conventional about Harvard”
a classmate tells me,
and I just look at him curiously trying to figure out what hidden ideas
I can find behind his eyes.
He wants to run for office one day, mind you.
What can come after this? An 8:00 to 6:00 some sort-of-job?
Am I on my way to become another passive slave?
Or have I landed in here to discover what I do not want to be?
It is not Harvard, or the systems, it’s me.
I have found shelter in Foucault and I have realized
that in order to truly free myself I just need to dive in.


viernes, 3 de febrero de 2017

Desperate endings


I regret your tongue so full of tone-policing
telling me the things that I already know.
You move your hand and signal me
separating me from the rest
with dark eyes full of anger.

I have no currency in this wasteland
you call home.

You want to reduce me to a moral imperfection
and vindicate yourself as my savior
yet, it is not me whom you’re saving
but yourself.

It is sad to be someone else’s metaphor.

When I think of you, I think of a locked window
and a thousand letters scattered in a lodge
after the author’s death.
I think of me as an old woman burning alive,
in a ruined house overlooking the sea.

We live in a desperate world
that needs desperate love
desperate pleasures
but mostly,
 desperate endings.


jueves, 2 de febrero de 2017