Poetry

 Mi adolescencia tiene estos nombres, estos olores, estas texturas. Aún los paladeo, aún los siento!!!
 
 
"La rebelión consiste en mirar una rosa hasta pulverizarse los ojos".
 
"The revolt consists of looking at a rose up to the eyes be pulverizing ". 
 
 
"La poesía es el lugar donde todo sucede. A semejanza del amor, del humor, del suicidio y de todo acto profundamente subversivo, la poesía se desentiende de lo que no es su libertad o su verdad. Decir libertad o verdad y referir estas palabras al mundo en que vivimos o no vivimos es decir una mentira. No lo es cuando se las atribuye a la poesía: lugar donde todo es posible."
Poetry is the place where everything happens. Similar to love, humor, suicide and every profoundly subversive act, poetry is not interested in that which is not its freedom or truth. To say freedom or truth and refer these words to the world we live in or do not live in is to tell a lie. It isn’t when they are attributed to poetry: the place where all is possible.
 
 
"Ojalá pudiera vivir solamente en éxtasis, hacienda el cuerpo del poema con mi cuerpo, rescatando cada frase con mis días y con mis semanas, infundiéndole al poema mi soplo a medida que cada letra de cada palabra haya sido sacrificada en las ceremonias del vivir."
 If only I were able to live solely in ecstasy, making the body of the poem with my body, redeeming each phrase with my days and weeks, infusing the poem with my breath for each word that has been sacrificed in the ceremonies of living.
 
     Alejandra Pizarnik
 
 
"Hay derrotas que tienen más dignidad que la victoria".
 
"There are defeats that have more dignity than the victory ". 
 
"Sólo aquello que se ha ido es lo que nos pertenece".
 
" Only that one that has gone away is what belongs us."
 
 
Jorge Luis Borges
 
 
Amantes
 
una flor
no lejos
de la noche
mi cuerpo mudo
se abre
a la delicada
urgencia del rocío
 Lovers
 
a flower
not so far
from nighttime
my silent body
relaxes
to the delicate
urgency of the dew
 
 
SOLAMENTE
 
ya comprendo la verdad
estalla en mis deseos
y en mis desdichas
en mis desencuentros
en mis desequilibrios
en mis delirios
ya comprendo la verdad
ahora
a buscar la vida
TU VOZ
 
Emboscado en mi escritura
cantas en mi poema.
Rehén de tu dulce voz
petrificada en mi memoria.
Pájaro asido a su fuga.
Aire tatuado por un ausente.
Reloj que late conmigo
para que nunca despierte.
 
11
 
Ahora
en esta hora inocente
yo y la que fui nos sentamos
en el umbral de mi mirada.
 
 
11.
Now
in this innocent hour
I and the one that I was, seated
in the threshold of my stare.
 
 
Árbol de Diana/ The Tree of Diana
1.
I have jumped from my body to the dawn.
I have left myself fixed to the light
I sang the grief of what is being born.
 
2.
These are the versions that are proffered to us:
a hole, a wall that shudders …
 
3.
only this thirst
silence
never stumbled upon
caution, my love
caution toward this quiet woman out in the dunes
this traveler with her empty glass
and all the shade of her shadow
 
4.
HOWEVER:
Who will surrender stop sinking his fist in
hunting for a forgotten tribute for the girl.
The cold will pay. The wind will pay. The rain
will pay. The thunder will pay.
 
5.
for only a minute in this unique, brief life
with open eyes,
only for a minute, to see
in my brain, small flowers
dancing like words in the mouth of the silent.
 
6.
she strips naked in the paradise
of her memory
she is ignorant of the ferocious destiny
of her visions
she is terrified of not knowing how to name
all that does not exist.
 
 
Alejandra Pizarnik
 
 
  Ay, Federico García!!!

Casida of the Lament

I have shut my balcony
for I do not want to hear the weeping,
and still, from behind grey walls
there is nothing else but weeping.
There are very few angels that sing,
there are very few dogs that bark,
and a thousand violins can fit in the palm of my hand.
But the weeping is a enormous dog
and the weeping is a enormous angel,
and the weeping is a enormous violin,
in the tears that muzzle the wind
nothing else is heard but the weeping.

    Casida Del Llanto

    He cerrado mi balcón
    porque no quiero oír el llanto
    pero por detrás de los grises muros
    no se oye otra cosa que el llanto.
    Hay muy pocos ángeles que canten,
    hay muy pocos perros que ladren,
    mil violines caben en la palma de mi mano.
    Pero el llanto es un perro inmenso,
    el llanto es un ángel inmenso,
    el llanto es un violín inmenso,
    las lágrimas amordazan al viento
    y no se oye otra cosa que el llanto.

    Fedrico García Lorca

     

     Sor Juana, la rebelión…

    Detente, sombra…

     Detente, sombra de mi bien esquivo,
        imagen del hechizo que más quiero,
        bella ilusión por quien alegre muero,
        dulce ficción por quien penosa vivo.

