Buscador

domingo, 23 de abril de 2017

viernes, 21 de abril de 2017

A Squirrel on the tree, CR VocalesV


Marina Abramovic, Green Dragon (1989)



There are two worlds running parallel in my veins.
In the first one I’m alive,
I listen to Tom Waits while drinking Mate
and keep on insisting on writing the poems that no one cares to read
or publish.
And I’m happy, I mean, I have intense intervals of happiness,
before sadness strikes again like a jealous lover.
I read with him by my side, I hug him,
and we make love, like two lascivious aliens.
Some days we have casual guests
and we enjoy seducing them together and buy them some wine
before going to bed in a collective hug.

In the second world
I’m dead.
I hung myself from a tube in the ceiling
and they only found me three days later.
I still had my shoes on, and an open book on my bed.
I left a note with all my passwords where I asked
to be forgotten.
The last thing I saw before leaving for good
was the face of a squirrel on the tree, right in front of my window,
her eyes were full of questions that I just couldn’t answer.

And in between these two realities:
the powerful force of love,
and an everlasting grief.



- CR VocalesV


Fragment of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Lucy Moorehead



"Love. Quite impossible for me, without emotional connotations. (Love. But what is love?) Not impossible for them, or anyhow they build the word love after the fact of sex. That’s all. I think it has something to do with a loneliness of the skin, a primitive sense of the terrible solitude of being a human; one needs the close physical contact, as one needs fire. Something like that. I wish I were a nymphomaniac, so much easier. Instead am fastidious and faithful. Awful."

-Martha Gellhorn



Martha Gellhorn on Sex



"If I practiced sex out of moral conviction, that was one thing; but to enjoy it ... seemed a defeat. I accompanied men and was accompanied in action, in the extrovert part of life; I plunged into that ... but not sex; that seemed to be their delight, and all I got was a pleasure of being wanted, I suppose, and the tenderness (not nearly enough) that a man gives when he is satisfied. I daresay I was the worst bed partner in five continents."



Fragments of a letter: Martha Gellhorn to Bill Bufford



"I was incoherent with rage. Days have passed and now I am coherent with rage. I think in fact that you have become a very shady character, glitzy-shady. I will not cut you dead in the street but I will never again have anything to do with you."

-Martha Gellhorn



martes, 18 de abril de 2017

Anchorage (Trad. Espanol) CR VocalesV


Soy resistente
he tocado las aguas frías de Anchorage
con mi cuerpo desnudo
He matado mi alma con mis manos
y he besado a los hombres y mujeres de mi vida
antes de abandonarlos.

Soy resistente
he sobrevivido al suicidio leyendo Foucault,
y el lenguaje es mi nuevo super poder.
He forzado a mi lengua a no moverse por días
y me he resignado al destino
sentada en el parque,
como si la contemplación fuera otra forma
de silenciar los gritos.

Estoy enfurecida
odio la pulcritud de tus manos
cuando me estrangulas y me hablas de amor.
Nuestros cuerpos se arrodillan ante nosotros
para recordarnos que no hay dioses de reemplazo
¿Qué tanto te asusta eso?

Es absurdo creer que el tiempo curara nuestra pena
porque lo poco que sabemos se mide en días de dolor
y resistencia, y un profundo respeto por la urgencia
de las bestias lamiendo nuestras pieles.

Inclinas tu cabeza ante mí
y yo me pongo de rodillas ante ti
nuestra señal de respeto mutuo
y el recordatorio que
hemos intercambiado sangre
y muertes
y nos hemos transformado en algo
aún más hambriento y violento
con una vida aparte
y una inevitable fragilidad humana.

Anchorage, CR VocalesV




I’m resistant
I have touched the cold waters of Anchorage
with my naked body
I have killed my soul with my bare hands
and I have kissed the men and women
of my life, before abandoning them.

I’m resistant
I survived suicide by reading Foucault,
and language is now my new superpower.
I forced my tongue to stop moving for days
and I resigned myself to fate,
sitting on a bench at the park
as if contemplation was another form of silence.

I am enraged
I hate the cleanliness of your hands
when you strangle me and talk to me about love.
Our bodies kneel before us to remind us
that there are no other gods but us
how scary is that?

It is absurd to believe that time will heal our sorrows
for the little we know can be measured in days of pain
and resilience, and a profound respect for the urgency
of the beasts licking our skins.

You bow your head before me
and I go down on you
our sign of mutual respect
and a reminder that
we have exchanged blood
and deaths
and we grew into something hungrier
scarier
with a life of its own
and an inevitable human frailty.