17.12.24

Marisa Paredes 1970

26.9.24

Martha Kornblith



Saga de la Familia

En todas las casas
siempre habitará un poeta
con una hermana (que no es poeta)
que le dirá
que escriba una biografía
sobre su familia.
En todas las casas
habitará una poeta
—loca además—
como aquellas que sostienen
a duras penas
sus propias biografías desdeñables:
Ellas avizoran pasados autistas
mujeres que dicen palabras soeces
dan tumbos a medianoche.
En todas las casas
habitará un primo lejano
—que vive en otro país—
y que busca (en inglés)
la génesis de la familia.
Conoció, hace años,
a esta pariente esquizoide
(tan callada, tan lejana —dijo—)
(«So quiet, So withdraw»).
No la reconoció en su última foto.
(«lucía tan diferente»)
(«She looked so different,
so attractive, so outlocked»)

En todas las casas
habitará una hermana poeta
—loca además—
que busca su propia desdeñable
génesis
(aquella que ya conocemos).
En todas las casas
habitará una hermana
que le pedirá a su hermana poeta
que escriba la historia
de la familia.
Esta poeta (loca de la casa)
pasará a formar parte de esta saga
el día en que deje el teléfono desconectado
en el filo de la madrugada.



2.9.24

Cédric Demangeot

 

algunos

pedazos de mi cuerpo

nunca vieron la luz  

se quedaron

encerrados en la noche

del cuerpo de mi madre  

nunca los

encontramos



17.5.24

30.4.24

14.4.24

1.4.24

Safo

11.1.24

Patamares

6.11.23

8.10.23

29.4.23

Edwin Muir


 The Horses

Barely a twelvemonth after / The seven days´ war that put the world to sleep, / Late in the evening the strange horses came. / By then we had made our covenant with silence, / But in the first few days it was so still / We listened to our breathing and were afraid. / On the second day / The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer. / On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, / Dead bodies piled on the deck. / On the sixth day / A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter / Nothing. The radios dumb; / And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, / And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a millon rooms / All over the world. But now if they should speak, / If on a sudden they should speak again, / If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, / We would not listen, we would not let it bring / That old bad world that swallowed its children quick / At one great gulp. We would not have it again. / Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, / Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, / And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness. /The tractors lie about our fields; at evening / They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting. / We leave them were they are and let them rust: / “They ´ll moulder away and be like other loam”. / We make our oxen drag our rusty ploughs, / Long laid aside. We have gone back / Far past our fathers’land. / And then, that evening / Late in the summer the strange horses came. / We heard a distant tapping on the road,/ A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again /  And at the corner changed to hollow thunder. / We saw the heads / Like a wild wave charging and were afraid. / We had sold our horses in our fathers’ time / To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us / As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield / Or illustrations in a book of knights. / We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited, / Stubborn and shy, as if they have been sent / By and old command to find our whereabouts / And that long-lost archaic companionship. / In the first moment we had never a thought / That they were creatures to be owned and used. / Among them were some half-a-dozen colts / Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, / Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden. / Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads, / But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. / Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.