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jueves, 13 de julio de 2017

Sara (I), CR VocalesV



The flies pass through your body like sharp knives
your stiff hands try to guess the future with their palms facing the sky
we have paid a high price for our inconsequence.
I tilt my head to the side and I look at you from this twisted perspective,
Hey love, wake up.

A year ago, Sara married us
secretly in the Granary Burying Ground
in front of Samuel Adams’ grave.
After we kissed and Sara applauded,
I took her place and married you both.
After you kissed and I applauded and smiled,
You married Sara and I.
After that, we walked back with the rain and ate
ice cream to celebrate.

We spent our fake honeymoon between Salem and Cape cod,
the three of us cuddling in a double bed,
naked, listening to Waits and Dylan.

The two of you with yellow smoke by the window;
you would lick her nipples and she would kiss you,

while I fed the cats.

Who knows who had the right answers those days,
the truth is, we loved making love under the puritan sky
of Massachusetts after watching the Handmaids Tale on your laptop.
 

We made fun of traditions licking Sara’s clit,
and she fought for her place
in this world with the two of us by her side.

She would cross the room with her pale skin and slender body
knowing she had our attention, and then she would sit in the corner where the cats slept
and open her legs for us to see the beginning and the end of our story,
she opened her legs and our humanity, but we were the placeholders of nothingness.

When Sara said she was moving to Portland we didn’t know what to say,
she was expecting us to move there, we were expecting her to stay.
Terrible triad of indecisions.
From then on, we perceived daylight through shadows,
but we should have fought for our room on the floor, instead.
 

Now, we google the weather in Portland to imagine what she’s wearing,
she does the same with us, but feels betrayed.

I lie next to your body and you open your eyes
death or dishonor, that’s what I read in them.

We should fly to Portland I tell you,
and an immense sadness fills the room.
To lose the past is a tragedy.
You'll see, we will taste her again
and we'll taste ashes.

CR - VocalesV



miércoles, 12 de julio de 2017

Literature Suspends Death, Hélène Cixous



The process of literature doesn’t make one happy, it suspends death — as long as it manifests itself. This is what Blanchot calls the “arrêt de mort”. It stops death with life. Similarly, when you’re dreaming, all pain is suspended. It’s waiting for you. Similarly, when you wake up from literature, the pain is waiting for you.     

- Hélène Cixous


martes, 11 de julio de 2017

Fragment of Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman (Via Clementine van Rodics)

Web


The traumatic event challenges an ordinary person to become a theologian, a philosopher, and a jurist. The survivor is called upon to articulate the values and beliefs that she once held and that the trauma destroyed. She stands mute before the emptiness of evil, feeling the insufficiency of any known system of explanation. Survivors of atrocity of every age and every culture come to a point in their testimony where all questions are reduced to one, spoken more in bewilderment than in outrage: Why?

-Judith Herman



domingo, 9 de julio de 2017

Small Murders by Aimee Nezhukumatathil



Richard Avedon 1969

When Cleopatra received Antony
on her cedarwood ship,
she made sure he would smell her
in advance across the sea:
perfumed sails, nets sagging with rosehips
and crocus draped over her bed,
her feet and hands rubbed in almond oil,
cinnamon, and henna.

I knew I had you when you told me

you could not live without my scent,
brought pink bottles of it,
creamy lotions, a tiny vial of 
parfume—one
drop lasted all day.
They say Napoleon told Josephine
not to bathe for two weeks
so he could savor her raw scent,
but hardly any mention is ever
made of their love of violets.
Her signature fragrance: a special blend


of these crushed purple blooms for wrist,
cleavage, earlobe.
Some expected to discover a valuable
painting inside
the locket around Napoleon’s neck when he died,
but found
a powder of violet petals from his wife’s
grave instead. And just
yesterday, a new boy leaned in close to whisper
that he loved


the smell of my perfume, the one you
handpicked years ago.
I could tell he wanted to kiss me, his breath
heavy and slow
against my neck. My face blue from
the movie screen—
I said nothing, only sat up and stared straight ahead. But
by evening’s end, I let him have it: twenty-
seven kisses


on my neck, twenty-seven small murders of
you. And the count
is correct, I know—each sweet press one
less number to weigh
heavy in the next boy’s cupped hands.
Your mark on me washed
away with each kiss. The last one so cold,
so filled with mist
and tiny daggers, I already smelled
the blood on my hands
.

- Aimee Nezhukumatathil


Portland, CR




Me siento en la sala de espera y olvido mi idioma,
tengo un enjambre de palabras en mi estómago
  
que no encuentra salida hacia mi boca,
a veces el sufrimiento es no saber decir lo que se quiere.

En mis huesos hay dos pares de dioses
que gritan plegarias sintoístas
a hombres muertos.
Insisten en salvarlos.
                         Insisten en salvarme.

Tienes hilos de suturas en el alma,
pero sigues caminando por el mundo
como un hombre libre.
La miseria es tan solo aproximada
a la cantidad de esfuerzo hecho
por parecer feliz.

Memorias Belladonna
que besan el suelo que piso,
me arrodillo ante ellas
porque el pasado merece la fe que le di
cuando era futuro.

Pero ahora he aprendido a decir adiós.
Ya vendrán otras memorias que adorar.

Luego, sus ojos verdes se cruzan con los míos,
hay un campo santo en cada una de las aberturas
que toca,
y una película de Murnau llena el espacio.

Los cuerpos que tocamos en Portland
terminarán adornando nuestros días.
Alis volat propriis”.

- CR VocalesV


Fragmento de "TheHeart's Graveyard Shift" de Yusef Komunyakaa

Between loves I could stand all day
at a window watching honeysuckle open
as I make love to the ghosts
smuggled inside my head

- Yusef Komunyakaa








Entre amores podía quedarme todo el día
en una ventana mirando las madreselvas abrirse
mientras le hago el amor a los fantasmas
que trafican en mi cabeza.
-Yusef Komunyakaa