        Si al imán de tus gracias, atractivo,
        sirve mi pecho de obediente acero,
        ¿para qué me enamoras lisonjero
        si has de burlarme luego fugitivo?

        Mas blasonar no puedes, satisfecho,
        de que triunfa de mí tu tiranía:
        que aunque dejas burlado el lazo estrecho

        que tu forma fantástica ceñía,
        poco importa burlar brazos y pecho.

     

      Return to me…

        Return to me, shadow of my darling,
        obsession of the one I most cherish,
        luscious dream for whom I’d gladly perish,
        sweet lie that makes this life so exhausting.

        If all your wooing is like a magnet
        that pulls on the dull steel of my body,
        why do you bother with love’s subtlety
        if you will so soon betray me, bandit?

        But you cannot, once you’re satisfied, boast
        of me that it was your tyrant’s passion:
        you might have escaped the narrow noose

        I hoped to snare you with, fancied ghost,
        little do I care if you deceive me, seduce
        me, when my passion shall be your prison.
        si te labra prisión mi fantasía.

    Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

     

    Ahora que el amor

    Ahora que el amor
    es una extraña costumbre,
    extinta especie
    de la que hablan
    documentos antiguos,
    y se censura el oficio desusado
    de la entrega;
    ahora que el vientre
    olvidó engendrar
    hijos,
    y el tobillo su gracia
    y el pezón su promesa feliz,
    de miel y esencia;
    ahora que la carne se anuda
    y se desnuda,
    anda y revolotea
    sobre la carne buena
    sin dejar perfumes, semilla,
    batallas victoriosas,
    y recogiendo en cambio
    redondas cosechas;
    ahora que es vedada la ternura,
    modalidad perdida de
    las abuelas.
    que extravió la caricia
    su avena generosa;
    ahora que la piel
    de las paredes se palpan
    varón y mujer
    sin alcanzar el mirto,
    la brasa estremecida,
    ardo sencillamente,
    encinta y embriagada
    Rescato la palabra primera
    del útero,
    y clásica y extravagante
    emprendo la tarea
    de despojarme.
    Y amo.
     

    Now that love

    Now that love
    is a shocking custom,
    an extinct species
    of which they talk of
    in archaic documents,
    all officially censured,
    discarded on the exchange;
    now that the guts
    have ignored how to engender
    children
    and gracefulness in the ankle
    and the nipple such bright joy
    of manna and honey;
    now that the flesh is intimate
    and naked,
    walking over and slouching
    onto the good flesh
    leaving neither essence nor egg,
    nor conquering war,
    discovering again
    such complete harvest;
    now that tenderness is taboo,
    the forgotten fashion of our
    grandmothers,
    now that the caress has wandered
    from its jellied porridge;
    now that the skin
    on the wall is quivering
    male and female
    without forgetting myrtle,
    its smoldering ember,
    I burn, simply
    intoxicated and pregnant.
    I reclaim
    the first utterance from the womb,
    classic and inexhaustible
    I engage in the work
    of undressing myself.
    And I love.

    Ana Istarú

     

    Los amigos, los solos, los enfermos… La poesía del dolor. Acá va algo de eso!!!!!!!!!

    This poem was written by a terminally ill young girl in a New York Hospital …It! was sent by a medical doctor

     

    SLOW DANCE

    Have you ever watched kids
    On a merry-go-round?

    Or listened to the rain
    Slapping on the ground?
    Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight?

    Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
    You better slow down.

    Don’t dance so fast.
    Time is short.
    The music won’t last.

    Do you run through each day
    On the fly?

    When you ask How are you?
    Do you hear the reply?

    When the day is done
    Do you lie in your bed

    With the next hundred chores
    Running through your head?
    You’d better slow down
    Don’t dance so fast.
    Time is short.
    The music won’t last.

    Ever told your child,
    We’ll do it tomorrow?
    And in your haste,
    Not see his sorrow?

    Ever lost touch,

    Let a good friendship die
    Cause you never had time
    To call and say,"Hi"
    You’d better slow down.
    Don’t dance so fast.
    Time is short.
    The music won’t last.
    When you run so fast to get somewhere
    You miss half the fun of getting there.

    When you worry and hurry through your day,
    It is like an unopened gift…
    Thrown away.
    Life is not a race.
    Do take it slower
    Hear the music
    Before the song is over.

     

     

    Behind the Mask

    Scott Rutherford, October 2007

     

     

     

    Can you pardon my allusion

    To this vain delusion

    That I cling to perpetually?

    And if I pardon your intrusion

    Into my grand illusion

    Can you get a real glimpse of me?

     

    Can you understand this feeling

    And how it’s left me reeling

    Like a skiff on the open sea?

    And if I take a look inside

    Only to run and hide

    Would you still reach out for me?

     

    Can you pardon my charade

    If we end this masquerade

    And I show a little piece of me?

    And would you come to my aid

    When you see my start to fade

    Into the depths of reality?

     

    Behind the mask

    Don’t you case

    A disapproving look at me

    When the walls come down

    And no one’s around

    Take a look and tell me what you see.

     

     

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